Halloween

none

Poetry & spoken word

Poems

poesis

A reading of Edgar Allen Poe's, "The Raven" by myself for Halloween.

The Raven By Edgar Allen Poe

Israfel by Edgar Allan Poe read by Marta Regn

Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

Performed by Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone

About the Book

Universally acclaimed as the maestro of horror and the morbid, Edgar Allan Poe’s dark gift has for more than a century and a half set the standard for the genre.

Now, Caedmon Audio presents a classic collection of Poe’s most terrifying tales performed by two of the most brilliant interpreters of his work, Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone. Between them, they perform 20 of Poe’s chilling stories and poems, creating an unforgettably intense listening experience.

Includes:
• The Gold Bug 
• The Imp of the Perverse
• Ligeia Performed by Vincent Price
• The Tell-Tale Heart 
• The Pit and the Pendulum
• The Raven Performed by Basil Rathbone

THE EDGAR ALLAN POE AUDIO COLLECTION by Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee - Edgar Allan Poe

(8:20) A dramatic reading of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" (1845), with background sounds.  Turn up your speakers, turn off the lights, and experience a bereaved man's descent from grief into madness and despair.

After I finalized the track, I realized I had mis-pronounced "nepenthe".  *sigh*  Well, this is my first project, so I didn't think it would be perfect, but it's still pretty darned good.

Image by Peter Lamata.

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven (O Corvo) - Edgar Allan Poe

      Numa meia-noite agreste, quando eu lia, lento e triste,
      Vagos, curiosos tomos de ciências ancestrais,
      E já quase adormecia, ouvi o que parecia
      O som de algúem que batia levemente a meus umbrais.
      "Uma visita", eu me disse, "está batendo a meus umbrais.
           É só isto, e nada mais."
          
      Ah, que bem disso me lembro! Era no frio dezembro,
      E o fogo, morrendo negro, urdia sombras desiguais.
      Como eu qu'ria a madrugada, toda a noite aos livros dada
      P'ra esquecer (em vão!) a amada, hoje entre hostes celestiais -
      Essa cujo nome sabem as hostes celestiais,
           Mas sem nome aqui jamais! 
       
      Como, a tremer frio e frouxo, cada reposteiro roxo
      Me incutia, urdia estranhos terrores nunca antes tais!
      Mas, a mim mesmo infundido força, eu ia repetindo,
      "É uma visita pedindo entrada aqui em meus umbrais;
      Uma visita tardia pede entrada em meus umbrais.
           É só isto, e nada mais". 
   
      E, mais forte num instante, já nem tardo ou hesitante,
      "Senhor", eu disse, "ou senhora, decerto me desculpais;
      Mas eu ia adormecendo, quando viestes batendo,
      Tão levemente batendo, batendo por meus umbrais,
      Que mal ouvi..." E abri largos, franqueando-os, meus umbrais.
           Noite, noite e nada mais. 
      
      A treva enorme fitando, fiquei perdido receando,
      Dúbio e tais sonhos sonhando que os ninguém sonhou iguais.
      Mas a noite era infinita, a paz profunda e maldita,
      E a única palavra dita foi um nome cheio de ais -
      Eu o disse, o nome dela, e o eco disse aos meus ais. 
           Isso só e nada mais. 
      
      Para dentro estão volvendo, toda a alma em mim ardendo,
      Não tardou que ouvisse novo som batendo mais e mais.
      "Por certo", disse eu, "aquela bulha é na minha janela.
      Vamos ver o que está nela, e o que são estes sinais."
      Meu coração se distraía pesquisando estes sinais.
           "É o vento, e nada mais." 
     
      Abri então a vidraça, e eis que, com muita negaça,
      Entrou grave e nobre um corvo dos bons tempos ancestrais.
      Não fez nenhum cumprimento, não parou nem um momento,
      Mas com ar solene e lento pousou sobre os meus umbrais,
      Num alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre meus umbrais,
           Foi, pousou, e nada mais. 
     
      E esta ave estranha e escura fez sorrir minha amargura
      Com o solene decoro de seus ares rituais.
      "Tens o aspecto tosquiado", disse eu, "mas de nobre e ousado,
      Ó velho corvo emigrado lá das trevas infernais!
      Dize-me qual o teu nome lá nas trevas infernais."
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais". 
   
      Pasmei de ouvir este raro pássaro falar tão claro,
      Inda que pouco sentido tivessem palavras tais.
      Mas deve ser concedido que ninguém terá havido
      Que uma ave tenha tido pousada nos meus umbrais,
      Ave ou bicho sobre o busto que há por sobre seus umbrais,
           Com o nome "Nunca mais". 
  
