Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven: Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! - Folkswitch: The Romantic Poets Meet Wyrd Folk

Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven represented the pinnacle of the author’s success. Though most of his fame was brought on by his macabre tales and stories, Poe’s The Raven took off and brought him national, as well as world-wide acclaim.

Unfortunately it didn’t bring him much in the way of income, when he desperately needed as he tried to make a life in New York City, accompanied by his wife ill wife and her mother. A year and a day after the publication of Poe’s The Raven, his wife Virginia died, and Poe slipped into madness.

In that the poem could be considered prophetic, or perhaps the author simply knew what the future had in store for him.

In Poe’s The Raven, the poem begins with the narrator searching through ancient books of magic for a way to bring back his lost love. It’s never clearly spelled out if she is merely gone from his life, or gone from this Earth, but one can assume the latter thanks to the imagery that Poe includes.

Distracted by a tapping which doesn’t go away, we are greeted with the appearance of Poe’s raven who perches on a bust of the goddess Athena, over the door. There it stays, repeating only the one word the narrator dreads most, nevermore.

In Poe’s The Raven, the narrator tries talking to the bird, asking questions, quizzing it on its knowledge, reaching for any thread of hope that he might find. In the end, Poe’s The Raven is devoid of hope and finally, devoid of sanity as not only does the raven refuse to offer solace, the narrator realizes it will never leave, instead blocking the door with its presence and its reminder of nevermore.

Recording Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven

This was a tricky song to record. From the beginning I saw it as the equivalent of a high school musical presentation, a direct descendent of the age of burlesque or cabaret. Breaking it into three or four discreet sections I hoped would alleviate the monotony. It’s hard to follow along with lyrics for nine minutes without a change or break. Luckily Poe’s The Raven already contains the breaks we needed.

The narrator’s voice in Poe’s The Raven I quickly realized could be broken into three voices. One is simply that of a narrator, watching the action as though it wasn’t even a part of it for the first half or more. I thought of that as a Greek Chorus. The second is the actor, expressing more emotion, the lead if you will. And finally came a disembodied voice, almost the voice of Poe’s The Raven itself.

Then came actually singing the bastard, It went through countless iterations before I felt I had nailed it to the best of my abilities. Unfortunately I realized a day or so later that the microphone was on the verge of going out, and some of the settings during recording has been configured wrong. I tried to sing it again, but never could pull it off. So in the end, I was stuck with voices that sounded far from natural, and dictated the sound of the overall song.

All in all, recording Poe’s The Raven took place over a period of eighteen months, with far too much of that time actually going into that song alone. Was it worth it? I believe so. But I can’t help but wish I could start it over from scratch.

That will happen … never more.

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Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven

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!

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