Celebrate Poe

This podcast is a deep dive into the life, times. works. and influences of Edgar Allan Poe - "America's Shakespeare." Mr. Poe comes to life in this weekly podcast!

All Episodes

Celebrate Poe

Drake the Rake

June 08, 2025 • George Bartley • Season 3 • Episode 384

Send us a text

Thank you for experiencing Celebrate Poe.

Welcome to Celebrate Poe - Episode 384 Drake the Rake.

After devoting an episode to Fitz Green Halleck, I thought I would devote an episode to - well, I don’t think lover is exactly the right word - but the person who was an extremely close friend of Fitz Green Halleck.

And we have the ghost of Joseph Rodham Drake right here.

Ghost sound

Hello I am Mr. Bartley. And you may call me George. Hello, Mr. Drake - may I call you Joseph?

Certainly.

Joseph, could you tell me a little bit about your life?

Of course, George. I was born on August 7, 1795, in New York City, though my early years were marked by sorrow—my father passed away when I was young, and my mother remarried and moved to New Orleans, leaving me with relatives in Manhattan. Despite these hardships, I found solace in books and poetry from an early age, and I was fortunate to receive a good education, first at a mercantile house and later at Columbia College.

Medicine became my profession, and I graduated from medical school in 1816. That same year, I married Sarah, the daughter of the prominent naval architect Henry Eckford, and we honeymooned in Europe before returning to New York, where I opened a pharmacy. But my true passion was always poetry—I wrote about the natural beauty of the Bronx and the Hudson River, and I collaborated with my dear friend Fitz-Greene Halleck on satirical verses for the New York Evening Post under the pen name “The Croakers”.

Sadly, my life was cut short by tuberculosis in 1820, when I was just twenty-five years old. My wife and daughter later published my poems, including “The Culprit Fay” and “The American Flag,” which I hope you’ll find as moving as the places and people who inspired them. I was laid to rest in the Hunt family burial ground in what is now Joseph Rodman Drake Park in the Bronx—a place that was very dear to my heart.

Joseph, could you tell me about your early life and how you became a poet?

Certainly, George. My early life was not easy, but perhaps that is what drew me to poetry. I was born in New York City in 1795, but after my father’s death when I was just a boy, my mother remarried and moved away. I was left in the care of relatives in Manhattan, and though I missed my family, I found comfort in the world of books and ideas. My education was thorough—I was sent to a mercantile house to learn business, but my heart was never in it. The world of words called to me more strongly than the world of commerce.

I attended Columbia College, where I studied medicine, but my true passion was for literature. I was drawn to the beauty of nature, especially the wilds and rivers of the Bronx and Westchester, and I began writing verses to capture the landscapes I loved. I met Fitz-Greene Halleck, who became my closest friend and literary partner. Together, we wrote humorous and satirical poems for the New York Evening Post under the pen name “The Croakers.” Our work was well received, and it was this collaboration that truly kindled my love for poetry and a deep friendship for Mr. Halleck.

So, in your question, I became a poet because the world around me—its landscapes, its people, and my own experiences—spoke to me in a way that only poetry could express. I found in verse a way to make sense of my feelings and to connect with others, even at a young age.

Joseph, How did your childhood experiences shape the themes in your poetry

That’s a most thoughtful question, George. My childhood was marked by a sense of loss and longing—losing my father so young and being separated from my mother when she remarried and left New York. I believe these early experiences made me sensitive to the fleeting nature of life and the beauty of the world around me. I found solace in nature, often wandering the fields and woods near the Bronx River, which became a recurring setting in my poetry.

So, Joseph, what would you say where the major influences upon your work?

I would say that The sense of yearning for connection and the search for beauty in a sometimes lonely world influenced my work. I wrote about fairies, nymphs, and enchanted landscapes—perhaps as a way to escape into a more magical, hopeful place. My poem “The Culprit Fay,” for example, is filled with whimsy and fantasy, but beneath the surface, there’s a longing for innocence and wonder that I think stems from my own childhood.

