After leaving West Point, Poe published his third book and focused on writing full-time. In , John Allan died, leaving Poe out of his will, but providing for an illegitimate child Allan had never met. Poe, who continued to struggle living in poverty, got a break when one of his short stories won a contest in the Baltimore Saturday Visiter. He began to publish more short stories and in landed an editorial position with the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond. Poe developed a reputation as a cut-throat critic, writing vicious reviews of his contemporaries. His scathing critiques earned him the nickname the "Tomahawk Man.
His tenure at the magazine proved short. Poe's aggressive-reviewing style and sometimes combative personality strained his relationship with the publication, and he left the magazine in His problems with alcohol also played a role in his departure, according to some reports. In , Poe moved to New York City. There, he published a news story in The New York Sun about a balloon trip across the Atlantic Ocean that he later revealed to be a hoax.
His stunt grabbed attention, but it was his publication of "The Raven," in , which made Poe a literary sensation. That same year, Poe found himself under attack for his stinging criticisms of fellow poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Poe claimed that Longfellow, a widely popular literary figure, was a plagiarist, which resulted in a backlash against Poe.
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Despite his success and popularity as a writer, Poe continued to struggle financially and he advocated for higher wages for writers and an international copyright law. From to , Poe lived in Baltimore, where his father was born, with his aunt Maria Clemm and her daughter, his cousin Virginia. He began to devote his attention to Virginia, who became his literary inspiration as well as his love interest. The couple married in when she was only 13 years old. Poe was overcome by grief following her death, and although he continued to work, he suffered from poor health and struggled financially until his death in Poe self-published his first book, Tamerlane and Other Poems , in As a critic at the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond from to , Poe published some of his own works in the magazine, including two parts of his only novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.
In late s, Poe published Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque , a collection of short stories.
In it, the narrator, a one-time animal lover, becomes an alcoholic who begins abusing his wife and black cat. The story was later included in the short story collection, Tales by Edgar Allan Poe. Later in his career, Poe continued to work in different forms, examining his own methodology and writing in general in several essays, including "The Philosophy of Composition," "The Poetic Principle" and "The Rationale of Verse.
Poe died on October 7, His final days remain somewhat of a mystery. Poe left Richmond on September 27, , and was supposedly on his way to Philadelphia. On October 3, he was found in Baltimore in great distress. Poe was taken to Washington College Hospital, where he died four days later. His last words were "Lord, help my poor soul. At the time, it was said that Poe died of "congestion of the brain. Some experts believe that alcoholism led to his demise while others offer up alternative theories. Rabies, epilepsy and carbon monoxide poisoning are just some of the conditions thought to have led to the great writer's death.
Shortly after his passing, Poe's reputation was badly damaged by his literary adversary Rufus Griswold. My marrow bones roast at degrees for 18 minutes, glistening fatty in the forced oven light. Which ones are the marrow bones, you ask? Femurs are your best bet. Scraped out with a long, thin spoon like a speculum. Extracting the marrow — invasive intimacy — performed in an echoing home. You serve me on a handmade cutting board with lemon wedges and nasturtium petals. You eat me on toast points, letting me drip down your chin.
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Holly Salvatore is a farmer in CO. I lift the lid off the glass tank where my bat Kevin has lived for a year since he dove through the evening air into my windshield. I take his miniature claw-hand and concertina his good wing out, the leather webbing matching his massive ears. I untuck his bad wing, and open it out as best I can. I do this twice daily as physical therapy.
His eyes, shiny black pebbles, watch me, and he opens his mouth wide, tiny shark jaw exposed. My little brother Eddy leans on my doorframe, wearing fire truck pajama bottoms and no top. He goes shirtless on account of the heat generated by the latex horse head. Yeah, my brother wears a horse head.
There are holes beneath the nose for him to see through and a slot for his mouth. Junior year means a back-breaking school bag and a spirit-breaking work load. On top of that, I work three evenings for Mr.
Often Mrs. Fiorino offers me a treat: a slice of rainbow cake or a plate of large choc chip cookies, or a small tub of butterscotch ice cream, and sometimes I think about bringing it home for Eddy. Eddy moves into my room, over to Kevin. He crouches, tilting his horse head back so he can see through the glass. Eddy is still, staring at Kevin. The horse head nods. A few moments later, I nod too: I have a chance to set both free.
I get to work early and make the call, busying myself scrubbing the counters as I talk. Todd looked it up for me after I told my bio class about Kevin. That was a mistake. For a damn bat? Put him out behind the house. Eddy sits on my bed as I feed Kevin. The mealworm wriggles on the end of the pencil and Kevin becomes animated as he gnashes at it. Orange cracker dribble slides down the square lip and onto his chest. I nod. The horse head drops down and knocks the carton of crackers off the table, onto the floor.
The horse looks startled. Those spooky eyes. He follows me into my room.
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I have a smaller box for transporting Kevin. His baby bird eyes closed. My knees shift and I sink to the floor, holding Kevin to my chest. Eddy joins me, his horse head on my shoulder, horse breath warm and damp in my hair. On the back deck, I pull on my sneakers. The cicadas sing for Kevin, and a breeze moves through the leaves behind me. Currently studying for her MFA and working on her novel, Jo can be found on twitter as jovarnish1. The ear grows enormous, one of its rings the size of a hoop that tigers jump through.
Its wax is mined out biweekly in a train of seven coal carts. What is odd is that earwigs do not grow proportional to the size of the gigantic ear. They become a trifle to the god-ear. Yes, the big ear is a god. Its hollow holds trumpets, but also bazookas are in there, and a vegetable patch. The vegetable patch grows cherry tomatoes that are the actual size of cherry tomatoes. One day I strolled through the slippery cave of the god-ear, and I stained the cuffs of my pants with wax.
It was at the apex of the interval between mining times. I plucked one cherry tomato for you. It was the right size, love, to be eaten. Why did you crush it with your fist?
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Matthew DeMarco lives in Chicago. His work has appeared on Poets. Stay drunk. The bottle allows you to howl about the pain of what you lack.