Flotsam, Jetsam, Hodge & Podge

It's not an advertising agency like Batten, Barton, Durstine & Osborn or a stockbroker like Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith, it's an apt description of this post, which, like Gaul, is divided into three parts..

Part 1. What's Wrong With These People? / The Latest From The World Of Jeopardy!

The following correct answers were not uttered by any contestant on Jeopardy! this week:

1. What is the Hesperus? (In a category called Ships in Literature, the clue mentioned a poem by Longfellow whose title included the wreck of this. One person did buzz in but guessed the Edmund Fitzgerald.)

2. What is Napoli? (the clue: a southern Italian town mentioned in the song "That's Amore!". Dean Martin must be turning over in his grave.)

3. What is vitreous? (In the category "V"ocabulary in which all answers had to start with the letter V, the clue was a fluid in an eyeball, also known as this type of humor. Someone guessed viscous.)

4. What is hope? (According to poet Emily Dickinson, this has feathers and perches in the soul.)

Part 2. Short But Not Necessarily Sweet

Besides writing poems like "The Raven" and "Annabel Lee", Edgar Allan Poe wrote dozens of short stories. If I help start you off, can you name eight of his best-known ones?

The ____ ___
The ___ and the ________
The ____-____ _____
The ____ of ___________
The ______of the ___ _____
The _______ in the ___ ______
The _________ ______
The ____ of the _____ of _____

Helpful hints: The second one is not The Owl and the Pussycat because The Owl and the Pussycat is a poem, not a short story, and furthermore it was written by Edward Lear, not Edgar Allan Poe. The fourth one is not The Snows of Kilimanjaro because, although The Snows of Kilimanjaro is certainly a short story, it was written by Ernest Hemingway, not Edgar Allan Poe.

[Editor's note. One of my grandsons spent 11 weeks in southern Kenya in the summer of 2016, and he could see Mt. Kilimanjaro just across the border in Tanzania from his house. This is a true statement, unlike Tina Fey's statement while pretending in a skit on Saturday Night Live in 2008 to be Vice-Presidential candidate Sarah Palin, the governor of Alaska, that she could see Russia from her house. --RWP]

I digress.

Okay, if you are buffaloed (British, stumped) I will make the task a little easier by supplying some of the letters.

The G___ B__
The P__ and the P_______
The T___-T___ H____
The C___ of A__________
The M_____ of the R__ D____
The M______ in the R__ M_____
The P________ L_____
The F___ of the H____ of U____

Now it's all up to you!

3. Longevity Is Not a Requirement To Achieve Greatness.

Here's proof:

Joan of Arc died at 19.
Alexander the Great died at 32.
Jesus Christ died at 33.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died at 35
Felix Mendelssohn died at 38.
Marrin Luther King, Jr. died at 39.
Frederic Chopin died at 40.
Edgar Allan Poe (did you know he wrote short stories?) died at 40.
Robert F. Kennedy died at 42.
Elvis Presley died at 42.
John F. Kennedy died at 46.
Oscar Wilde died at 46.
Julius Caesar died at 55.
Abraham Lincoln died at 56.

On the other hand, the other end of the age spectrum is not without its notables:

Anna Robertson "Grandma" Moses, a painter, died at 101.
Queen Mother Elizabeth died just shy of 102.
Olivia de Havilland, whom you may remember from such films as Gone With The Wind and Hush...Hush, Sweet Charlotte, died at 104.
Dr. Leila Denmark of Alpharetta, Georgia, the world's oldest practicing pediatrician when she retired at 103 from a 73-year career, died at 114.

In conclusion, and as this very post proves, it takes all kinds.

.

Speaking of Edgar Allan Poe and simple English, and Beethoven, and an earworm

Here's a poem that Edgar Allan Poe wrote:

Annabel Lee
By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

It was many and many a year ago
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Talk about your simple English, even a child can understand every word of this poem with the possible exception of 'coveted' and 'sepulchre' and 'dissever'.

We had to memorize it back in Mr. D.P. Morris's class in Mansfield, Texas, over 60 years ago and then, one by one, stand up in front of the whole class and recite it. I personally feel it was a horrible thing to make 17-year-old boys and girls do. We could have been scarred for life. [Editor's note. I'm not talking about having to recite it. I'm talking about having to listen to it being recited by others 30 times. --RWP]

One thing I know. They don't make teachers of English or, for that matter, writers of poems like they used to.

Either yesterday or today is Beethoven's birthday. No one seems to know for sure. He was definitely baptized in a church (Baptists would say "sprinkled") on December 17, 1770, but he may have been born one day earlier. Whichever is correct, and I guess we'll never know, next year will be his -- wait for it -- semiquincentennial.

I had an earworm in the night, one of those times when lyrics of a song play over and over and over in your mind for hours. Last night and into the dawn it was "He's got jelly beans for Tommy, colored eggs for sister Sue; there's an orchid for your mommy, and an Easter bonnet too".

I'm a little slow getting into a Christmas mood this year. I wonder why.

My five-day absence explained, plus a reading

Five days have elapsed since my last post, a rather long time for me as I normally post every other day, give or take. Here’s why:

My modem gave up the ghost and I didn’t have access to the internet.

It’s that simple. I reported it Sunday morning to my provider’s technical support group and after remotely running a few tests of their own they agreed with me that my modem was indeed frozen, freaked out, dead, kaput.

They said they would order a new one on Monday and that I would receive it via FedEx on Tuesday.

Tuesday dawned bright and early and I arose expectantly.
I do that every morning, but never mind.