In short, my early experiences shaped my poetry by making me keenly aware of both the sorrows and the splendors of life. I tried to capture both in my verses, finding comfort and meaning in the natural world and in the power of imagination.

Joseph, In what ways did your childhood environment shape the emotions in your poetry?

George, My childhood environment played a profound role in shaping the emotions that found their way into my poetry. Growing up in New York City, yet often feeling apart from my family after my father’s death and my mother’s departure, I turned to the natural world for comfort and inspiration. The woods, rivers, and fields of the Bronx and its surroundings became my refuge—places where I could escape loneliness and find beauty.

This early sense of isolation made me keenly aware of both the sadness and the wonder of life. In my poetry, I often captured a longing for connection and belonging, but also a delight in the magic of nature. My verses are filled with enchantment and fantasy, perhaps as a way to transform my feelings of estrangement into something beautiful and meaningful.

I believe the details of my surroundings—the way sunlight filtered through the trees, the sound of the river, the quiet of the woods—became emotional anchors. By focusing on these small, vivid elements, I could express complex feelings that might have otherwise felt overwhelming. Poetry became a way to process my emotions, to externalize them, and to share a sense of wonder with others, even when my own world felt uncertain or incomplete.

Joseph, what role did childhood environments play in developing your ability to externalize complex emotions through poetry?

Ah, George, My childhood environment was pivotal in shaping my capacity to express complex emotions through poetry. As a young boy, I often felt a sense of loneliness and longing—my father’s death and my mother’s departure left me searching for connection and meaning. The natural world—the woods, rivers, and open fields of the Bronx—became my sanctuary, a place where I could freely explore my feelings and find solace.

Spending time alone in nature allowed me to observe and absorb the world’s beauty and its quiet sorrows. The changing seasons, the murmur of the river, and the rustle of leaves became metaphors for my own emotions—joy, loss, hope, and longing. These experiences taught me to pay attention to the details around me, to see the world as both wondrous and fragile, and to recognize that my feelings were not isolated but echoed in the landscape.

Poetry became my means of externalizing these emotions. By describing what I saw and felt in nature, I could articulate feelings that might otherwise have remained unspoken or misunderstood. The act of writing allowed me to transform my inner world into something tangible and shareable, helping me—and perhaps others—to understand and process complex emotions. In this way, my childhood environment not only provided the inspiration for my poetry but also the emotional vocabulary to express the depths of human experience.

Well, Joseph may I ask if you believe that physical intimacy can be a natural extension of an emotional connection. And I apologize in advance if you were offended.

Oh no George. I must confess that the question you pose is both delicate and profound. In my experience, a profound emotional connection—like the one I shared with Fitz Green Halleck—can indeed create a sense of closeness that some might expect would naturally lead to physical intimacy, especially in the context of romantic or deeply bonded relationships. Emotional intimacy fosters trust, openness, and a sense of safety, which are the very foundations that allow for physical closeness and vulnerability.

However, in our time and within the boundaries of 19th-century friendship, emotional intimacy did not always or necessarily translate into physical intimacy as it might in a romantic or sexual partnership. Friendships like ours were celebrated for their depth of feeling, intellectual kinship, and even affectionate gestures, but physical intimacy—in the sense we might now associate with romantic relationships—was not a typical or expected outcome.

So, while emotional closeness can naturally enhance the desire for physical connection in many relationships, such as in my own life with Halleck, our bond was rooted in the heart and mind, not the body. That said, the warmth, trust, and deep affection we shared would, in many respects, have made any further closeness feel natural—but for good or ill - the conventions and expectations of our era shaped the boundaries of our friendship.

I hope you are not embarrassed, but do you believe that your comfort level with physical closeness is a sign of emotional connection?