      Mas o corvo, sobre o busto, nada mais dissera, augusto,
      Que essa frase, qual se nela a alma lhe ficasse em ais.
      Nem mais voz nem movimento fez, e eu, em meu pensamento
      Perdido, murmurei lento, "Amigo, sonhos - mortais
      Todos - todos já se foram. Amanhão também te vais".
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais". 
   
      A alma súbito movida por frase tão bem cabida,
      "Por certo", disse eu, "são estas vozes usuais,
      Aprendeu-as de algum dono, que a desgraça e o abandono
      Seguiram até que o entono da alma se quebrou em ais,
      E o bordão de desesp'rança de seu canto cheio de ais
           Era este "Nunca mais". 
 
      Mas, fazendo inda a ave escura sorrir a minha amargura,
      Sentei-me defronte dela, do alvo busto e meus umbrais;
      E, enterrado na cadeira, pensei de muita maneira
      Que qu'ria esta ave agoureia dos maus tempos ancestrais,
      Esta ave negra e agoureira dos maus tempos ancestrais,
           Com aquele "Nunca mais". 
     
      Comigo isto discorrendo, mas nem sílaba dizendo
      À ave que na minha alma cravava os olhos fatais,
      Isto e mais ia cismando, a cabeça reclinando
      No veludo onde a luz punha vagas sobras desiguais,
      Naquele veludo onde ela, entre as sobras desiguais,
           Reclinar-se-á nunca mais! 
    
      Fez-se então o ar mais denso, como cheio dum incenso
      Que anjos dessem, cujos leves passos soam musicais.
      "Maldito!", a mim disse, "deu-te Deus, por anjos concedeu-te
      O esquecimento; valeu-te. Toma-o, esquece, com teus ais,
      O nome da que não esqueces, e que faz esses teus ais!"
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais". 
   
      "Profeta", disse eu, "profeta - ou demônio ou ave preta!
      Fosse diabo ou tempestade quem te trouxe a meus umbrais,
      A este luto e este degredo, a esta noite e este segredo,
      A esta casa de ância e medo, dize a esta alma a quem atrais
      Se há um bálsamo longínquo para esta alma a quem atrais!
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais". 
        
      "Profeta", disse eu, "profeta - ou demônio ou ave preta!
      Pelo Deus ante quem ambos somos fracos e mortais.
      Dize a esta alma entristecida se no Édem de outra vida
      Verá essa hoje perdida entre hostes celestiais,
      Essa cujo nome sabem as hostes celestiais!"
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais".
        
      "Que esse grito nos aparte, ave ou diabo!", eu disse. "Parte!
      Torna á noite e à tempestade! Torna às trevas infernais!
      Não deixes pena que ateste a mentira que disseste!
      Minha solidão me reste! Tira-te de meus umbrais!
      Tira o vulto de meu peito e a sombra de meus umbrais!"
           Disse o corvo, "Nunca mais". 
     
      E o corvo, na noite infinda, está ainda, está ainda
      No alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre os meus umbrais.
      Seu olhar tem a medonha cor de um demônio que sonha,
      E a luz lança-lhe a tristonha sombra no chão há mais e mais,
           Libertar-se-á... nunca mais!


Recitado por Christopher Walken
(tradução de Fernando Pessoa)
____________________________________________________

The Raven 
(by Edgar Allan Poe,
first published in 1845)

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 someone 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 forevermore.

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 the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 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, something 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 the 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 that 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 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."

Thus 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls 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, O 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 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 lamplight 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!

http://www.insite.com.br/art/pessoa/coligidas/trad/theraven.php

Edgar Allan Poe |  The Raven (O Corvo)

Introduced by Peter Donaldson, Recorded by Joe and Alan Harfield, Unity Recording Studio, Auldearn, Edited and Mixed at dBs Music

'I have written a blasphemous book', said Melville when his novel was first published in 1851, 'and I feel as spotless as the lamb'. Deeply subversive, in almost every way imaginable, Moby-Dick is a virtual, alternative bible - and as such, ripe for reinterpretation in this new world of new media. Out of Dominion was born its bastard child - or perhaps its immaculate conception - the Moby-Dick Big Read: an online version of Melville's magisterial tome: each of its 135 chapters read out aloud, by a mixture of the celebrated and the unknown, to be broadcast online, one new chapter each day, in a sequence of 135 downloads, publicly and freely accessible.

Starting 16 September 2012!

For more info please go to: www.mobydickbigread.com

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe - Read by Christopher Walken

olyfantastique