Celebrate Poe

Poe's Halloween Poems

October 16, 2022 George Bartley Season 2 Episode 135
Celebrate Poe
Poe's Halloween Poems
Show Notes Transcript

This episode delves into what are arguable the most famous Halloween poems of Edgar Allan Poe. While the word Halloween was not used in the poems “Spirits of the Dead,” “The Raven,” and “Ulalume,” the poems embody the Halloween spirit.


  • Where was the first version of “Spirits of the Dead” published.
  • What is usually considered the most famous poem ever written by an American (o.k. - I am prejudiced!)
  • What one word does the bird in “The Raven” say?
  • Where does Poe end up in “Ulalume”?


  • 00:00 Intro
  • 01:24 George as Poe in West Virginia
  • 03:24 Spirits of the Dead
  • 05:22 The Raven
  • 15:08 Ulalume
  • 23:48 Future episode
  • 24:16 Sources
  • 24:32 Outro

Me (George Barteley speaking) - plain text
Edgar Allan Poe - Italics text

00:00 Intro


Welcome to Celebrate Poe.  My name is George Bartley, and this is episode 135 - Poe’s Halloween Poems.  The music for the intro and outro to this podcast is from ‘Come Rest in This Bosom’ - said to be Edgar Allan Poe’s favorite song.

This month Celebrate Poe is looking at Edgar Allan Poe and some of his connections to Halloween. Now 19th century America certainly did not celebrate Halloween the way we do - especially with all the commercialism - but Poe’s thinking was no doubt influenced by the rituals and celebration of SOWin.  He even WROTE about Stonehenge - one of the early sites where SOWin rituals were said to be performed.  And if the word SOWin is new to you, then why not go back to last week’s episode for a little bit about the history of Halloween.

TRANSITION MUSIC

01:24 George as Poe in West Virginia


I’ve mentioned earlier in this podcast that when I lived in West Virginia, I worked for the West Virginia Humanities Council.  I did a great deal of research about Poe, dressed up to look like the writer, and would go to various schools, bookfairs, libraries,  and literary events and do a program as Poe - first relating the story of my life as the character of Poe, then answering questions still in character as Poe, and then as myself about my research into Poe’s life and times.  As you can imagine, October was always the busiest time - because of Halloween, and Poe is frequently known as the Halloween poet.  Today I would like to delve into two poems that I always included in any presentation.  The first is from Poe’s first published work and the second is arguably the most famous poem in the English language.  Then this episode will end with a poem that Kevin J. Hayes, the editor of The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe, has called the greatest Halloween poem in all of American literature.

GHOST ENTER

Well, hello Mr. Poe.

Greetings, Mr. Bartley


You probably remember from the last episode of Celebrate Poe that I wanted to delve into some of your poems that embody the Halloween spirit. And I would like for you to read them.

Yes, Mr. Bartley - that could prove to be most intriguing.  And  I am most happy that you asked me to read from my poetry - I never read from my prose works in front of an audience.

First - here is a poem from your first published work - Tammerlane and Other Poems.  The poem is called Spirits of the Dead.

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone—
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness—for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee—and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night, tho’ clear, shall frown—
And the stars shall look not down
From their high thrones in the heaven,
With light like Hope to mortals given—
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more—like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze—the breath of God—is still—
And the mist upon the hill,
Shadowy—shadowy—yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token—
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!


Mr. Poe - that always gives me chills.

Mr. Bartley,, thank you.

05:22 The Raven


And Mr. Poe, you may be honored - tho not surprised - that in protraying you, I always included a recitation of The Raven.

Yes, I felt at the time I wrote The Raven that I had written the greatest poem ever written by an American.

For those of you who may not be familar - well the poem was first published in January 1845.  The poem is often noted for its musicality, stylized language, and supernatural atmosphere. The Raven is probably known by many people from Homer Simpson’s rendition at Halloween time on The Simpsons. The poem tells of a talking raven's mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man's slow descent into madness.  I could go on and on - and definitely will in the future - delving into the meanings and dynamics of The Raven.  But for now, Mr. Poe would you read your most famous work for those listening.

Certainly -

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee  Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!


Thank you, Mr. Poe. At the ending of the poem, I imagine that a raven is still sitting on a bust of the Greek god of war staring down at a shadow on the floor - is the shadow the body of the narrator or does the shadow represent hope that now exists nevermore.

15:08 Ulalume

Now for the last poem for this episode - well let me introduce it with a passage by Poe expert Kevin J. Hayes from Edgar Allan Poe: The Poet of Halloween.  Mr. Hayes writes - The night before Halloween a couple of years ago, a friend telephoned in a panic. “I’m going to a Halloween party tomorrow,” he told me. “Every guest must bring a poem to read aloud.” With no idea what poem would be appropriate, he was calling his friendly neighborhood English professor to ask for some advice. Without hesitation, I recommended Edgar Allan Poe’s “Ulalume,” which I consider the greatest Halloween poem in the history of American literature. Set in a graveyard on Halloween—the night the dead arise—the poem is filled with woodlandish ghouls that guide the path of a lover on the way to the tomb of his beloved.

Now as I understand it, Ulalume was written for the American Review in 1847.  Two years before, this same magazine published The Raven for the first time.  Is that right, Mr. Poe?

Yes, Mr. Bartley. The poem takes place on a night in the "lonesome October" with a gray sky as the leaves are withering for the autumn season.

So you have a Halloween connection right there.

The narrator roams with a "volcanic" heart In the region of Weir, by the lake of Auber. He has a "serious and sober" talk with his soul, though he does not realize it is October or where his roaming is leading him. He remarks on the stars as night fades away, and wonders if it knows that the tears on his cheeks have not yet dried.

Very strange.

His soul, however, mistrusts the star and where it is leading. Just as the narrator calms his soul, he realizes he has unconsciously walked to the vault of his "lost Ulalume" on the very night he had buried her a year before.

Sounds like it has a very Annabel Lee vibe.  And your descendant Dr. Harry Lee Poe believes that the subject of the poem was your wife - Virginia - as she was dying from consumption.  I could go on and on and explain what all of the proper names - such as Auber, Weir, and Psyche - mean, but many people believe the poem was written as an elocution lesson where sound is more important. It might be more effective to let the words pour over you and not worry about their meaning.  After all, fear and dread is not something you intellectually understand, but something you feel. So Mr. Poe would you read Ulalume for us. 

Certainly.

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere—
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll—
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
Our memories were treacherous and sere,—
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)—
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here)—
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn—
As the star-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said: "She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs—
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: "Sadly this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! —ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! —let us fly! -for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight!—
See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied: "Ulalume -Ulalume—
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere—
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed—I journeyed down here!—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”


Ah, Mr. Bartley, I must take my leave.  Farewell.

Bye, Mr. Poe.

Future episode

Next week join Celebrate Poe for a very special look at what is arguably Poe’s most famous story in Why Will You Say I am Mad? - and point out its richness as it deals with guilt and insanity.

24:16 Sources


Sources include The Cambridge Companion to Edgar Allan Poe edited by Kevin J. Hayes, Edgar Allan Poe: The Poet of Halloween also by Kevin J. Hayes, and the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe.

24:32 Outro

Thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe - a deep dive into the life, times, and works of America’s Shakespeare - Edgar Allan Poe.

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