Thursday, October 7, 2021

In honor of Poe -- "The Conqueror Worm"


Edgar Allan Poe was a poet, writer, editor, and an American writer who not only helped shape the horror genre as we know it, but also the short story format. He passed away at the entirely age of 40 on this day, October 7, in 1849.

This is the third post today in which we honor his memory with pictures, posts, songs, and more. Here's another song, inspired by Poe, from the great goth musician and satirist Voltaire.



Did we say "inspired by"? That was a mistake. If that song sounded familiar, it's because it IS Poe's famous poem "The Conqueror Worm" set to music. Given that it is quite literally written like song lyrics, it's surprising that no one has done this before. (There's been entire concept albums based on the works of Poe, but no one previously do Voltaire thought to actually write music to go with any of the poems that lend them to it. Some artists have come close, but none had taken the plunge until 2014. If we are wrong on this, please correct us in the comments. We can spotlight those artists we just slighted next year on October 7!)

Meanwhile, here's Poe's "The Conqueror Worm" for your reading pleasure. Perhaps you can restart the music and sing along with these lyrics!

THE CONQUEROR WORM
By Edgar Allan Poe

Lo! ’t is a gala night
   Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
   In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
   A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
   The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
   Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
   Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
   That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
   Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
   It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
   By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
   To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
   And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
   A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
   The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
   The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
   In human gore imbued.

Out—out are the lights—out all!
   And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
   Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
   Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
   And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.



No comments:

Post a Comment