Culture Spot: Texas Poet Laureate Celebrates Southern Style (VOA News)

http://www.voanews.com/english/2009-06-20-voa13.cfm?rss=topstories

The state of Texas boasts a long line of famous story tellers and poets. The state has also inspired poetry. Each year, the legislature selects a resident bard to serve as Texas Poet Laureate. This year, the honor went to a son of the deep South who came to Texas more than 30 years ago and feels right at home. His name is Paul Ruffin.

FreeVideoCoding.com

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT:

Paul Ruffin may not fit the image many people have of a poet. He's a proud member of the National Rifle Association and he fits right in here in the woods of eastern Texas.

When he is not writing or teaching classes at nearby Sam Houston State University, Ruffin does chores around his home. He prefers a rural life style over city life.

I wanted more land and I wanted out of the city. I am out in the county now where I can be a little more relaxed, I can shoot guns in the back yard if I want to," he said.

Ruffin has a collection of guns that he uses for sport shooting, a popular pastime in rural America.

One of his ancestors fired the first cannon at Fort Sumter in 1861, starting the Civil War. Ruffin says such men and their deeds inspired the first recitations of verse.

"Poetry began in the oral tradition," he explained. "You would have these warriors or hunters come in from a hunt or battle and they would re-enact the hunt or battle and do it in poetic form."

Ruffin grew up around rough rural people often called "rednecks."

He discovered he had a knack for writing poetry as a child. At university, he studied literature. "I know that there are people who, upon encountering me out somewhere, would consider me a redneck - and I can talk the language too - but I am equally capable of sitting down with the most educated people and carrying on a conversation."

Ruffin uses the culture and language of rural southerners to enrich his poems and stories.

"I love writing in the Southern idiom. I love Redneckese, quite frankly," he noted.

Now that he is the Texas Poet Laureate, Ruffin has more opportunities to share his stories with audiences.

Ruffin has published 800 poems, two novels and several collections of essays and short stories.

And he's working on a new book of poems, to be published next year.

Paul Ruffin’s page at Mississippi State University

Paul Ruffin at Amazon.com

Culture Spot: Zora Neale Hurston, 1891-1960 - A Storyteller About African-American Life in the South

Continuing in celebrating Black History Month, today’s post comes directly from Voice of America Special English. You can download an MP3 audio of the radio broadcast below. Listen to the MP3 first before looking at the transcript below. You can also access this story directly from Voice of America at the link following the transcript.

MP3 Download  (MP3)  Right click to download

Zora Neale Hurston, 1891-1960: A Storyteller About African-American Life in the South

Hurston’s books were about faith, love, family, slavery, race and community. Transcript of radio broadcast:
21 February 2009

VOICE ONE:

I'm Mary Tillotson.

VOICE TWO:

And I'm Steve Ember with the VOA Special English program PEOPLE IN AMERICA. Today, we tell about writer Zora Neale Hurston. She was one of the most recognized black women writers. She wrote seven books and more than one hundred short stories, plays and articles for magazines.

(MUSIC)

VOICE ONE:

(photo) Zora Neale Hurston

Zora Neale Hurston was born in eighteen ninety-one in Notasulga, Alabama. A short time later, her family moved to Eatonville, a small town in central Florida. All of the people of Eatonville were African-American. The town shaped Hurston's life and her writing. As a child, she would listen closely to the stories told by the adults in the town.  Several of her books take place in communities very similar to Eatonville. The people she wrote about in her books are very similar to people she knew there.

Zora was born at a time of racial tensions between blacks and whites in the southern United States. But she never felt angry about being black. In her stories, she described Eatonville as a place where black Americans could live as they pleased.

Zora Neale Hurston was known for her ability to tell a story. Storytelling is an important part of many cultural traditions. African-American storytelling is a strong family tradition that dates back hundreds of years.  It is a way for people to establish their identities in often unfriendly areas as they struggle to hold their communities together.

(MUSIC)

VOICE TWO:

Zora Neale Hurston was the fifth of eight children.  Zora's mother was a schoolteacher.  Her father was a builder and a church preacher. He also became the mayor of Eatonville. Zora's mother died in nineteen-oh-four, when Zora was thirteen years old. Her mother's death severely affected Zora's life.  She was rejected by her father and his second wife. Zora was forced to take care of herself.

She left Eatonville and moved north when she was fourteen years old. She worked for a traveling theater company. She also worked as a maid, cleaning the homes of white people. One of her employers recognized Zora's abilities. She made it possible for her to attend high school in Baltimore, Maryland.

