Tynan Portillo presents…featuring the best horror stories of the 19th century, welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Narrated by Tynan Portillo

Today’s episode, a revisit to the classic poem, The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.

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!

Hello and welcome back to The Poe Show. If you enjoyed what you heard be sure to like, subscribe, follow and share with others who love classic horror literature.

After I listened to the first episode of this podcast again…I just couldn’t stand the quality of my first recording. If you want, you can listen to both episodes. Since it’s the first episode that I made for this podcast, it will stay up along with this one.

Reading The Raven this time, I got the sense that as the narrator opened his door, he was examining “the other side,” looking for Lenore in the afterlife. But, there was “darkness there and nothing more.” The only word there spoken is his whispered word, “Lenore.” I see more existentialism in it now.

I have a theory of what else Poe was saying when he wrote this poem. In order to prove it, I have to tell you a bit more about Virginia.

Virginia Eliza Clemm was born to a hardware merchant father and a stepmother, named Maria Poe. And yes, that makes Virginia and Edgar first cousins. Edgar and Virginia first met soon after Edgar was discharged from the Army. He lived with their family on and off for a few years while courting their neighbor, Mary.

There’s a story from 1889 called “Poe’s Mary,” which tells the “true story” of Poe and Mary’s courtship. It tells how Virginia delivered love letters between him and Mary, Mary giving Edgar a lock of her hair. However, this story is laden with inaccuracies that any educated reader can easily disprove. In fact Mary’s brother, and much later her granddaughter, stated that many things the story claims are true were completely fictitious.

Virginia’s family was destitute and Edgar had moved for work. But he wrote to Maria asking for her daughter’s hand in marriage. He argued he could provide for her with his new job at the Southern Literary Messenger.

Virginia’s family was without any financial support. Her father died and a relative giving them a pension had died too. Putting oneself in Maria Poe’s shoes, one can understand that although her daughter Virginia was only 13…there was no way for Maria to provide for her. Women alone did not have the freedom to provide for themselves the way men could back then. Virginia’s best chance was to be married to a man with an income.

Edgar Allan Poe filed for a marriage license in 1835, and their ceremony took place in 1836. Virginia was 13 years old and Poe was 27 years old, typical for marriages in the Victorian age, especially if a man remarried. On their marriage license, Virginia had been listed as 21 years old. They would have lied about the age because Virginia’s father had died and couldn’t give his consent.

Their marriage was known to be quite a happy one. They seemed to idolize each other, and Virginia even wrote an acrostic poem for her husband. I’d like to read the only poem she’d ever written right now.

Ever with thee I wish to roam -

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide us when we are there - 

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we’ll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we’ll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee - 

Ever peaceful and blissful we’ll be.

And if you look at the first letters of each line, it spells out EDGAR ALLAN POE.

Edgar Allan Poe and another poet, Frances Sargent Osgood, had been exchanging some romantic poems, during Virginia’s being bedridden due to tuberculosis. It became a piece of major gossip among readers that the poets seemed romantically involved, and people began gossiping about an affair between the poets. Frances was also married, so it was a good bit of scandalous rumor. But Poe did write a poem in 1846, titled “A Valentine,” in which he had left a clue as to who he wrote it for. If you read this poem and you circle the first letter of the first line, and the second letter of the second line, and the third letter from the third line and so on…it spells out the full name of Frances Sargent Osgood.

They were both notorious flirts and Poe admired the work of Osgood quite a bit. It could be just a bit of old gossip about the town, but it did eventually get around to Virginia. And from what I can find, she was distressed. In her poem, when she says the “tattling of many tongues” referred to this scandal. Now here’s where it gets juicy!

There was another poet, a woman named Ellet, who was shown some of these poems and letters by Virginia. Now, Ellet was also enamored with Poe and had been previously rejected. So, Ellet wrote to Osgood and told her to stop sending letters, otherwise she would add fire to their scandal. Osgood sent a couple of her friends to retrieve her letters from Poe, but Poe sent them away and then wrote to Ellet, telling her, essentially, to mind her own business. Well, Ellet had a brother, a colonel in the military. So her brother writes to Poe, threatening to kill him! So Poe goes to one of his closest friends, Thomas English, and requests that he get Poe a pistol for self defense. But English says this is all some made up love story and he doesn’t believe it. Then Poe, outraged at being called a liar, got into a fistfight with his own friend! They both walked away saying that they won the fight, so who knows how it actually ended! So then, Osgood’s husband steps in and tells Ellet to apologize for insinuating that his wife was having an affair. Under that kind of pressure, Ellet writes back to the Osgoods, saying that the letter must have been a forgery crafted by Poe BECAUSE HE WAS CLINICALLY INSANE. And she starts RUNNING with this story, wee wee wee all the way home, because it was even reported in the newspapers! This whole affair had gotten so out of hand that by the time Virginia was on her deathbed, she stated, “Mrs. E had been her murderer!”

SIGH

Wild ride. I have to say that Ellet wasn’t just some jealous poet who loved Poe, she also had a great personal career. She was the first writer ever to record the lives of women who contributed to the American Revolutionary War. And Frances Osgood wrote over 40 short stories and 7 notable books. So these women should be remembered for their own works as well, not just their connection to Poe. It was a spicy connection though, wasn’t it?

So could it be that The Raven is also Poe expressing his guilt at his flirtations with Osgood? Could it be that this story examines a man trapped in purgatory or hell for his sins? My theory is that this poem was a way of Poe expressing his guilt, and a way of expressing his fear. Fear that when he looked on the other side, his love would not answer him, that she would not WANT to see him again.

Virginia could tell that she was going. The Poes couldn’t afford any kind of treatment, and Edgar was falling deep into alcoholism. Virginia promised her husband that after her passing she would be his guardian angel. And told a family friend, “I know I shall die soon…but I want to be as happy as possible, and make Edgar happy.”

Then something wonderful happened. All family friends, associates, and even some enemies of Poe, began writing about them. They wrote to the public in newspapers from all around, expressing their tragedy and imploring readers to help the Poes. The Poes had many visitors who came to talk with them and offer what support they could, some even looked after Virginia for a time. And once she had passed, her coffin was paid for and she was buried in a family vault of the Fordham cottage the Poes had rented.

The only portrait of Virginia Eliza Clemm Poe that exists is one that was painted after her death, her corpse being the model, because it was only after she passed that Poe realized he had no pictures of her. Maria Clemm stayed by Poe’s side till he passed. And though, after both Poes had passed, they were buried in separate areas and Virginia’s bones had almost been forgotten in a destruction of her early cemetery, her remains and her mother’s were brought to her husband’s burial site, and the Poes have remained together ever since.

I love the writing of Edgar Allan Poe, and this whole podcast started because I wanted to shed more light on his work. And thankfully, I have subscribers and followers like you who make it all worthwhile. Thank you for listening to this episode of the podcast, remember to like, follow, subscribe and share it with your family and friends. If you’d like to support the show the link to my KoFi account is in the description, and that is always seriously appreciated. Visit the Poe Show YouTube channel to see my reviews of horror TV and movies based on Edgar Allan Poe’s works, those videos are a lot of fun! Be sure to follow this podcast on Instagram and Threads @thepoeshowpodcast and on TikTok @poeshowpodcast. I have said other names on other episodes, but it is @poeshowpodcast and I’m sorry for the confusion! 

That’s all for now, but you’ll hear from me very soon on the next episode of The Poe Show podcast.