Author Topic: Edgar Allan Poe  (Read 1979 times)

Frederique

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Edgar Allan Poe
« on: 30 May, 2011, 17:09:06 »

Edgar Allan Poe (January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor and literary critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement. Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story and is considered the inventor of the detective-fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone, resulting in a financially difficult life and career.He was born as Edgar Poe in Boston, Massachusetts; he was orphaned young when his mother died shortly after his father abandoned the family. Poe was taken in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia, but they never formally adopted him. He attended the University of Virginia for one semester but left due to lack of money. After enlisting in the Army and later failing as an officer's cadet at West Point, Poe parted ways with the Allans. His publishing career began humbly, with an anonymous collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), credited only to "a Bostonian".
Poe switched his focus to prose and spent the next several years working for literary journals and periodicals, becoming known for his own style of literary criticism. His work forced him to move among several cities, including Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York City. In Baltimore in 1835, he married Virginia Clemm, his 13-year-old cousin. In January 1845 Poe published his poem, "The Raven", to instant success. His wife died of tuberculosis two years after its publication. He began planning to produce his own journal, The Penn (later renamed The Stylus), though he died before it could be produced. On October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore; the cause of his death is unknown and has been variously attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents.
Poe and his works influenced literature in the United States and around the world, as well as in specialized fields, such as cosmology and cryptography. Poe and his work appear throughout popular culture in literature, music, films, and television. A number of his homes are dedicated museums today.


  • Poems published in Translatum:
A Dream Within a Dream
Όνειρο ενός ονείρου | Όνειρο σ' ένα όνειρο
Alone
Annabel Lee
The Raven (Το κοράκι)



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« Last Edit: 25 Jan, 2012, 11:00:18 by Frederique »
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Frederique

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Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within a Dream
« Reply #1 on: 30 May, 2011, 17:09:56 »
Edgar Allan Poe,  A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?



Source: Poetry Foundation
« Last Edit: 30 May, 2011, 17:11:43 by Frederique »
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crystal

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Edgar Allan Poe, Alone
« Reply #2 on: 23 Sep, 2011, 18:29:02 »
Edgar Allan Poe, Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.



crystal

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Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within a Dream

Όνειρο ενός ονείρου

Έλα, το μέτωπό σου να φιλήσω!
Και τώρα, που από σένα θα χωρίσω,
Θα 'θελα κάτι να σου ομολογήσω –
Δεν έχεις άδικο που λες πως τάχα
Οι μέρες μου ήταν όνειρο μονάχα∙
Μα κι αν φτερούγισε η ελπίδα πέρα,
Σε μια νύχτα ή σε μια μέρα,
Σε μια οπτασία, ή σε καμιά,
είναι γι’ αυτό λιγότερο μακριά;
Όσα κι αν μοιάζουμε ή θωρούμε τάχα
Τ' όνειρο ενός ονείρου είναι μονάχα.

Στέκομαι αντίκρυ στην ανεμοζάλη
Που δέρνει αφρολουσμένο ένα ακρογιάλι,
Και μες το χέρι το κλειστό
Λίγη άμμο, ολόχρυση κρατώ –
Τι λίγη! Κι όμως πώς γλιστρά μου
Μες στο βυθό, απ' τα δάχτυλά μου.
Σαν τα δάκρυά μου — τα δάκρυά μου!
Ω, Θεέ μου, ας ήταν να μπορούσα
σφιχτότερα να την κρατούσα!
Ω, Θεέ μου! Ούτ' ένα μόριο μόνο
Απ' τ' άσπλαχνο το κύμα δεν γλιτώνω;
Να 'ναι όσα μοιάζουμε ή θωρούμε, τάχα
Ενός ονείρου τ' όνειρο μονάχα;

(Έδγαρ Πόε, Τα ποιήματα, Μετάφραση Νίκου Σημηριώτη)
[Αθήνα, Εκδόσεις Α. Καραβία, 1965, σελ. 77-78]

Όνειρο σ' ένα όνειρο

Δέξου αυτό το φιλί στο μέτωπό σου.
Τώρα που ξεχωρίζουμε θα σου τ' ομολογήσω:
Δεν είχες άδικο να λες πως όλη μου η ζωή
εστάθηκ' ένα όνειρο.
Κι αν η ελπίδα επέταξε
μια νύχτα, είτε μια μέρα,
είτε σε μια οπτασία, ή μέσα στο άπειρο,
είναι γι' αυτό λιγότερο φευγάτη;
Ό,τι θωρούμε ή φαινόμαστε, δεν είναι
παρά ένα όνειρο μέσα σε κάποιον όνειρο.

Στέκω μπροστά στη βουή του ακρογιαλιού
που το χτυπάει το κύμα,
και κλείνω μεσ' την φούχτα μου
δέκα σπυριά μαλαματένιαν άμμο
δέκα σπυριά, όμως κι εκείνα ακόμα
πως γλιστράνε μεσ' απ’ τα δάχτυλά μου
και χάνονται στην άβυσσο,
ενώ παίρνει με το κλάμα, ποταμός το κλάμα.
Θεέ μου! Δεν μπορώ, λοιπόν, να τα κρατήσω
λιγάκι πιο σφιχτά;
Δεν μπορώ, Θεέ μου να σώσω ούτ' ένα
από το κύμα τ' αδυσώπητο;
Ό,τι θωρούμε ή φαινόμαστε, δεν είναι λοιπόν,
ένα όνειρο μέσα σε κάποιον όνειρο;

Μετάφραση: Νίκος Προεστόπουλος