Poe, Poe Edgar

While I was doing my research on Bronx literature, I came across a couple of Yiddish poems about Edgar Allen Poe's cottage, which is located just off Kingsbridge Avenue, near my home. My first impulse, of course, was to wonder why Yiddish writers would choose Poe as a subject. On the surface, at least, they would seem to go together like gefilte fish and bananas.

After thinking about it for a while, I got the connection. After all, the Jewish community produced Franz Kafka, who is kind of like a second cousin to Poe. With a little imagination, it's easy to imagine how Poe's terror and sense of impending doom could find fertile ground in Jewish literature. Besides, the Bronx was filled with Yiddish writers in the 1920's--it's statistically likely that at least a few of them would be Poe fans.

One of the poems, Abraham Walt Liessen's, “At Poe Cottage in Fordham,” is a little too bombastic and overwritten for me. Here's Liessen's description of Poe:
I see him upright, as I close my eyes
Embittered, near a cloud of luminous lace,
Choked with pride, his heart agonized
Staring forlornly at the cold fireplace;
Lethargic he pines, galled in fever—
A phantom disheveled, aquiver.

Embittered, choked with pride, agonized...I get the feeling that Liessen's Poe was a little too precious for this harsh world. One imagines him swooning, hand against forehead, moaning "creamed corn again. ALAS!" before falling to the ground in a trance.

On the other hand, Zische Landau's “A Little Park, with Few Trees” isn't too self-important, has some funny bits, and gives a nice portrait of Poe's cottage. Best of all, it's by a guy named "Zische." Seriously, what a cool name. I mean, you're getting extra cool points as you sit there reading his name to yourself. Say it aloud and you'll need to start wearing sunglasses and listening to jazz.

Zische Landau, “A Little Park, with Few Trees.”

A little park, with few trees growing;
a wooden house sits humbly there,
on which appears a painted raven-
it all has such a childish air.

And on the wall there hangs a tablet,
and from the tablet you will know
here lived in eighteen nine and forty
the poet Edgar Allen Poe.

The name, the raven wake within me
a memory of years before.
And since one is allowed to visit,
I let myself approach the door.

In a kimono red as scarlet,
a woman’s looking through the pane.
I’m so repelled by red kimonos
that in a flash I’m out again.

To stand outside suits me much better;
I clasp my hands and focus all
my thoughts upon the roof’s brown shingles,
and on the cottage’s white wall.

Within my mind are mixed together
a verse of Poe’s, a word, a rhyme.
Where have I heard them, come across them?
I feel they’re from a distant time.

And yet, in dream and fact, they soothed me
and frightened me to my heart’s core.
All this was only yesterday.
But will it come back? “Nevermore.”

Okay, Ziche's a little maudlin, but what do you want--he's a Jewish guy writing about Edgar Allen Poe; maudlin comes with the territory. What's cool, though, is his depiction of the cottage. It hasn't changed much in the 80 or so years since Landau wrote this poem, although they've gotten rid of the raven. It's a mouldering, peeling wreck that is largely ignored and seems somewhat out of place in the park, which features a bandstand, a playground, and scads of screaming, playing Dominican kids.

(I'll admit that I was a little nervous about Poe park. Before I moved in, Rich told me that it was a hangout for transvestite hookers, who would often catcall passers-by. I confess to being a little confused about how this is really all that bad, but Rich assured me that being yelled at by "Tranny Hookiz" is really horrifying.)

I also have to admit that I was a little disappointed when I found that the park only featured screeching kids and some teen-aged hispanic goths. I was looking forward to the dangerous trannies, so the relatively banal sight of a bunch of mothers watching their kids was a real let down. All the same, the cottage is really close to my home, so I was constantly reminded of it. It soon became a comforting, familiar site. Even without the cross-dressers.

When I was a little more settled in and started wandering around, one of my first visits in the Bronx was Poe cottage. I came on a Saturday, during one of the few hours that it was open. I felt a sense of foreboding as I approached the building. A cold shiver ran up my spine. The house had a carefully manicured garden and a wind chime, neither of which were appropriate to the time. I began to worry that this was going to be a travesty, an insult to the memory of Poe.

When we knocked on the door, a weedy, redheaded woman cracked it open, told us to wait for about fifteen minutes, and went back inside. I decided that her furtive behavior gave the cottage a little more panache than I had expected, so I waited contentedly, only occasionally snarling at the irritating wind chime.

We finally got to go in, and our tour guide, Joy, proceeded to show us the five rooms in which Poe, his wife, and his mother-in-law had lived for three years. The furnishings, she told us, were not original, except for one or two that Poe's mother-in-law may have sold to the neighbors. Joy showed us the Poe bust and portraits that shared space with his living quarters. I, meanwhile, grumbled to myself about the historical innacuracy of putting all the contextual material in the rooms where Poe lived.

