[Intro Plays]

[The sound of a campfire is accompanied by bass heavy droning in the background, and the sound of a beating heart. Echoing whispers and screams punctuate the notes. A metal door slams in the distance and sinister laughter fades in from the background]

[Poem]

The Raven
By Edgar Allen Poe

[Sound of clock ticking, fire burning in corner, pages being turned in the background, someone is writing on paper. Ominous music plays in background]

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,

[Sound of hard knocking at door]

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

[Sound of writing stops]

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

[Sound of book closing]

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.

[Music and background noise fades]

[Sound of heart beating softly in the background, deep throbbing bass]

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;—

[Ominous music starts again]

This it is and nothing more.”

[Heartbeat fades away, sounds of room come back into focus]

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,

[Footsteps]

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

[Sound of door opening, Background noise and music fades out cuts out]

Darkness there and nothing more.

[Throbbing bass starts again]

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!”—

[Echoing whisper]

Merely this and nothing more.

[Sound of closing door, background noise fades back in. Ominous music plays again]

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

[Sound of hard knocking on window]

“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!”

[Sound of footsteps]

[Sound of shutter opening, wings flapping]

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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

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 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.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

[Whisper with reverb]

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

[Sound of heartbeat and throbbing bass starts again]

“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 fancy into smiling,

[Sound footsteps and chair moving along floorboards]

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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

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!

[Deep booming]

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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

“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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

“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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

[Sound of chair being pushed back]

“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.”

[Whisper with reverb]

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!

[Background noise and music fades]

[Background]

Good Evening folks and welcome to Episode 03 of Tales Under A Broken Sky. I am your host Keith and I hope you enjoyed this weeks episode.

Poe was one of my earliest introductions into the world of the weird, wonderful and macabre. I distinctly remember reading a collection of his short stories from my local library when I was growing up and the unease and uncertainty that followed me as I read through his work. There were definitely some sleepless nights thrown in as a bonus, as there often is when you are a child with an overactive imagination.

But The Raven is one of those works that stands out to me. It was probably one of the first poems I read that was not just pretty verse on a page, but one that contained a story, a narrative alongside deeper meaning, even if my early readings of it probably missed most of that.

I always enjoy reading The Raven at a superficial level. Leaving symbolism aside for a moment, there is something satisfying in reading the poem at face value. For me, this reading hinges very much on the lines “while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore”.

I like to think, or imagine, that these books are the source of the narrator’s disquiet and the uneasiness displayed in the opening passages. Most of us, if presented with a knock at our door, wouldn’t think twice and would probably move to answer it without second thought. But the narrator’s need to reassure himself, kindles something more ominous in me.

Grief and loss can trigger many reactions in people, but what if in this case the narrator was prompted to take an action that caused this anxiety? What if his grief at his loss lead him to those ‘volumes of forgotten lore’ and an attempt at summoning the spirit of Lenore? Perhaps it was the desperate act of someone devoid of hope. A well-intentioned, but ill-advised action (are there really any other kind) that suddenly seemed to be backfiring.

In this reading, it leads me to imagine that the Raven, is itself Lenore. And his search for the spirit of his lost love, summoned and bound her to the form of a raven, and Lenore as she was, is now lost to him. No longer residing in Heaven, but destined to roam the earth. Hence the repeated refrain of “Nevermore”. Towards the end of the poem, we see a breakdown in the mental state of the narrator, and the Raven becomes a constant reminder of the pain and loss he has suffered.

Perhaps we can view this narrative as a fable, a warning against meddling with the divine. A warning against the kind of arrogance that leads one to do things without fear of the repercussions, both for oneself and for others.

From a more metaphorical standpoint, the poem could be seen as a journey through the stages of grief. The initial knock at the door and the calling of “Lenore” out into the corridor as if it could have been her, hints at a lack of acceptance that many of us experience with loss. Even years afterwards, many of us find ourselves thinking of calling a lost loved one, to talk about something you know they would have enjoyed, or expecting to arrive home to find them waiting as they always have.

As the poem progresses, we see the narrator beg for freedom from the pain, then beg for reassurance that their loved one is in a better place, then grow angry at the lack of answers to questions they desperately need answered, before finally settling into a grudging acceptance, symbolised by the Raven’s persistent presence and shadow, that Lenore is lost to them.

It is hard to analyse a poem such as this, as it has been done ad infinitum over the years. What newness can be added to what is already known about the work? I like to view the Raven as a kind of living Memento Mori, a reminder that we all must die, and it’s shadow at the end, a transient, fleeting thing that changes in intensity with the time of day, a reminder of what grief is really like. Sometimes, even years or decades after a loss, it can still hit you like a hammer, and some days you almost forget about it, until suddenly that shadow appears. A constant, and unwelcome companion, but one that is also a reminder that we grieve because we loved. And all of that time and those memories are more precious now, in light of that loss.

Contemplating death, and being reminded of death, is an uncomfortable experience. But we must also remember that there is no death without life. No grief without love. And no hopelessness without hope.

And for me, this is the true power of storytelling.

Until next time

[CTA]

Thank you for listening to Episode 03 of Tales Under a Broken Sky, I hoped you enjoyed this week’s production as much as I enjoyed reading and recording it.

If you did enjoy it, please consider subscribing to the podcast on your platform of choice, and leaving a rating and/or review.

Thank you again for your time. Stay tuned to hear a brief trailer for the next episode

[Trailer]

Tales Under A Broken Sky – Episode 04 – Virtual Hell

[Throbbing bass plays in background]

He gasped for breath as he came back to life, panicking as he struggled to inhale through his mouth.

Had he come back to life only to suffocate and die again?

His tongue brushed against something hard and round. He pushed against it, but it refused to budge. He tried to work his tongue around it, but as his lips shifted, something bit painfully into the corner of his mouth. A faint memory drifted up through his consciousness, a gag? That thought opened a floodgate in his mind and everything came back to him with excruciating clarity.

The string of murders. Bodies dumped unceremoniously in secluded places around the city. Walking around one of the crime scenes. The smell of decay and rot. The bright lights of the morgue. The smell of chemical preservatives and disinfectant.

He was a police officer?

Yes, that was it.

The memory felt so distant in comparison to that of his death.

[Outro Plays]

[The sound of a campfire is accompanied by bass heavy droning in the background, and the sound of a beating heart. Echoing whispers and screams punctuate the notes. A metal door slams in the distance and sinister laughter fades in from the background. All of the sounds are louder and closer, the atmosphere is more claustrophobic]