A Tormented Poet

 

Blessed and cursed by his genius,

this man fueled by demons from

his mind could not bring forth

from his childhood’s hour

passions from a common spring.

 

He saw his mother as an angel

charming   her audiences while

his father a miserable man

abandoning his family and

finances.

 

Eliza lay dying and before his

tender eyes crying in deep

despair a boy of three years

old lost and separated from

his mother so fair.

 

Taken in by the Allan family

adopted schooled and educated

into a confident young man of

notability and somewhat stability.

 

Poe was gifted as a young athlete

and his passion inside so complete,

yet he grieved for his losses came

swiftly as those closest died of

tuberculosis, his weeping never

left his side.

 

An artist of pen on ceiling and

walls he shared his work in

storytelling to fellow classmates

he would tell, but lost in debtors

grasp he joined the army for fear

he would end up in a cold prison cell.

 

Lost and all alone this genius poet

did not go down; he joined West Point

and wanted to become a soldier of

some renown, but he left the army

and struck his pen to try to make

a mark among his peers and

become a gentleman.

 

He penned much and publishers

paid him poorly for his brilliant works

that would surely inspire millions

after his death but not his end.

 

Blinded by his loss of Virginia he

sunk deeper and deeper into the well

and abyss that he wrote of, troubled

by losing a cousin, a friend, a wife he

sunk into the shadows on the edges

of a living hell.

 

Private Poe and public Poe were two

different associations, he struggled

with making ends meet and at his feet

was a tormented confession, intoxicated

by alcohol and bitter sadness he often

slipped through the cracks slowly

sinking and drowning while wishing

in fact for death, with constant morbid

fears and hallucinations.

 

The grim reality of life connected him

to the afterlife and thus his fall into the

dungeons of midnight, forbidden

knowledge of death existed in his soul

and a sharing of this secret was to appear

in his manuscripts he held so dear.

 

No money was made, yet he was known

as the Raven. He kept his readers entranced

by the readings he did give of this winged

bird feathered in black known as the raven.

 

When will he see again his Lenore the Raven

spoke and angels sang nevermore and loss

he suffered and death was imminent with

painful bouts of insanity?

 

Rage and guilt he was a man defeated

crying himself to sleep, lost he was without

his Lenore and thus he penned one of his

last and called it Annabel Lee.

 

His kingdom by the sea brought Poe

close to feeling his Virginia deeply by the sea,

Oh her tomb craves me to lie beside her

and die as she, down near the beautiful sea,

the beautiful sea.

 

In his fortieth year his Reaper did appear

and tormented by his loss of Virginia he

could not continue without her near.

Chaotic life and lost in phrases  confusion

set in as angels of mercy mocking himself

and knowing he would never again be

loved by such beauty.

 

Imagining death he wants to ease his

passing from a world of pain and

spiraling out of control he is lost

and so very tired by his casting.

 

Entering his last farewell with

soiled attire his dying words were

“God help my poor soul” then

death took him to his final resting

place on the other side of tomorrow

to be with his dearest sweet

Annabel Lee.

 

Living is conquered and his death

finally has cast its last blow.

Yet immortality in his grip at last

forevermore, forevermore.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 


Comments

A Tormented Poet — 6 Comments

    • Thank you again Roxi, he is mine as well. I am moved by his melancholy, a genius at work for sure, so sad he was not very well recognized for it in his time.

  1. A demise into emptiness , loneliness , pain, heartbreak, anguish and sorrow. It seems a genius whose talent shone so brightly, should have had his worth and merits recognised accordingly at the time. So sad as with each glimmer of hope, doom would nearly always follow. It was if he was cursed!

    • Yes he was curse, tormented and seized with sorrow on every turn. Yet he survived the Hell he was put through to rise like the Phoenix and make a success of himself. Thank you for your keen observations as always.

  2. I’ve had you on my mind, dear Vincent. Hadn’t seen or heard from you, so was wondering how you are. Good to see you. Now, I see you wrote this magnificent work in 2012. I marvel that I have just now read it, but glad that I have now! It’s a biography in a poem. Poe was the epitome of despair and desperation in his tortured life. It seemed that he couldn’t win, and yet he did triumph. His inner strength triumphed, even over all the tragedy and disappointment he endured. All of it was what made his work enduring classics for all ages to come. A hard price tag for greatness he did achieve. Perhaps he might have chosen to forego the harsh difficulties, as well as the delayed greatness. But he either didn’t have that choice or couldn’t take it, because he was Edgar Allen Poe, after all. Hugs ~

    • Nellieanna my dear friend, so nice to see you here. It’s been awhile indeed. I have drifted aimlessly of late, my Muse somewhere else in time, abandoned I feel. My pen yearns to write but can’t seem to draw my attention to it. So I have kept a low profile, enjoying readings of others. Maybe soon, he will return and lift my heart and soul to try to be poetic once more.Poe and I have some similar depths of despair. I too feel at times lost in the abyss, though read, I am not recognized as much as others. I suppose my darkness keeps readers at bay. The price of greatness for many of us is pain, we must endure it, relish in it, suffer through it and bleed our words for eternity. I strongly believe in destiny, it separates the greats from living in luxury in order that they may offer to the world the deepest meanings of life. Edgar was certainly one of those, he bled in so many ways, suffering humility, poverty, sickness, misery and finally early death. To think he sold “The Raven” his masterpiece, his center-piece of literature for a measly $14 to support a habit. How sad, so very sad indeed. Live forevermore, dear Edgar, I tip my glass of cognac to you sir. Nellieanna you are my poetess of the ages, you and Emily are twins, you will be remembered and read by future generations and I pray our spirits will meet from time to time to relish the readers of your work and hopefully some of mine. Peace and blessings I send to you this day my sweet lady from Texas. Write on, your sweet voice is being heard and your words read.

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