Joy also showed us the bed where Poe's wife, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. Supposedly, Virginia died under Poe's West Point coat, the only warm covering in the house. The bed, on the other hand, was covered with a polyester fleece blanket with a plaid pattern. "Yeah," I thought to myself, "That's historically accurate. Where are the flannel sheets and Laura Ashley comforter?"

Joy took me through the rest of the house. I was going solo at this point, as my wife had abandoned the tour, citing a whining child. Personally, I think she was pinching George in order to create an excuse for ditching me. I could understand, as Joy's spiel was a little canned, and the "historical reconstruction" of the house bordered on the blasphemous. The highlight was the holes in the walls, which were covered with plastic sheeting and blue masking tape. Apparently, they're planning a major renovation. Between this and the furniture, I wonder if anything will be left of Poe's cottage.

The coolest part was after the tour was over, when Joy told me that she and her significant other live in the house's basement, rent free. They rarely come out, presumably to ensure their safety. Joy, apparently, has a graduate degree in history as well as a law degree, and is trying to get a writing career going. She is using her sojourn in Poe house as a way of making a few bucks while she works part-time in the public schools and tries to figure out what she wants to do next. Joy doesn't seem to like the neighborhood very much and tends to avoid interacting with the neighbors. It think she's a little afraid of the brown people.

I've since brought a few friends to visit. Katie and Heather told me that, overcome with compassion, Joy "broke down" while discussing Virginia's death in the cottage, and was a little loony during the rest of the tour. I later went through with John, hoping to catch some emoting over Virginia's death, but was denied.

When I read Landau's poem, I couldn't help but laugh at his description of the crazy lady in the red kimono taking care of the cottage. It seemed so funny that, 80 years later, Poe Cottage has another moderately crazy woman showing visitors through its lonely rooms. Sometimes, as I pass the cottage on the way home from the subway, I imagine Joy in the basement, listening to the wind whistling through the holes in the house. I envy her.

Deep in the Batcave

Thanks to my incredible friend Alex and the wonders of Picasa, I can now pepper my blog posts with pictures. This is particularly lucky, as I went exploring this weekend.

I went back to the Hall of Fame yesterday. My friend Justin was visiting, and he'd never been there, so we took a little walk. As always, it was deserted.

He chose to have his picture taken with Thomas Jefferson.

Here's a random picture of the Poe bust. I took it a few months ago, when I first visited the Hall of Fame:

Doesn't Poe have the coolest plinth? I love the little raven and (presumably black) cat. The rest of the plinths are unadorned.

I really like the word "plinth." Unfortunately, I can't use it very often.

As we were leaving, I noticed a pathway that led underneath the colonnade. Following it down, we came to an unmarked door that was open. As there were no "Keep Out" or "No Trespassing" signs posted, Justin and I assumed that we were permitted to look around. We went down a creepy hallway:

It was incredibly hot in the hallway, as the numerous radiators were all turned on full-strength. I was a little nervous about meeting a janitor or security guard, but figured that I could bluff may way through, if need be. My bigger worry was that we might meet a homeless person who had chosen to move in. However, the hallway was pretty clean, apart from the occasional empty water bottle or candy bar wrapper.

We soon came to to another hallway, which had cell-like doors:

We couldn't understand why this section looked like a prison or insane asylum. Some of the cells were filled with files:

While others looked like creepy musical practice rooms:

And still others looked like 19th-century court rooms, complete with gallery:

We eventually came to a huge auditorium. It was beautiful, and was in great shape. It was clear that it was used regularly. Access to the upper level was blocked with velvet ropes, so we stayed on the lower floor:

After we left, we wandered up another stairwell. This one was more ornate:

It led into the library. I'd been inside the library before, but hadn't wandered around too much, as it is a little forbidding.

From the outside, the library looks like the Pantheon. Inside, it is circular, with beautiful marble columns. It has four floors, and is capped with a rotunda, which features statues of the muses ringing the interior:

Behind the columns, the walls have compartments painted with the names of famous authors. Justin noticed that one of the compartments in the Ancient Roman literature section was pushed back, revealing a room behind it:

As there were no signs warning us to not trespass or keep out, Justin and I determined that this was a legitimate place to wander. On the other side of the door, we found room after room of empty bookshelves:



Some of them reminded me of the creepy gothic house in Edward Scissorhands:

We carefully watched our step. It was clear that there has been minimal maintenance in this library since NYU moved out in 1973. There were places where the wooden floor looked untrustworthy, and some of the glass brick tiles were cracked. Still, it was an amazing library, with little reading rooms and places in which the stacks continued through the floor:

There were also beautiful stained-glass walls:

For all of the deterioration, the library was in surprisingly good shape. Considering the fact that it has been neglected for the last 30+ years, it's amazing how well it has held together. Stanford White really knew what he was doing!

