Celebrate Poe

Wright 2, To My Mother, English Elegy

Welcome to the seventh episode of Celebrate Poe – a podcast dealing with the life, times, works, and legacy of America’s Shakespeare – Edgar Allan Poe.

Up to this point, the biography sections of this podcast have dealt with the writer’s background, childhood, and education. The last two podcasts had sections about Edgar at the University of Virginia. But one of the emphasis in this podcast from now on will be Poe – the writer. Until his death in 1849, he created work after work that changed American literature forever.

I was trying to find a way to put this in perspective – and got an email that served as the basis for this section. At celebratepoe@gmail.com a listener wrote: I really enjoy your podcast, and your perspectives. I especially liked the part about Poe and Frank Lloyd Wright – never thought before how these two men were so similar. Will you ever be doing anything like that again in the future?

Well, thank you – I have been reading some interesting books about Frank Lloyd Wright including Fallingwater Rising, The Fellowship, and Ada Louise Huxtable’s Frank Lloyd Wright. And at the same time, I was doing some research about Poe’s life with Edgar Allan Poe, Mournful and Never Ending Remembrance, Midnight Dreary, and The Histrionic Mr. Poe. And it wasn’t too long before I found some more interesting comparisons between Wright and Poe that gives a great deal of insight into the lives of both men so I am going to do this a second time.

While Poe lived a relatively brief 40 years and died before the Civil War, Frank Lloyd Wright was born several years after the Civil War and lived until he was 92. Both men were originals who were frequently misunderstood by their contemporaries, but deeply touched the world. Poe in his use of language and Wright in his buildings both communicated a spiritual connection in their works to something greater than our basic needs.

As prolific as Poe and Wright were in their early careers, both men became famous because of one work – a work that basically caused their careers to take off. In Poe’s case, that work was The Raven – the poem that finally gave him international recognition. While Wright had certainly designed many well received buildings, it was not until Fallingwater that his career really took off. With both men, the last 10 years of their lives were arguably the most prolific.

Central to both the works of Poe and Wright was establishing a tone or mood.

In The Philosophy of Composition written in 1846, Poe wrote

“I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping originality always in view- for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest- I say to myself, in the first place, ‘Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?’”

One of the reasons that Wright was so great was that he did not just design buildings to satisfy man’s basic needs, but evokes an effect or impression that makes you realize you are in the presence of greatness. For example, Wright’s Fallingwater is a work of art that is not only a place to live, but has the ability to touch the intellect, heart, and soul.

Frank Lloyd Wright certainly had his critics, and Poe was impacted negatively by making Rufus Griswold his literary executor – Griswold trashed Poe’s reputation on largely moral grounds, and for many years Griswold’s biased opinions of Poe were blindly accepted by most readers. Both men were larger than life figures with personalities that sometimes threatened to overshadow their accomplishments, but ultimately it was their art that lasted.

The last commonality between the two men I would like to talk about today is the impact of their mothers on the development of their genius.

At first I thought that historically the situations were just too different to see any real similarity. But I realized this week, that was only true if you consider Wright’s strong willed mother Anna and Poe’s mother Elizabeth. The story is told that when Anna was pregnant with Frank, she surrounded her bed with pictures of great buildings. When her son was born, she put those pictures around his crib. She had determined that Frank was destined to become a great architect. She later give him a set of Frobel blocks, and was highly supportive of him until her death. So it can definitely argued that Wright’s mother in the person of Anna Lloyd Jones pushed her son to reach his potential. The problem in comparing Wright and Poe in this area was that Anna Lloyd Jones, who died in her eighties, actively influenced her son while he was an adult. Elizabeth Poe never had that kind of influence because she died at twenty four. Edgar was only two years old. He was taken to raise by the Allans – so Francis Valentine Allan could be considered a mother figure to Edgar although she died in 1828. But I believe Poe found the closest thing he ever had to a family in 1829 – he went to live in Baltimore with his cousin, Virginia, and Maria Clemm – a lady who was highly supportive of Poe all her life. She even acted as an advocate for his works after his death.

The work of Poe’s I would like to read today is his To My Mother - a sonnet from the heart for Maria Clemm. He writes that his mother in law, as the mother of the woman he loved, is dearer to him than his own mother. He alludes to the sadness at not knowing his biological mother. And I believe that in the line “Are thus are dearer to me than the one I knew,” he is referring to Francis Valentine Allan – the mother figure that he would have known. It has been jokingly referred to as the most beautiful poem ever written for a mother in law. Although I originally wanted to have this poem in a later podcast because it Edgar wrote the poem in 1849, I included it here because I think explains the writer’s feelings about the mother figures in his life.

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of ‘mother’ — Therefore by that sweet name I long have called you — You, who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, In setting my Virginia’s spirit free. My mother — my own mother — who died early — Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew; By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

From time to time, this podcast will feature works by writers other than Poe – I will like to start with a work by Thomas Gray – Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. It so happens that I am working on this podcast seated on a rock in a Pennsylvania graveyard – so I am getting a lot of influence. I could not find any record of Poe being influenced by Thomas Gray – I looked in several sources, including Arthur Hobson Quinn’s 800 page plus biography of the writer but did not see any specific mention. Thomas Gray was an English poet who really did not write that much, but is famous for this classic poem – but I would be very surprised if Poe was not exposed to the poem especially during his years at Stoke Newington.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r, Detest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear, He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of His Father and His God.

I think it could be said that Edgar Allan Poe was a man who, to quote from Gray’s elegy “Melancholy mark’d him for her own.”

Thank you for listening to this podcast – and I enjoy reading your emails at celebratepoe@gmail.com In my next episode, I will be talking about Poe’s first published work - Tamerlaine – a book that is the most valuable book ever written by an American. I will be also talking about one of the most interesting additions to the internet regarding the writer.

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