Slowly the hours ticked by. There was no FedEx guy at my door at 9:00 a.m., no FedEx guy at my door at 12:00 noon, and no FedEx guy at my door at 3:00 p.m. [Editor’s note. Note the inclusion of the Oxford comma. --RWP]

Just as I was about to give up all hope and begin composing a nasty letter to my internet service provider giving them a piece of my mind, the FedEx guy showed up around 6:00 p.m., rang the doorbell, and was back in his truck before I could get to the door. I found the precious long-awaited package on my doorsill.

So now I am back in Blogland with all you wonderful people sitting out there in the dark nice folks. Just telling you about my ordeal has made me too tired to post anything else.

Except I did tell Snowbrush in a reply to his comment on the previous post that my next post would contain more about Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Bells” so:

Here it is, read aloud and everything (3:59).

P.S. -- Now in the fifth week of my shingles, I am still taking the pain medication Neurontin three times a day. Can you tell?

P.P.S. -- My hiatus caused my number of page views per day to drop from 502 to 208, so I am including the name “Pope Francis I” here to get my blog traffic back up to speed. If that doesn’t work, there’s always Susan Boyle.


(Screenshot from DVD copy of the film Sunset Boulevard showing Gloria Swanson.)

Six of these seven have something in common

If you can’t identify them all, they are (or were):

Jean Stapleton (20th-century American actress in her role as Edith Bunker on All In The Family)
Louis Armstrong (20th-century American musician)
Dolly Parton (20th-century American singer/songwriter/performer)
Edgar Allan Poe (19th-century American author)
Al Joyner (20th-century American Olympian athlete)
Janis Joplin (20th-century American singer/songwriter/performer)
Robert E. Lee (19th-century American military leader)

Which one doesn’t have what the other six have (or had)?

For purposes of this quiz, Olympic medals, Emmys, Oscars, Grammys, Tonys, and the ability to play the trumpet don’t count.

Here is a big hint: The contest ends at midnight tonight. Look for the answer tomorrow!

Spring cleaning

1. An anapest is the reverse of a dactyl.

Anapest beat: da-da-DUM da-da-DUM da-da-DUM da-da-DUM
Example: The AsSYRian came DOWN like the WOLF on the FOLD... (Lord Byron, 1813)
Example: ’twas the NIGHT before CHRISTmas and ALL through the HOUSE... (Clement Clarke Moore, 1829)

Dactyl beat: DUM-da-da DUM-da-da DUM-da-da DUM-da-da
Example: THIS is the FORest primEVal, the MURmuring PINES and the HEMlocks... (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1847)

2. An iamb is the reverse of a trochee.

Iamb beat: da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM
Example: i WANdered LONEly AS a CLOUD... (William Wordsworth, 1804)
Example: come LIVE with ME and BE my LOVE (Christopher Marlowe, circa 1585)

Trochee beat: DUM-da DUM-da DUM-da DUM-da
Example: ONCE upON a MIDnight DREAry, WHILE i PONdered, WEAK and WEAry Over MANy a QUAINT and CURious VOLume OF forGOTten LORE... (Edgar Allan Poe, 1845)

3. Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. (Étienne Serres, 1824)

4. In life, as in the dictionary, perspicacity precedes perspicuity. (rhymeswithplague, 1983)

5. The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. (Pythagoras, sixth century B.C.)



6. I got you, babe. (Salvatore Bono and Cherilyn Sarkisian, 1965)


...and the beat goes on.

“Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe”

Raven, a large, black crow-like bird found in wilderness areas in the Northern Hemisphere. The raven is a scavenger, feeding on carrion, small birds and rodents, birds’ eggs, insects, fruits, and seeds.






The raven is a large, black crow-like scavenger.






Ravens mate for life. They usually nest in dense forests or on rocky coasts. The nest, built in trees or on cliffs, is made of sticks and lined with fur, moss, and lichens: The female lays four to seven greenish eggs with brown spots. Both parents feed the young.

The common raven, found throughout Asia, Europe, and North Africa, grows more than 24 inches (60 cm) in length. Its glossy black plumage has a bluish sheen. The American raven, a little smaller than the common raven, nests from British Columbia southward to Nicaragua. The northern raven grows as large as the common raven. It lives in Greenland, Alaska, British Columbia, and Washington. It has been found in the Appalachians as far south as Georgia. The white-necked raven grows about 20 inches (50 cm) long. Its neck feathers have white bases. It is found from the Great Plains southward to Nicaragua.

Ravens belong to the genus Corvus of the crow family, Corvidae. The common raven is C. corax; American, C. corax sinuatus; northern, C. corax principalis; white-necked, C. cryptoleucus.

(The preceding is from HowStuffWorks.com, “Raven,” 22 April 2008.)


According to today’s edition of Writer’s Almanac, it was on this date, January 29, in 1845 that Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” was first published in the New York Evening Mirror. People of a certain age will remember it. [Note. The poem, I mean, not the date when it was first published! --RWP]

People who are not of a certain age, let me enlighten you:


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 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 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, ghastly, 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!


Friends, after much contemplation, it is my considered opinion that the reason so many photographs from nineteenth-century America contain serious-looking people with unsmiling faces, vacant eyes, and hollow gazes is that as innocent children they were forced by stern and unrelenting schoolmasters to memorize that poem.

So if you say “Raven,” people of a certain age remember this image:


And people who are not of a certain age remember this one:









Before bringing this post to a close, I would like to state for the record that I definitely have one bone to pick with that raven in Poe’s poem. There is a balm in Gilead.