Zora was twenty-six years old when she began high school. But she said she was only sixteen.  Throughout her life, she often said she was younger than she really was.

VOICE ONE:                                                       

In nineteen eighteen, Zora Neale Hurston attended Howard University in Washington, D.C. She studied with Alain Locke. He was a professor of philosophy and an expert on black culture.  She earned money by working as a maid and doing other work.

Hurston published her first short stories at Howard University. Her stories were about black folklore and life in Eatonville. She won prizes for her writings that were published in newspapers and magazines.  The early nineteen twenties marked the beginning of Zora Neale Hurston's life as a writer.

(MUSIC)

VOICE TWO:

(photo) Zora Neale Hurston at the New York Times Book Fair in the 1930s

In nineteen twenty-five, Hurston traveled to New York City. This was during the period known as the Harlem Renaissance. Harlem is a famous area in New York. The Harlem Renaissance was a period in which black artists explored their culture and showed pride in their race. This was expressed in literature, music and other art forms. Hurston and her stories about Eatonville became important during the Harlem Renaissance. She met other young black writers of the time, such as poet Langston Hughes.

Hurston became the first black student to attend Barnard College in New York. She studied with anthropologist Franz Boas.  She became interested in anthropology -- the study of the origin, development and actions of humans. Boas recognized Hurston's storytelling ability and deep interest in the black culture of the South. He urged her to do more research there.

VOICE ONE:

Hurston received financial support for most of her research from a wealthy woman in New York named Charlotte Osgood Mason. During the next several years, Hurston traveled in Florida and the Caribbean to collect and write stories about what she saw. She learned about the traditions of the people she met. She spoke with men and women, young and old, collecting their stories in their own words. She wanted to keep the language exactly as they told it. Many of the stories were like those she had heard as a child.

VOICE TWO:

In nineteen thirty-six, Hurston traveled to Jamaica and Haiti with a financial award from the Guggenheim Foundation.  The Caribbean people accepted her as one of them. They spoke with her freely, even about religious traditions. In Haiti, she learned a great deal about the voodoo religion.

Hurston published two important collections of stories based on her research.  They were "Mules and Men" and "Tell My Horse." Both examined the voodoo religion.

(MUSIC)

VOICE ONE:

Zora Neale Hurston published her first book, "Jonah's Gourd Vine," in nineteen thirty-four. The story takes place in a small Florida town. It is about two people similar to her parents. Her second book, "Their Eyes Were Watching God," was published three years later. It is widely considered her most important work. She wrote the book in seven weeks while she was traveling in Haiti. It is the story of a black woman's search for happiness and her true identity, during twenty-five years and three marriages.

In nineteen forty-two, Hurston published a story about her own life, called "Dust Tracks on a Road." But the book was widely criticized. Literary experts said it was full of false information. Others said it added to the mystery surrounding the writer.                   

Hurston's last two novels were the biblical story "Moses, Man of the Mountain" and "Seraph on the Suwanee."  This was the only book she wrote about white people.

(MUSIC)

VOICE TWO:

Zora Neale Hurston's stories were about the pain-filled and sometimes magical world that surrounded blacks in the South. The stories tell about faith, love, family, slavery, race and community. They also include humor. Hurston was well known for her writing. She also became known for her outspoken opinions, her clothing and the great pride she had in herself and her race.                                            

She was married three times. But she found it impossible to settle down. Her husbands usually expected her to give up her writing. But she said that was the one thing she could not do.

VOICE ONE:          

Hurston received praise for her work by both blacks and whites. But not everyone enjoyed her work. Some of the writers of the Harlem Renaissance criticized her for writing about black culture instead of relations between the races. Many blacks also rejected Hurston's political ideas and her support for racial separation laws in the South.

Hurston, however, made no apologies for her work.  She said the richness of black culture existed to be enjoyed, celebrated and made into literature.

VOICE TWO:

During the late nineteen forties, she began to publish less and less. She was arrested and charged with sexual wrongdoing with a ten-year-old boy. The charges were later dropped, but the event affected her work and her life.

In nineteen fifty, Hurston returned to Florida.  Although her work was quite popular, she was unable to make a living with her writing. In her later years, she worked as a teacher, a librarian and as maid. In nineteen fifty-nine, Hurston suffered a stroke and entered a nursing home in Fort Pierce, Florida. She died there a year later and was buried in an unmarked grave.