After walking from floor to floor, we finally found ourselves at the top of the library, in the rotunda:

Apparently, they have tours of the old library. I'm going to have to look into it, as I really want the wife to take a peek. I wonder if they'll let us walk all the way up to the rotunda.

Hall of Fame for Great Americans

My friend John came for a brief visit last weekend. As I tend to do whenever I've got a captive audience, I set out to expose him to some of the wonders of the Bronx. In John's case, this was a little harder than usual, as he lived in New York for several years, and even stayed in the Bronx for a while, so he's seen a lot of what the green borough has to offer.

(I'm field-testing nicknames for the Bronx. Given that it has far more parkland and undeveloped lots than any of the other boroughs, I think "The Green Borough" might be the best bet. At any rate, it sounds a lot better than "The Economically-Depressed Borough," "The Drinking Booze from a Paper Bag Borough," or "The Borough Where You're Most Likely to Get Stabbed.")

At any rate, John's been to Woodlawn and many of the parks and, since it was a blustery day, we didn't want to venture too far from shelter. We started off with a visit to Poe's Cottage, where Edgar Allen Poe lived from 1846 to 1849, and which deserves its own huge post. Since we still had a lot of time when we were done, I decided to take him to The Hall of Fame for Great Americans.

The Hall of Fame sounds very impressive, and John must have thought that I had gotten lost as I led him to it. It is on the campus of Bronx Community College, and the neighborhood around it is pretty rough. He had to have been even more surprised when I told him that we had to walk a little further, as one of the entrances offered "the best view of the campus."

To his credit, John was game, and he went the extra mile. When the campus security guard let us in, John was on the phone with a buddy, but I watched him scanning the campus as we walked past beautiful buildings and well-kept lawns. When he was finished with his phone call, he said "THIS is a community college?"

His confusion was understandable. Bronx Community College began life as the estate of a wealthy landowner. In 1894, New York University, looking to expand from its cramped space in lower Manhattan, purchased the land. Attempting to create a first-rate campus, the University hired Stanford White, the pre-eminent architect of his time, to design the school. White built a collection of beautiful halls, which were inspired by classical structures. I think the coolest one is the library, which looks like the Pantheon, and has incredible cast-bronze doors.

Around the library, White built a curving colonnade, which became the home of the Hall of Fame. It's easy to imagine the enthusiasm that went into the walkway. To begin with, there's the name, which is beautifully excessive, but borders on the redundant. After all, it's not like anybody's going to build a Hall of Fame for mediocre Americans.

That's what Presidential libraries are for.

Then there was the selection process. Although NYU administered the Hall of Fame, the selections were made by an independent review board, and private citizens and regional groups waged huge, expensive campaigns to get their favorite candidates elected. This, combined with the dedication and popularity of the Daughters of the Confederacy, helps explain why Stonewall Jackson and Robert E. Lee managed to get into the Hall of Fame, but Henry Ford and Sacagawea didn't.

In an article about the Hall of Fame, R. Rubin noted that, in its heyday, the hall of fame was more prestigious than the Nobel Prize, which is borne out in its description as "A Secular Shrine" for the United States. However, the declining neighborhood and looming bankruptcy conspired to make NYU sell the University Heights campus to New York City. In 1973, the campus became Bronx Community College.

The Hall of Fame got lost in the mix. The state of New York occasionally earmarks funds for its upkeep, but the private donations that used to keep it going have long since dried up. Added to this, people have simply forgotten about the Hall of Fame. I've visited it three times and have never seen more than one or two other visitors there. I imagine that it was once a busy spot, but now it tends toward the quiet and contemplative.

My wife and I have established a couple of traditions for our visits. One of these is making fun of some of the inductees, and expressing disbelief at the heroes of prior ages. We also like to laugh at some of the more outrageous busts. The most ridiculous one is Alexander Hamilton, which looks like a cross between Julius Caesar and Rocky from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. On this last trip, John and I pulled out a ten-dollar bill for comparison purposes and agreed that the Romanesque, nude Hamilton bore no relation whatsoever to the guy on the money. John surmised that some of Aaron Burr's descendants might have been responsible for the horrifying likeness.

Our other Hall of Fame tradition is making our guest choose his or her favorite Hall of Famer. Afterwards, of course, we photograph the two of them together. My hero was Edgar Allen Poe. When I first visited the Hall of Fame, his bust sported a perfect spider web over one eye. Poe, a spider web, a secluded old monument, a windy hillside in the Bronx...what's not to love?

After a great deal of deliberation, John chose Mark Twain, and I decided that it's interesting to find out who your friends' heroes are.

Pick Up Poems, Part III: The Rise of the Perverse

Once again, here's a mess of sexy poems. As before, most of these were suggested by you. If I haven't included your poem, I certainly will do so in the future.

