A mysterious visitor who each year leaves roses and cognac on Edgar Allen Poe’s tomb in Baltimore, Maryland, has missed his rendezvous for the first time in 61 years, the Poe Society said.
“He did not show up this morning,” Jeffrey Savoye, secretary and treasurer of the 380 member society, said.
Each year since 1949 on the 100th anniversary of Poe’s birth, an often-cloaked individual has left a bottle of cognac and a few roses at the foot of Poe’s tomb, usually at night, in tribute to the legendary poet.
“Occasionally he showed up early, like 11:00 to 11:30 the evening before. But normally it’s from midnight to 5:00 am,” Mr Savoye said.
He said around 50 people waited in vain from Tuesday night to watch the “Poe Toaster”, as the visitor has been dubbed.
Many travelled from across the United States for the 201st anniversary of Poe’s birth.
“As far as we know, they have not missed a year until now,” Mr Savoye said.
The original yearly visitor apparently died in 1998, but left the pilgrimage up to his two sons.
“We were left a note some years ago saying that the original toaster had died … We interpreted the message that the torch will be passed… We are assuming that two sons of this person have been carrying it on,” Mr Savoye said.
“We don’t know who they are.”
–AFP

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe’s Cat
On a night quite unenchanting,
when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven,
in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more”
Soft upon the rug I treaded,
calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered,
I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and wierd decor –
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents’ worth –
“Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore –
Only this and not much more.
“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out,
“Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity,
while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put and end to that damned ditty” – then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped – and smashed it on the floor.
LikeLike
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/p/poe/edgar_allan/raven/#plate02
Beautiful original illustrations worth looking at as well as reading the poem, which I love but have somehow never been able to take seriously since seeing a version in MAD magazine in my youth.
LikeLike
It’s just dawned on me. I love “The Raven” in much the same way as I love “The Hunting of The Snark”.
“…the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
’Tis your glorious duty to seek it!
“To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
To pursue it with forks and hope;
To threaten its life with a railway-share;
To charm it with smiles and soap!
http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/c/carroll/lewis/snark/#fit4
Read it and weep with humour. This link also has fabulous original illustrations.
LikeLike
My goodness it is meant to be serious? (Howls of ignoramus laughter. I think I am indiscriminate and an indeterminate between humour and tragedy.)
LikeLike
The other comment I made being about The Raven (below). I -considering the comment by Warrigal about MAD-was thinking too how the images of poetic beauty when viewed as a young person -the brilliant wash of the watercolourists in The Saturday Evening Post describing cartoon characters carrying Christmas trees over their shoulders, oil colouration enhancing photographs of bolts of fabric-remain so vivid in the mind and are carried around as treasures.
LikeLike
I think it was Elvis or possibly Kurt Cobain.
LikeLike
Sarah Palin
LikeLike
no, it’s me…
LikeLike