(MUSIC)

VOICE ONE:

Today, Zora Neale Hurston has not been forgotten. She influenced other African-American female writers, including Alice Walker. Because of Walker's efforts, Hurston's work was rediscovered in the nineteen seventies. During the nineteen nineties, her book "Their Eyes Were Watching God" sold more than one million copies. Many young people in American schools are reading the book. In addition, two of Hurston's plays have been produced. New books have been written about her. And her work and life are the subject of many studies, conferences and festivals.

In nineteen seventy-three, Alice Walker placed a marker in Fort Pierce, Florida, where Hurston is believed to be buried.  The stone reads, "Zora Neale Hurston, A Genius of the South."

(MUSIC)

VOICE TWO:

This Special English program was written and produced by Cynthia Kirk. I'm Steve Ember.

VOICE ONE:

And I'm Mary Tillotson. Join us again next week for another PEOPLE IN AMERICA program on the Voice of America.

VOA News - Zora Neale Hurston, 1891-1960: A Storyteller About African-American Life in the South

Culture Spot: A Folktale from Georgia – Brer Rabbit meets a Tar Baby

I’m back in my home state of Georgia this week and I thought I’d share with you a folktale that comes from my state. The story comes from a collection of tales made popular by Georgia native son Joel Chandler Harris. His folktales are a blend of the tales he collected from the Cherokee Indians and the slaves. Harris’s cycle of tales are known as the Uncle Remus stories in the South. Later, Disney would retell the stories in the animated film “Song of the South.” Today’s post was taken from the internet site American Folktales. It is full of idiomatic expressions typically found in the South.

Brer Rabbit meets a Tar Baby retold by S. E. Schlosser

Well now, that rascal Brer Fox hated Brer Rabbit on account of he was always cutting capers and bossing everyone around. So Brer Fox decided to capture and kill Brer Rabbit if it was the last thing he ever did! He thought and he thought until he came up with a plan. He would make a tar baby! Brer Fox went and got some tar and he mixed it with some turpentine and he sculpted it into the figure of a cute little baby. Then he stuck a hat on the Tar Baby and sat her in the middle of the road.

Brer Fox hid himself in the bushes near the road and he waited and waited for Brer Rabbit to come along. At long last, he heard someone whistling and chuckling to himself, and he knew that Brer Rabbit was coming up over the hill. As he reached the top, Brer Rabbit spotted the cute little Tar Baby. Brer Rabbit was surprised. He stopped and stared at this strange creature. He had never seen anything like it before!

"Good Morning," said Brer Rabbit, doffing his hat. "Nice weather we're having."

The Tar Baby said nothing. Brer Fox laid low and grinned an evil grin.

Brer Rabbit tried again. "And how are you feeling this fine day?"

The Tar Baby, she said nothing. Brer Fox grinned an evil grin and lay low in the bushes.

Brer Rabbit frowned. This strange creature was not very polite. It was beginning to make him mad.

"Ahem!" said Brer Rabbit loudly, wondering if the Tar Baby were deaf. "I said 'HOW ARE YOU THIS MORNING?"

The Tar Baby said nothing. Brer Fox curled up into a ball to hide his laugher. His plan was working perfectly!

"Are you deaf or just rude?" demanded Brer Rabbit, losing his temper. "I can't stand folks that are stuck up! You take off that hat and say 'Howdy-do' or I'm going to give you such a lickin'!"

The Tar Baby just sat in the middle of the road looking as cute as a button and saying nothing at all. Brer Fox rolled over and over under the bushes, fit to bust because he didn't dare laugh out loud.

"I'll learn ya!" Brer Rabbit yelled. He took a swing at the cute little Tar Baby and his paw got stuck in the tar.

"Lemme go or I'll hit you again," shouted Brer Rabbit. The Tar Baby, she said nothing.

"Fine! Be that way," said Brer Rabbit, swinging at the Tar Baby with his free paw. Now both his paws were stuck in the tar, and Brer Fox danced with glee behind the bushes.

"I'm gonna kick the stuffin' out of you," Brer Rabbit said and pounced on the Tar Baby with both feet. They sank deep into the Tar Baby. Brer Rabbit was so furious he head-butted the cute little creature until he was completely covered with tar and unable to move.

Brer Fox leapt out of the bushes and strolled over to Brer Rabbit. "Well, well, what have we here?" he asked, grinning an evil grin.

Brer Rabbit gulped. He was stuck fast. He did some fast thinking while Brer Fox rolled about on the road, laughing himself sick over Brer Rabbit's dilemma.

