Manhattan Noir 2: The Classics

The Raven Edgar Allan Poe

West 84th Street

(Originally 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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—

“’Tis some visiter,” 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 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visiter 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 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 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 upon 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 my sad 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.”

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 hath 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 name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

               Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign in 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!

Selections from Chelsea Rooming House by Horace Gregory

Chelsea

(Originally published in 1930)

If someone said, Escape,

let’s get away from here,

you’d see snow mountains thrown

against the sky,

cold, and you’d draw your breath and feel

air like cold water going through your veins,

but you’d be free, up so high,

or you’d see a row of girls dancing on a beach

with tropic trees and a warm moon

and warm air floating under your clothes

and through your hair.

Then you’d think of heaven

where there’s peace, away from here

and you’d go some place unreal

where everybody goes after something happens,

set up in the air, safe, a room in a hotel.

A brass bed, military hair brushes,

a couple of coats, trousers, maybe a dress

on a chair or draped on the floor.

This room is not on earth, feel the air,

warm like heaven and far away.

This is a place

where marriage nights are kept

and sometimes here you say, Hello

to a neat girl with you

and sometimes she laughs

because she thinks it’s funny to be sitting here

for no reason at all, except perhaps,

she likes you daddy.

Maybe this isn’t heaven but near

to something like it,

more like love coming up in elevators

and nothing to think about, except, O God,

you love her now and it makes no difference

if it isn’t spring. All seasons are warm

in the warm air

and the brass bed is always there.

If you’ve done something

and the cops get you afterwards, you

can’t remember the place again,

away from cops and streets—

it’s all unreal—

the warm air, a dream

that couldn’t save you now.

No one would care

to hear about it,

it would be heaven

far away, dark and no music,

not even a girl there.

It is not good to feel old

for time is heavy,

time is heavy

on a man’s brain,

thrusting him down,

gasping into the earth,

out of the way of the sun

and the rain.

Look at Isidore Lefkowitz,

biting his nails, telling how

he seduces Beautiful French Canadian

Five and Ten Cent Store Girls,

beautiful, by God, and how they cry

and moan, wrapping their arms

and legs around him

when he leaves them

saying:

Good bye,

good bye.

He feels old when he tells

these stories over and over,

(how the Beautiful Five and Ten Cent Store

Girls go crazy when he puts on

his clothes and is gone),

these old lies

that maybe nobody at all believes.

He feels old thinking how

once he gave five

dollars to a girl

who made him feel like other men

and wonders if she is still alive.

If he were a millionaire,

if he could spend five dollars now,

he could show them how

he was strong and handsome then,

better than other men.

But it is not good to feel old,

time is too heavy,

it gets a man

tired, tired

when he thinks how time wears

him down

and girls, milk-fed, white,

vanish with glorious smiling millionaires

in silver limousines.

When you’ve been through what I’ve been through

over in France where war was hell

and everything turned to blood and mud

and you get covered with blood and rain

and rain and mud

then you come back home again,

come back home and make good in business.

You don’t know how and you don’t know why;

it’s enough to make God stand still and wonder.

It’s something that makes you sit down and think

and you want to say something that’s clear and deep,

something that someone can understand:

that’s why I got to be confidential

and see things clear and say what I mean,

something that’s almost like a sermon,

O world without end,

amen.

When you can’t see things then you get like Nelly

and somebody has to put you out

and somebody has to put you away

but you can always see through Nelly.

She unrolled like a map on the office floor,

you could see her in the dark—

a blind pink cat

in the back seat of the Judge’s car.

But she’d get cold in the Globe Hotel,

singing songs like the Songs of Solomon,

making the Good Book sound immoral

then she’d say she was Mother Mary

and the strength of sin is the law.

World without end

amen.

Gentlemen, I had to fire Nelly,

she didn’t see when a man’s in business,

she didn’t know when a man’s a Christian

you can’t go singing the Songs of Solomon,

shouting Holy, holy, holy,

making Mother of Christ a whore,

cold as rain,

dead blood and rain like the goddam war,

cold as Nelly telling you hell you killed her baby,

then she couldn’t take a letter

but would sit down and cry

like rain.

It got so bad I couldn’t sleep

with her hair and eyes and breasts and belly

and arms around me

like rain, rain,

rain without end

amen.

I tell you gentlemen almighty God,

I didn’t kill her dead baby,

it was the rain

falling on men and girls and cities.

Ask the Judge (he’s got a girl)

about a baby:

a baby wants life and sun, not rain by God that’s death

when you float a baby down the sewer into the

East River with its lips

making foam at the stern of ships

head on for Liverpool in rain.

You can’t see what happens in rain

(only God knows, world without end)

maybe war, maybe a dead baby.

There’s no good when rain falls on a man;

I had to make it clear,

that’s what I wanted to explain.

