My admiration for Poe grows deep and strong, with every word I read from his poems, and the heart grows fonder as identification becomes more apparent…I remember seeing myself in “Alone” by Poe, and I recall this mesmerization I had for his text that I took a month indulging in his works.
Today marks a day which demands Poe’s great poetry, of which they would time and again surface on this site.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then-in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life-was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
How apt, of “Alone” to embellish this very day. While a fixation on the past might be a futile attempt to hold on to hope, it is this very memory that keeps one going. This realm of unreality, if succumbed to the stark truth that envelops us, will soon engulf even the last bit of sanity.
Edgar Allan Poe, he who describes succinctly and with such intensity, these deep unfathomable feelings to the rest of the world – a talent no longer seen today – he who had used his strong words and moving imagery to express all that I could not. A first form of recognition, Edgar Allan Poe gave reassurance that there was someone out there who had once understood and lived this estranged feeling.
The creative talent, this exquisite poet, this misunderstood man with utmost sophistication in his words. To Edgar.