The answer clearly has to do with poetry's close proximity to death. Between the word that the bird keeps squawking (Nevermore!) and the death of the woman whose name so conveniently rhymes with raven-talk (Lenore) lies the imagination. Poe's poem locates it for us as a story and locates it musically--as the space between rhymes. The poem is a portal into the imagination because it measures our distance between the mysterious, confusing present and the ultimately unimaginable death of the future.
Here are several poems by 8th graders at DeWitt Clinton, Room 124, who learn the fundamentals evoked by Poe's poem:
Jose
Destroyed
They came in the dead of night
They were fast and swift
We had no chance to put up a fight
This was not a fun gift
Families—destroyed
Now we are forced to flee
Some of us climbed up a tree
Out we are heading, towards the sea—
Why couldn’t they let us be?
Friendships—destroyed
On the boat many have died
In the sun many have fried.
Doesn’t look like we’re making it home.
And I think I’m beginning to see gnomes.
Hope—destroyed.
In a village where no one would pillage
there lived a man who would never tan
his pale white face would withstand any mace
be even he, tempter of tempters
could not resist the taste of blood.
His name was Nosferatu—
a vampire of the French sort.
He yearned for his love, to find his love
but none were suitors from above.
He walked and walked, to the ends of the earth
looking for his love, his love from above.
He found his love during a tranquil meeting:
a winged seraph from heaven landed like a dove.
But his love did not want him.
His heart was shattered to the brim.
He lived his last days, calling for her in vain
and yet she did not come.
My mama told me to take care of her vase.
I told her I wouldn’t lose it.
I told her that it would be OK with me
For at least some many days.
The next day I couldn’t hear, breath, or see.
I found out that I’d lost the vase.
I went to my sister and annoyed her with this—
She told me to get out of her face
And to save the whole drama
By going straight to tell mama.
And so I went to go and tell her.
I thought to myself that it would be better
If I just told her
But I worried that if it was lost forever
There would be storms in my weather.
I wondered what she’d do if I were a bird—
If she’d pluck out all my feathers.
You try to find another truth—
It’s like trying to find a free booth—
You will find nothing but torment
Since there’s only one truth.
What’s done is done. Nothing can change that.
You try to bring back loved ones
But it’s like an eternal run—
It’s never going to ever work
& your anger will make you a jerk.
What’s done is done. Nothing can change that.
When two towers become really weak
Nothing will hold it—not even the peak.
When they fall, we say “What’s done is done.”
When they say this, they’ll also say
“Nothing can change that.”
The torment you will only find
Will make a demon that put’s you in a bind.
What happens to you is done.
What’s done is done
and nothing can change that.
Shadow Man
The shadow man stood alone in his tunnel of hope
He was lonely in the world and sad
And not having a companion made him mad.
In his dark tunnel he did nothing but mope.
This is what he did in his tunnel of hope.
The man’s only friend was his shadow,
Which never left him except at night.
The shadow was created by the reflecting light.
The man’s only belongings were a knife and rope.
This is what happened in his tunnel of hope.
The days were the same and night went alright.
The shadow man enjoyed being in the sun.
The heat being down made everything more fun.
His life was nothing close to an opera of soap.
This is what happened in his tunnel of hope.
The world meant nothing to the shadow man—
His reason to live was to stand there and smoke.
That’s all he could do because he was broke.
His grocery shopping was to buy a six-pack of dope.
That’s what happened in his tunnel of hope.
One day the shadow never joined the man in the tunnel.
Never in twenty-seven years had this been!
This was outrageous and like a sin!
The shadow man went mad and hung himself with his rope.
This is how he died in his tunnel of hope.
Amelia S.
Flow
Pound, pound, swim, work.
Dirt harvesting fields are all I come to.
Cross the river for the American dream—
Now I can’t even afford shoes.
Pound, pound, away my fate.
Deportation agent is bordering close.
Faking my blindness, hoping for mercy.
Here comes my paper harvesting host.
Pound, pound, the paper is gone.
And so follows the agent, right behind.
Chasing his paper across the boarder—
Sirens ignite after him, eager to find.
Pound, pound—the paper harvester requests my help.
The metal’s too heavy
For her frail figure—
And so I help her to her Chevy.
Pound, pound, my heart goes wild
And love spirals from the heavens upon us.
Marriage is next, and as time passes
Legality is bestowed upon us.
Chop
An old man in an ancient house
Son and daughter visit
In the entrance there they stop
When they knock they see a mouse
The daughter asks, “what time is it?”
They hear, chop, chop, chop
They walk in and the girl’s mouth pouts
It was time for dinner
The go up the stairs to the top
They hear someone’s shouts—
“Get away from me! I’m not a sinner!”
They hear, chop, chop, chop
They walk in the room
They see the old man
He swings a broom and a mop—
“There’s going to be a big boom!”
He stands by a can
They hear chop, chop, chop
The girl helps him cut the meat
He puts his hand there
Then she chops and there’s a pop—
The cut is very neat—
But it’s the pain he cannot bear
From the chop, chop, chop
“No!” the son yells
The old man’s dead
Then their hearts stop
They hear bells
& noises from the bed
No longer hear chop, chop, chop
Devastated, crying
Daughter begs forgiveness
Her come the cops
She feels like flying
Hoping they have kindness
To forgive her chop, chop chop
Ela K.
The Men on Stilts
Little women trade
Funny little boy looks like Steve Urkel
Boy climbing the tree never afraid
The one on stilts—
Just like a flower, he wilts
People pulling on one another
Men over each other climbing
By the river they’re in the clover
People look like they’re fighting
The other one on stilts—
He also wilts
Long white ribbons wave
Bickering doesn’t look like fun
Do any of these men ever shave?
Men on stilts appear shunned—
Maybe that’s why they’re on stilts?
Maybe that’s why they wilt?
Now I end my story—
I was in the middle of it all
There was nothing gory
Except for all the fighting I saw
It was a she, not a he, on stilts—
‘twas me, who wilts
The House
Alone at night in the dark ebony
Three soldiers there were.
Lost from their army in the jungle
They had no food or a bundle.
They had nothing.
Suspicions were aroused as two came closer.
Soldier number one became the outcast however.
It seemed that out of nowhere they found
A mansion there and nothing more.
He was running out of time.
Entered the house the soldiers all three—
Amazing things were found, giving all glee.
However number one stayed separate from the other two.
At night a horrible event occurred—
He ran out of time.
He heard horrific things so he ran.
His friends he saw in horror.
Dead the two were all over the floor.
Frightened, he ran—but found the doors were locked.
He had run out of time.
Evil beings sprang out of the floor.
Bloodthirsty they were wanting him.
He gave up his life to carnivorous beasts—
Ghosts and such took over him and his life.
He ran out of time.
The soldier’s clock was nevermore—
He had been eaten alive without hope.
Soldier number one was nevermore.
He was never seen ever again.
He ran out of time.
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