"I've got you this time, Brer Rabbit," said Brer Fox, jumping up and shaking off the dust. "You've sassed me for the very last time. Now I wonder what I should do with you?"

Brer Rabbit's eyes got very large. "Oh please Brer Fox, whatever you do, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"Maybe I should roast you over a fire and eat you," mused Brer Fox. "No, that's too much trouble. Maybe I'll hang you instead."

"Roast me! Hang me! Do whatever you please," said Brer Rabbit. "Only please, Brer Fox, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"If I'm going to hang you, I'll need some string," said Brer Fox. "And I don't have any string handy. But the stream's not far away, so maybe I'll drown you instead."

"Drown me! Roast me! Hang me! Do whatever you please," said Brer Rabbit. "Only please, Brer Fox, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"The briar patch, eh?" said Brer Fox. "What a wonderful idea! You'll be torn into little pieces!"

Grabbing up the tar-covered rabbit, Brer Fox swung him around and around and then flung him head over heels into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit let out such a scream as he fell that all of Brer Fox's fur stood straight up. Brer Rabbit fell into the briar bushes with a crash and a mighty thump. Then there was silence.

Brer Fox cocked one ear toward the briar patch, listening for whimpers of pain. But he heard nothing. Brer Fox cocked the other ear toward the briar patch, listening for Brer Rabbit's death rattle. He heard nothing.

Then Brer Fox heard someone calling his name. He turned around and looked up the hill. Brer Rabbit was sitting on a log combing the tar out of his fur with a wood chip and looking smug.

"I was bred and born in the briar patch, Brer Fox," he called. "Born and bred in the briar patch."

And Brer Rabbit skipped away as merry as a cricket while Brer Fox ground his teeth in rage and went home.

brer, br’er (African slave dialect)	-	frère
a rascal	-	un fripon, un vaurien, un coquin
on account of (idiomatic)	-	en raison de
to cut a caper / to cut capers (idiomatic)	-	faire des pitreries
to boss around (idiomatic)	-	dominer, donner des ordres
tar (uncount noun)	-	le goudron, le bitume
turpentine (uncount noun)	-	la térébenthine
to come along	-	arriver
to whistle to oneself	-	siffloter
to chuckle to oneself	-	glousser
to spot	-	apercevoir, répérer
to stare	-	regarder fixement
to doff	-	enlever, retirer
to grin	-	sourire
an evil grin	-	un sourire maléfique
to frown	-	froncer les sourcils
ahem!	-	hum!
deaf	-	sourd
to curl up into a ball	-	se recroqueviller
rude	-	impoli, mal élévé
to demand	-	exiger
to lose one’s temper	-	se mettre en colère
folks	-	des gens
stuck-up (idiomatic)	-	snob, vaniteux, fat
a howdy-do (American idiomatic salutation)	-	un salut, un bonjour
to give someone a lickin’ (licking) (Southern idiomatic expression)	-	donner une raclée
cute as a button (idiomatic expression)	-	trognon, joli comme un coeur
fit to bust (Southern idiomatic expression)	-	prêt à exploser
‘I’ll learn ya!’ (very bad English – a typical Southern expression indicative of a lack of a good education)	-	‘Je vais te donner une bonne leçon!’
to take a swing (idiomatic)	-	lancer un coup de poing à

a paw	-	une patte
‘Lemme go!’ = ‘Let me go'!’	-	‘Lâche moi!’
‘Fine! Be that way’ (idiomatic expression)	-	‘Ok! On fait comme ça!’
glee	-	la joie
to kick the stuffin’ out of someone (Southern idiomatic expression)	-	tabasser, batter comme plâtre (lit. donner un coup du pied à quelqu’un pour faire sortir la farce)
to pounce on	-	bondir sur
to headbutt	-	donner un coup de tête
to leap (irreg. verb – leapt, leapt)	-	sauter, bondir
to gulp	-	avoir la gorge serrée
fast (adj.)	-	bien fermé, bien attaché
to sass (idiomatic)	-	être insolent avec
a briar patch	-	des sous-bois épineux
to muse	-	songer
handy (adj.)	-	sous la main
a stream	-	un ruisseau
to drown	-	noyer
to grab up	-	s’emparer de, saisir
to swing someone/something around (irreg. verb – swung, swung)	-	faire tournoyer
to fling (irreg. verb – flung, flung)	-	lancer, jeter
a thump	-	un bruit sourd
to cock an ear	-	dresser l’oreille
a whimper	-	un gémissement
a death rattle	-	un râle d’agonie
a log	-	un rondin
to comb	-	se peigner
smug (adj.)	-	suffisant, fat
to be bred	-	être élevé
to skip away	-	s’en aller en sautillant
a cricket	-	un grillon

Culture Spot: Phyllis Wheatley, Slave and Poet

Phyllis Wheatley, born somewhere near present-day Senegal, was captured into slavery around the age of seven and sold to the Wheatley family in Boston. The Wheatleys taught her to read and write and encouraged her poetry writing. Her writing paid off when in 1773 her work Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral was published. Her writings even caught the attention of General George Washington who praised her. Phyllis Wheatley’s writings helped launch African-American literature.