Selections from The McSorley poems by Geoffrey Bartholomew

East Village

(Originally published in 2001)

I sit alone here at night, listening

               doors and windows twisted

               by McSorley’s heavy sag

               everything out of whack

               creak and groan of ghosts

               they speak, you know

               but Woodrow Wilson there

               I can’t understand him

               he garbles his words

My brother Jerzy’s dead thirty years tonight

               we grew up here on 7th Street

               St. George’s, God and girls

               stickball, cars and beer

               then we started the skag

               Jerzy shot up first

               I was belting my arm

               when he sat back

               his eyes went real wide

               like flooring the Buick

               feeling that crazy rush

Bill McSorley up there by the icebox

               resembles Teddy Roosevelt

               a smaller moustache

               timid eyes, sour mouth

               really did love his old man

               vowed to keep the bar as is

               kill time in this real place

               now just a face on the wall

               the bar a mute witness

               to Bill’s doomed love

My favorite relic is the playbill from the 1880s

               a windmill and two dutchgirls

               on a forlorn spit of land

               the ocean a white-capped menace

               What Are The Wild Waves Saying?

               some March nights it blows

               so hard against the windows

               I’d swear it’s Jerzy’s voice

Larry, homeless black wraith, taps the window

               I make him a liverwurst on rye

               some nights he has d.t.s

               tonight he’s souful

               I fucked up, he says

               shoeless, he begins again

               his scabrous circle

               East Village Odysseus

The ripe nude in the painting back there

               I don’t like her much

               she knows she’s got it

               that mouth of plump disdain

               the parrot probably trained

               to do weird shit, yeah

               they liked that stuff back then

And on every wall this guy Peter Cooper

               rich and famous in 1860

               John McSorley’s buddy

               they say he brought Lincoln here

               after some Great Hall speech

               that’s real strange, me here

               where Lincoln once drank

At night I oil the old bar

               there’s a sag in the middle

               the mahogany a wornout horse

               I know it’s stupid, but I think

               Jerzy’s going to appear one night

               we’re all gonna sit here and talk

               him and Cooper and McSorley,

               Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson,

               maybe the fat nude, too

On the bustling sidewalk

as the last gray light slides

               between concrete walls

I move brokenly, madness

a hunched raven on my shoulder

behind Dean & DeLuca’s glass

the elegant consume

               and defecate elsewhere

invisible yet ubiquitous

I shit on dark corners

urinate with the feral

apologia to Lowry

               but I am his pariah dog

               still alive in the ravine

howling, quietly howling

Educated with the elite

Stuyvesant then Yale

in the Seminary I became

               a brother of inculcation

so I taught God’s children

the nun Betty and I

               fell in love’s despair

we quit our vows to marry

               we ate acid

quickly madness won us over

with fists we fought

our words weapons of delight

Betty took a train to

               somewhere, leaving then

this tunnel in my brain

a small black smudge

with their pills the shrinks

               would me heal a hole

At McSorley’s I swept up

for simple cash and food

washed pots and pans despite

the burgeoning smear

               which one night

blotted the running bullshit

               leaving the mind a nub

               where the raven pecks

I am searching the streets

catching the last sliding light

               on my hunched form

the pariah dog is here

               is here somewhere

Call me Jimmy

I’m not fat, I’m obese

nowhere to hide, pal

but I learned something

people love you

               if you’re real fat

I mean, really huge

you save them

So I got my first job

               in Coccia’s on 7th Street

               Italian sit-down deli

Jewish actors from Second Avenue

Ukey Moms from the block

laborers, clerks from Wannamaker’s

number-runners an’ schoolkids

               you know the years

               how they quietly roar by

I was the best short-order guy

               ate like a champ

then Artie sold the building

Two doors up was the saloon

busy lunch an’ lazy afternoons

nights packed with young guys

J.J. the owner knew me from when

I was a kid, burned my arm on

his ’48 Buick, Irish guys laughing

that fat kid in the photo, that’s

me, walking by the bar in 1950

Stampalia the chef had just died

               announcing lunch

               he’d sound an old bugle

               this time his aorta blew

I got the job

old guys in the bar whispered

but I was big, fast, an’ funny

no bugles, just Jimmy Fats

I won ’em over with laughs

I loved that place

In the doo-wop band

               I sang lead, us guys

               from Aviation High

we cut some songs, never made it

Joey overdosed on skag

Lou got married with kids

Willy stepped on a mine in Nam

me, I kept cooking an’ eating

McSorley’s in the ’70s

               me & an’ Frank the Slob

               we humped it all

Ray the waiter, then George

               he was the best

               took care of everyone

workers, cops, students, firemen

we played nags an’ numbers

               then George quit

               oldtimers died off

Frank’s fuckin’ bitch drone began

waiters coming an’ going

               the only sane ones

Minnie the cat an’ me

Shit, I was up to 630 by ’79

when I fell in love

Lace was beautiful and big

so we starved an’ screwed to 260

after the baby, she got mental

nights she cried a lot

it sounded like me far off

but I can’t remember when

One black night I woke up

               Lace was gone

note said she went to L.A.

               that was it

I don’t think it was love

just some kind of lonely thing

fat people get

Still, I was McSorley’s chef

I was 500 an’ floating

               little Tanya screaming

               Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!

raising a kid alone ain’t easy

the fucking dog Blacky

               big Lab, shedding

hated the heat he always did

I was on the throne when he

ripped her head halfway off

               broke her neck

the funeral was like Ma’s

at Lancia’s on Second Avenue

next to the old 21 Place

the guys from the bar

murmured condolences

               shook their heads

if Lacey hadn’t run away

if I hadn’t been on the shitter

if, if, a million ifs

Back at work

Frank’s fuckin’ bitch

               became a foul mantra

nothing to say nor do

that’s when I began

               to eat

really eat

I couldn’t get out of bed

fucking buzz in my ear

               a numb hissing

               finally I got up

then the buzz was a hornet

the floor rose up, stung me

sideways the last thing I saw

some pizza crust and the doll

Tanya’s dusty Barbie

That was the end of Jimmy Fats

they buried me out in Queens

               between Tanya an’ Ma

the stone says 1939-1990

but how’s anybody to know

               you know

what really happened?