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.

In memory of Edgar Allan Poe--"The Raven"

Edgar Allan Poe passed away on October 7, 1849, at the age of 40. In his short life, however, he wrote many dark poems and short stories that form part of the foundation upon which modern horror stories stand. We suspect that if you're reading these words, you're already family with one of Poe's most famous works, "The Raven". If not, you should take a few moments to read it now. And if you are familiar, it can't hurt to read it again. Perhaps you should read it out loud, so you can get the full experience of the rhythm of the sentences. 

Or you can just drop down to the bottom of the post for Jandzi Lorber's fabulous animated tribute to the poem. Made with cut-out animation, it took Lorber ten weeks to make the two-minute film.

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 named 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 darkness 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 above 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 further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
   Till I scarcely more than muttered 'Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he 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 sad soul 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, 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 has 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

--

Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven

Director: Jandzi Lorber

Rating: Seven of Ten Stars