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A complete collection of the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe. Poe was born on January 19th in Boston, Massachusetts in 1809, and died in his adopted home of Baltimore, Maryland on October 7th, 1849, making him the first American writer in this series. The critical estimation of Poe’s work has increased dramatically over the course of my lifetime, which has been satisfying to observe, as he was for me—as I believe for so many lovers of literature—an early favorite, particularly because of his verse, which is rich with sonic texture and gothic subject matter: insanity, darkness, ghosts, death, etc. It is also quite manageable to read in its entirety at 75 poems depending on how many of those of questionable authorship or in various stages of completion one is willing to include in the official oeuvre. (In fact, it has been some time since I’ve heard the old familiar slight that his popularity in France during the 19th century was perhaps due to his writing gaining something of substance from Charles Baudelaire’s translations.) While perhaps not quite as dramatically prescient in new utterance, form or philosophical depth as Walt Whitman ...

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Annabel Lee 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. She was a child and I 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 wingéd 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 by night     Chilling my 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, 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 de...

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Contents Introduction Poetry Oh, Tempora! Oh, Mores! To Margaret To Octavia Tamerlane Song (I Saw Thee on Thy Bridal Day...) Dreams Spirits of the Dead Evening Star Imitation Stanzas (In Youth I Have Known One...) A Dream "The Happiest Day—The Happiest Hour" The Lake: To——— To——— (I Heed Not That My Earthly Lot...) Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius Sonnet: To Science Al Aaraaf Romance To——— (Should My Early Life Seem...) To——— (The Bowers Whereat, in Dreams, I See...) To the River——— Fairy Land Alone To Isaac Lea Elizabeth Acrostic Lines on Joe Locke Introduction Fairy Land II To Helen (Helen, Thy Beauty Is to Me...) Israfel The Sleeper The Valley of Unrest The City in the Sea A Pæn To One in Paradise Hymn An Enigma Serenade To——— (Sleep On, Sleep On, Another Hour...) The Coliseum Fanny To Frances S. Osgood To F——— To Mary May Queen Ode Bridal Ballad Sonnet: To Zante The Haunted Palace Sonnet: Silence The Conqueror Worm Lenore Dream-Land Impromptu: To Kate Carol Eulalie Epigram for Wall Street The Raven To——— (I Would Not Lord It O’er Thy Heart...) The Divine Right ...

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These Details in Preference to Nothing is the story of a relationship, or rather it’s a meditation on one, that is, a mediation on love, faith and an existence caught in transition told from a perspective not fully capable of seeing all angles. The narrative is in the first person and in the present tense as is every love affair between very young adults. The title sums up a lot—These Details in Preference to Nothing—a line lifted from Becket. To quote John Barth “heartfelt ineptitude has its appeal and so does heartless skill; but what you want is passionate virtuosity.” A story told in intense moments of meditative stupor, it sometimes reads more like poetry, and so it began as an extended sonnet sequence, but emerged into this record—to be added to all the others throughout history--of the truth in the sincere and authentic passion of the young, or at least some of the relevant and more illustrative details. ISBN: 978-1-932023-36-7. https://www.facebook.com/williamralpheditions...

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I have begun every impulse to speak with hesitation, suspended on the edge of doubt, mindful of my inability to say how it was. It was the year of the roar of lions, humid nights, the soft breaths of waterweeds and kisses. It was the first year alone with my son. I had always had enemies of my sleep. I had come to know them. My response was always hesitation. The world was very large. It was true that a specific combination of things often conspired to lead my telling what happened back to an ecstasy of memories of melancholy and through a long, long night. Saudade the Portuguese say, the sadness inside each joy. All my life I have been haunted by a dream of heaven.  It was true. For me, anyway, for the way I told things, and the way I have always told them. I was somewhat absent of myself where the words came to carry the telling from me. I was touched by the words the way the butterfly wants to be still in the hands of the breeze, to be untangled from the air that makes the soft current, carries the preliminary push, something unformed and unclear, to be unsnarled from the waft, to be unfurled as the sound from the trees, to be...

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These Details in Preference to Nothing About the Author Also from William Ralph Press

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Introduction by Cosey Fanni Tutti, legendary performance artist and founding member of Throbbing Gristle ​ Nightmares never seem to make sense when we try to describe them. Neil's genius is that he's written a book in a way that puts you back in that mindset by tapping into the primeval in all of us as a kind of catalyst for the telling of this story. This is a story told in the way that we live out life changing events - it's full of movement. It steps us back, sideways, takes us into seeming irrelevance - maybe as a means of escapism, and all by unpunctuated expertly crafted emotionally evocative (and) beautiful sequences of words. It's akin to poetry, or song lyrics at times. Words are used rather like musical notes, arranged in a sensitive, sometimes aggressive ways, constructing and deconstructing, effectively facilitating your own unique 'nightmare reading' of this story. The words are a means to an end, elements which collectively create a composition, the purpose of which is intrinsic to its completeness.  You should approach this book by abandoning any established preconceptions of the role of narrative or role...

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...  The awful shadow of some unseen Power Floats though unseen among us,—visiting This various world with as inconstant wing As summer winds that creep from flower to flower —Percy Bysshe Shelley ​ it is dark all around listen I say can you hear that she is gone I hear Firefly move uncomfortably in his bed across the room no he says that’s the sound of knives I cannot say he doesn’t hear that it’s not what I hear  Firefly is sleeping that is falling in and out of sleep so many of the people we have known are dead we have not seen each other since I left I’ve ignored him while considering what to do about meeting them and before them a hundred other thems he is caught in a trembling he can’t ascend out of and he lies there cursing resting smelling of illness which is the smell of neglect calling someone every couple minutes to fix or adjust what is wrong in him or what he needs in him what consumes him is unnatural rebuke beg whimper like collecting into a tear that never fully falls as he settles again into a nauseated waiting a concentrated breathing and an occasional ironic chuckle after every stroke my dad threw ...

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A Book of Nightmares About the Author Also from William Ralph Press