When the great preacher of the Great Awakening, George Whitfield died, she wrote in his honor the following poem:

On the Death of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 1770. HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne, Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown; We hear no more the music of thy tongue, Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. Thy sermons in unequall'd accents flow'd, And ev'ry bosom with devotion glow'd; Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin'd Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind. Unhappy we the setting sun deplore, So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.      Behold the prophet in his tow'ring flight! He leaves the earth for heav'n's unmeasur'd height, And worlds unknown receive him from our sight. There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way, And sails to Zion through vast seas of day. Thy pray'rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries Have pierc'd the bosom of thy native skies. Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light, How he has wrestled with his God by night. He pray'd that grace in ev'ry heart might dwell, He long'd to see America excell; He charg'd its youth that ev'ry grace divine Should with full lustre in their conduct shine; That Saviour, which his soul did first receive, The greatest gift that ev'n a God can give, He freely offer'd to the num'rous throng, That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung.      "Take him, ye wretched, for your only good, "Take him ye starving sinners, for your food; "Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream, "Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme; "Take him my dear Americans, he said, "Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid: "Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you, "Impartial Saviour is his title due: "Wash'd in the fountain of redeeming blood, "You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God."      Great Countess,* we Americans revere Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere; New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn, Their more than father will no more return.      But, though arrested by the hand of death, Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath, Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies, Let ev'ry heart to this bright vision rise; While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust, Till life divine re-animates his dust.

To learn more about the life and work of this great American woman, visit the following links:

Phyllis Wheatley, America’s First Black Woman Poet

Download an ebook for free of Phyllis Wheatley’s work

Phyllis Wheatley, Wikipedia article

To His Excellency General Washington by Phyllis Wheatley

Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and veil of night!
The goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel bind her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.
Muse! bow propitious while my pen relates
How pour her armies through a thousand gates,
As when Eolus heaven's fair face deforms,
Enwrapp'd in tempest and a night of storms;
Astonish'd ocean feels the wild uproar,
The refluent surges beat the sounding shore;
Or thick as leaves in Autumn's golden reign,
Such, and so many, moves the warrior's train.
In bright array they seek the work of war,
Where high unfurl'd the ensign waves in air.
Shall I to Washington their praise recite?
Enough thou know'st them in the fields of fight.
Thee, first in peace and honours,—we demand
The grace and glory of thy martial band.
Fam'd for thy valour, for thy virtues more,
Hear every tongue thy guardian aid implore!
One century scarce perform'd its destined round,
When Gallic powers Columbia's fury found;
And so may you, whoever dares disgrace
The land of freedom's heaven-defended race!
Fix'd are the eyes of the nations on the scales,
For in their hopes Columbia's arm prevails.
Anon Britannia droops the pensive head,
While round increase the rising hills of dead.
Ah! cruel blindness to Columbia's state!
Lament thy thirst of boundless power too late.
Proceed, great chief, with virtue on thy side,40
Thy ev'ry action let the goddess guide.
A crown, a mansion, and a throne that shine,
With gold unfading, WASHINGTON! be thine.

This poem was written by a young slave girl from Boston, Phyllis Wheatley. You can learn more about her on Wednesday when there will be a post dedicated to the great African-American poet.