Glamourpuss suggested that we take a peek at "Don Juan," "I Watched Thee," and "She Walks In Beauty Like the Night" by Lord Byron; "Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast," by Robert Herrick; "Her Voice" by Oscar Wilde; and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed," an anonymous poem.

In the interests of brevity, I included one Byron, the Herrick, and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed." I got rid of the rest because, frankly, they didn't turn me on. The Byron poem is, I think, terrifically atmospheric, and could be used to great effect in the right circumstances:

She Walks in Beauty
George Gordon, Lord Byron

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Of course, you'd have to leave out the whole "innocent" part, lest you end up with a kiss on the forehead or a sturdy handshake. Still, imagine someone writing that for you!

Herrick, as always, can be counted on for some seriously fun sexiness:

Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast
Robert Herrick


HAVE ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry, double grac'd,
Within a lily centre plac'd?
Or ever mark'd the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

God, I wish I'd known this one a long time ago. It's the perfect playful, post-prandial poem, almost guaranteed to make someone relax and giggle. I love Herrick!

"She Lay All Naked on Her Bed" is fantastic! It's another poem that I wish I knew years ago, as it perfectly describes my sex life from about 15 to 23 or so. For that matter, it should give Odat a serious laugh.

She lay all naked on her bed and I myself lay by;
No veil but curtains about her spread, no covering but I.
Her head upon her shoulder seeks to hang in careless wise,
And full of blushes were her cheeks, and of wishes were her eyes.

Her blood still fresh into her face, as on a message came,
To say that in another place it meant another game.
Her cherry lip moist, plump and fair, millions of kisses crown,
Which ripe and uncropt dangled there and weighed the branches down.

Her breasts, that well'd so plump and high, bred pleasant pain in me.
For all the world I do defy the like felicity;
Her thighs and belly, soft and fair, to me were only shown:
To see such meat, and not to eat, would anger any stone.

Her knees lay upward gently bent, and all lay hollow under,
As if on easy terms, they meant to fall unforc'd asunder;
Just so the Cyprian Queen did lie, expecting in her bower,
When too long stay had kept the boy beyond his promis'd hour.

"Dull clown" quoth she, "Why dost delay such proffer'd bliss to take?
Canst thou find out no other way similitudes to make?"
Mad with delight I, thundering, threw my arms about her,
But pox upon't 'twas but a dream, and so I lay without her.

Judith offered a couple of classics. First off, she suggested Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Unfortunately, the poem is really long. The gist of the story is that two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, are wandering home one day when they see the goblins selling fruit at the Goblin Market. They try to avoid looking at the goblins, as they don't want to be tempted. However, Laura can't resist the goblin call, so she looks. She's snared, and agrees to trade a lock of her hair for some goblin fruit, which she lustily consumes:

She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore,
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away,
But gathered up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.

Having tasted the forbidden fruit, Laura is filled with unquenched desire and, over the next few weeks, she starts to waste away. Lizzie, realizing that her sister is going to die, goes to the Goblin Market to get fruit to save her. The Goblins welcome her with hugs and kisses, but they become abusive when she refuses their hospitality:

Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.

One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

I love the imagery here, and Rosetti's rhythm, which flies all over the place, is a real joy. Judith also offered a poem by Emily Dickenson:

Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
by Emily Dickenson

Wild nights--wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
our luxury!

Futile the winds
To heart in port--
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart!

Rowing in Eden--
As the sea!
Might I moor, tonight,
In thee!

Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Emily Dickenson. It's hard for me to get excited about her poems when I imagine her knocking around her house, all alone. Plus, she uses WAY too many dashes. On the bright side, though, most of her poems can be sung aloud to the tune of Gilligan's Island. If you don't believe me, check this one out:

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry -
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll -
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul.



Ramo offered this original piece. In return, I am including another picture of Joseph Fiennes.

Poems and Poems
All sparkling gems
But there is a stud among them
Joseph Fiennes is his name
May he tear apart his shirt
And show us all that covers his heart.
Then we can go further down
And discover the hidden crown!

Anyway, Cranky here had good intention
The evil Me is doing contravention.

Misanthropster offered a poem by "John Lillison, England's Greatest One-Armed Poet," which Steve Martin used to such effect in his movies:

O pointy birds, o pointy pointy,
Anoint my head, anointy-nointy.

Somebody has gotten so excited about this little poem that he created this.

"Lillison" also wrote this one:
In Dillman's Grove, our love did die,
And now in ground shall ever lie.
None could e'er replace her visage,
Until your face brought thoughts of kissage.

Once again, this post is running a little long, so I'll leave you with a creepy one. When I was a kid, my parents bought me a book of poems for children. This one was my favorite. I didn't realize that it was about necrophilia until much later.

Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.