I've been a long time admirer of Edgar Allan Poe and his works. I've always enjoyed reading his short stories. He is a true master of suspense.
It was sad to learn that a writer of his caliber was found in a distressed state in his final days leading up to his death in October of 1849.
Throughout history, it seems that those who have given us the greatest art sometimes leave this mortal plane in the saddest fashion. Writers like Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and many others seem to have been in great turmoil in their final hours and undeserving of their premature demise. This was the case for Poe. Often, I wonder what Poe would have accomplished if he had lived past the age of forty. What kind of stories and poetry would we see from him in his later years if he had lived longer? Of course, there's no answer to this. I suppose it makes his body of work even more precious to those who have read it and knew of the history of his life.
In homage to him, I wrote a short story that got published. It is my humble attempt to pay tribute to such a great writer.
Short Story Link: link
B. A. Varghese
It was sad to learn that a writer of his caliber was found in a distressed state in his final days leading up to his death in October of 1849.
Throughout history, it seems that those who have given us the greatest art sometimes leave this mortal plane in the saddest fashion. Writers like Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, and many others seem to have been in great turmoil in their final hours and undeserving of their premature demise. This was the case for Poe. Often, I wonder what Poe would have accomplished if he had lived past the age of forty. What kind of stories and poetry would we see from him in his later years if he had lived longer? Of course, there's no answer to this. I suppose it makes his body of work even more precious to those who have read it and knew of the history of his life.
In homage to him, I wrote a short story that got published. It is my humble attempt to pay tribute to such a great writer.
Short Story Link: link
B. A. Varghese
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?
'Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro' the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
'Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold- too cold for me-
There pass'd, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.
One of the superb stories of Poe that relates to reincarnation (aka 'Transmigration') is 'A Tale of The Ragged Mountains.
Let's see if I have done Mr. Poe honor.
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless --
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye --
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: -- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: -- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless --
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye --
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: -- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep: -- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.