Phillis Wheatley’s poem “To His Excellency General Washington” is as unique as the poet herself. The poem was sent to George Washington, the newly appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of North America, in October of 1775, well before American Independence was declared in 1776. Washington, as busy as he was with organizing the colonies to take on the British, sent a letter back to Wheatley thanking her for the poem and inviting her to visit him if she ever came to Cambridge, Massachusetts. The two did meet in March of 1776, seven years before the war was finished and true independence was declared. Washington was roundly lauded in poems and prose after the successful conclusion of the Revolutionary War in 1783, but Wheatley’s poem was written when the war’s outcome was very uncertain, the British being the obvious favorites to win. It can be said that Wheatley was the groundbreaker in beginning the Washington legend as the “father of our country,” yet she stands as a groundbreaker in even more important ways. In 1773, two years before this poem was written, Phillis Wheatley, a twenty-year-old slave, published her collection of poems entitled Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, the first book of poetry published by an African American, and only the second book by a woman in what would become the United States. Considering that Ms. Wheatley was bought at a slave auction in 1761, not able to read or write and incapable of speaking English, her book of poems is truly astounding. She was revered in many countries. Benjamin Franklin offered his services to her, as did many other high-ranking men in America. In April of 1776, the author and political philosopher Thomas Paine published Wheatley’s poem to Washington in The Pennsylvania Magazine. The central theme of this poem is “freedom’s cause,” the colonies’ struggle for freedom from England, which General Washington was assigned to lead. Like many other residents of Boston, Wheatley’s feelings for the British regime turned from obedient admiration to mild admonition, and finally, to support of the revolution. The poem anticipates the future for the new republic, and praises the efforts of its military leader and first president.

To learn more about his poem, go to the Study Guide.

Culture Spot: “The Raven” by Edgar Allen Poe

On this day in 1845, “The Raven,”  a narrative poem by Edgar Allen Poe was published for the first time in New York Evening Mirror. It is one of America’s most well known piece of poetry due in part to its spooky, supernatural atmosphere. It tells the story of a distraught lover falling into madness who is visited on a dark night by a talking raven. The lover laments the loss of his love.

Following the video below, I have included the poem with its French translation that you can print out.

THE RAVEN

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 tried 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 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.    

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again 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 an instant 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 sublunary 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 farther 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."

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."    

Wondering 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 — so, when Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —

That sad answer, "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 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 angels whose faint 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!
Let me 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 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 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!  

The Raven - Le Corbeau

Publish at Scribd or explore others:

To learn more about the poem, visit its Wikipedia article HERE!

The Edgar Allen Poe National Historic Site, Pennsylvania

Poems by Edgar Allen Poe at Black Cat Poems

The House of Usher, Edgar Allen Poe fan site

The works Edgar Allen Poe from the Gutenberg Project

Christmas in America - "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry

Here is the famous American short story "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry (pen name for William Syndey Porter). In this endearing story, a husband and wife give each other the most special Christmas gift of all.

The recording comes from a Voice of America Special English broadcast. You may listen to the story by downloading an MP3 file. To do so, right click and choose "enregister la cible sous": MP3Download (MP3) or listen below.

To read the story and follow along, you can go to this page to print it out: http://www.voanews.com/specialenglish/2008-12-19-voa2.cfm

Christmas in America - A Visit from Saint Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

This 1823 poem is also know as T'was the Night Before Christmas and is the poem that largely created the American conception of Santa Claus. This poem created many of the myths surrounding Santa Claus: his flying sleigh and reindeer (all named!), his appearance, the nightly Christmas Eve visit and the placing of toys in stockings.

The poem was published anonymously in the New York Sentinal in December of 1823 and was frequently republished in the following years with an author's name. Though most scholars today attribute the poem to Clement Clarke Moore, the contraversy still continues on the true authorship. The family of Henry Livingston, Jr. also claimed that he was the author.

A Visit from Saint Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap;

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys, and Saint Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!”

For a side-by-side translation of the poem in French, go to http://www.lexilogos.com/saint_nicolas_conte.htm

For an explanation of some of the difficult terms in English, go to http://esl.about.com/library/weekly/aa121497.htm

Culture Spot 16: On This Day . . . December 10

On this day in 1906, U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt wins the Nobel Peace Prize, becoming the first American to win a Nobel Prize. He won the prize thanks to his negotiating the peace in the Russo-Japanese War. Learn more about America's 26th President at http://www.theodoreroosevelt.org

Learn more about the Russo-Japanese War at http://www.russojapanesewar.com

---

Emily Dickinson, one of America's greatest poets, was born on this day in 1830. She lived most of her life in seclusion in her home in Amherst, Massachusetts. Her fame didn't come until after her death in 1886 when her family found several hand-bound albums containing more than 800 of her poems. The first volume of her works was published in 1890 and the last in 1955. Learn more about Emily Dickison and read some of her poetry at http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/155 Read her poems at http://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/d#a996

Hope is the thing with feathers (254) by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

VOCABULARY seclusion - isolement, à l'écart de fame - renommée hand-bound - relié à la main feather - plume gale - vent violent, grand vent sore - irrité to abash - déconcerter, décontenancer crumb - miette