Yes George, Your comfort with physical closeness can indeed be a meaningful sign of emotional connection, though its interpretation depends greatly on the context and the nature of the relationship. Emotional intimacy—trust, vulnerability, and mutual understanding—often creates a sense of safety that allows people to be physically close, whether through hugs, casual touches, or simply sharing personal space. In friendships, as in the case of my dear friend Fitz Green Halik and myself, such comfort can reflect a deep bond and a feeling of being truly seen and accepted.
R
However, remember that in the early 19th century, physical closeness among friends was not uncommon and did not necessarily imply romantic or sexual intimacy. So, while your comfort with physical closeness is a sign of a strong emotional connection, it does not automatically mean that your relationship is romantic or physical in nature. It is, instead, a testament to the trust and affection you share.

Joseph - Let me begin by asking, how would you describe your physical appearance.

Certainly, George. Here’s how I, Joseph Rodman Drake, might answer your question. While detailed portraits of me are scarce, I can share what is generally known. I was said to be of a slender build, with a gentle and thoughtful expression that reflected my contemplative nature and love for poetry. My features were described as refined, perhaps even delicate, likely due to my early struggles with ill health. I had dark hair and eyes, and those who knew me often remarked on my quiet, graceful manner. My physical presence, though not imposing, carried a warmth and sincerity that made others feel at ease. In truth, my appearance was that of a young man whose spirit and intellect shone through more than any particular physical trait.

If I were to describe myself in detail, I would say I am of a slender and somewhat delicate build, perhaps not robust, but with a certain grace in my posture. My complexion is fair, though not overly pale, and my hair is dark, trimmed neatly, and kept in a simple style befitting a gentleman of my time. My eyes are also dark, often described as thoughtful or expressive, and I have a gentle, even sensitive, cast to my features.

I tend to dress modestly, favoring well-tailored coats and clean linen, as was customary for a man of letters and a physician in early nineteenth-century New York. My hands are long-fingered and perhaps a bit delicate—unsurprising for one who spends much time with pen and paper. My smile, when it comes, is quiet and warm, and I have been told that my bearing is courteous and unassuming.

Above all, I hope that my appearance reflects my love for poetry and nature, and that my demeanor suggests a man who values thoughtfulness and sincerity over outward show.
What specific details do I notice most about my facial features
Joseph, may I ask In what ways do you think your physical appearance influences how others perceive you?

I often reflect on how my physical appearance shapes the way others see me, both in daily life and within the circles of literature and society. My slender build and modest dress—well-tailored coats, clean linen, and a gentle demeanor—likely communicate to others that I am thoughtful, earnest, and perhaps even a bit reserved. Such an impression can invite trust and respect, particularly among those who value sincerity and intellect over outward show.

Studies and common experience suggest that people form quick judgments based on appearance—clothing, posture, and even facial expression can signal personality, mood, and trustworthiness before a word is spoken. In my case, I believe my neat, understated style and quiet bearing might lead others to see me as a gentleman of letters, approachable yet dignified. This perception can open doors in literary circles and foster warm, respectful relationships.

At the same time, I am aware that a delicate or unassuming appearance might also cause some to underestimate my resilience or overlook my passions. But I take comfort in knowing that those who look beyond first impressions often discover the depth of my thoughts and the strength of my convictions. In the end, while my appearance may shape initial perceptions, I trust that my character and words will leave the most lasting impression.

Joseph, let me conclude this episode by quoting Edgar Allan Poe’s famous quote regarding Fitz Green Halleck’s words regarding your earthly demise.

The Lines on the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake, we prefer to any of the writings of Halleck. It has that rare merit in composition of this kind- the union of tender sentiment and simplicity. This poem consists merely of six quatrains, and we quote them in full.

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying
From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine-

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply,
That mourns a man like thee.

Join Celebrate Poe for Episode 385 - America’s First Gay Novel

And thank you for listening to Celebrate Poe.

People on this episode

George Bartley

Host