Favourite Poets: Edgar Allen Poe, The Sleeper

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At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
The gothic imagery in here is stunning. Love it from start to finish, the timbre is musical, it’s a really powerful poem, I think.

Poetry in the News

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Hello 😊

Here’s your poetry for the week:

Sam Walker talks about the benefits of arts such as poetry for you health.

Here’s some beautiful poetry by Ocean Vuong.

The Cuban Poetry Festival fights back against the US blockage and imperialism.

The use of poetry in prisons to help people turn their backs on crime.

And finally… alert! Alert! Russell Simmons might be bringing back Def Poetry Jam – hosted by Chance the Rapper.

Enjoy your weeks!

Poem of the Week: We Wear the Mask, Paul Laurence Dunbar

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We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,–
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

We Wear The Mask

Flailing

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You found me flailing on the bathroom floor.
A juddering heap of heaving, weeping, bleeding.
I asked, what’s there worth holding on here for?
What’s the purpose of this life that I’m keeping,
Breathing existence into, an ember of a flame
That’s so desperate and ready to be snuffed out?
And you stood, stoic, with a whisper you spoke my name,
Made it sound a truth in which you couldn’t doubt.
And so I stayed.
Please, don’t make me regret my decision that day.

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Favourite Poets: Edgar Allen Poe, Sonnet: To Science

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Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
   Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
   Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
   Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
   Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
   And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
   Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
To anyone who belittles either science or art, or says the two don’t coexist, I’d like to (non-forcefully) shove this sonnet in their faces as Exhibit A for why they’re wrong…