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 visitor,' 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 sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named 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 visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor 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.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard 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 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.'


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 above 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 further 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.'


Startled 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 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 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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


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 has 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.'


`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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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'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!


by Edgar Allen Poe

The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently —
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free —
Up domes — up spires — up kingly halls —
Up fanes — up Babylon-like walls —
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers —
Up many and many a marvelous shrine
Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in the air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye —
Not the gaily-jeweled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass —
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea —
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave — there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide —
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow —
The hours are breathing faint and low —
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.


by Edgar Allen Poe

Valentino's Hair (1987)

196O my father cannot help but tell

It's been almost thirty-five years.

I can scarcely believe it, nina.

Time trusts no one and so it disappears

before us like the smoke from my

                   cigarette.

In 1925 I was young, I was a part

of a world eating at its own edges

without being satisfied.

The Roaring Twenties didn't roar.

     They swelled with passions.

     They danced, and I danced with them.

I had a barber shop in a Manhattan

       hotel.

It is not there anymore.

It burned down during World War II.

But in its time it was elegant, private.

My shop was small, only one chair.

Every comb, every lotion, every towel

       perfect:

like the stars which burn in the sky,

     everything shined.

The barber chair was gold-leafed

and made of the softest leather.

A man could fall asleep in that chair

with lather still fresh on his face.

There were four large oval mirrors,

two on one wall, two on the opposite

wall.

They faced each other like distant

             lovers,

never permitted to kiss,

only permitted to greet each other

with their cool but receptive stares.

The walls had cloth wallpaper.

The wallpaper too had gold leaf

with a blue and brown background of

                    leaves

and trees and ocean in the distance.

And it reminded me of my town

                    Aguadilla,

the great stretches of beach,

The lush rain forests of Puerto Rico.

Anyway, fate had been good to me,

and I was owner of the barber shop

in the hotel, and I made good money,

and the times looked good, and I lost a lot of money

before the Twenties were gone.

But that's not why I'm telling you this.

One day in 1926, early afternoon, 1:00

                     P.M.,

     things were slow, and I was reading

the paper,

     studying the horse racing sheet.

     Mangual had come by, picked up a

 couple of bets

from me and got a haircut.

He had hair in those days.

It was just after he had left,

And I remember thinking what a hot

 summer

we were having, and I was tipped back

     in my barber chair,

     almost sleeping, almost dreaming.

     You know how it is when you're

    between

     sleep and dream and a slight push

     can send you into one world or the

            other.

     Well, suddenly the wall phone rang.

     I thought for sure it was Mangual.

     Sometimes he'd call and try to get me

     to change my bets. He'd tell me

     I was wasting my money,

     and he had a tip on a horse

     so fast you'd think it had six legs

     The phone rang a second time.

     I did not hurry. I don't quite know why,

     but I waited until the fourth ring

     and snapped forward in the chair

     and lifted the phone receiver off the

    hook.

     The front desk at the hotel was calling.

     A guest wanted a haircut and shave.

     I had no customers in the shop, except

     maybe a fly seeking decay in summer

          heat.

     I said I was available, asked for the

          room number.

     That was that. Just another customer,

     I remember thinking. Possibly a

                         stockbroker,

     a businessman, maybe Mafia.

     I'd given them haircuts and shaves too.

     I took my best tools.

     I had recently purchased them

     And had a special black leather box

                 made.

     Like a doctor.

     In a way I was a kind of doctor.

     What I did helped people ride a stream

     to slow recovery, to arrive on the shore

     of something new, something hidden.

     A secret place. A secret person.

     Well, so I went. I closed my shop,

     putting a note on the door saying

     I'd he back in an hour, and then I

    strutted down

     the wine-red carpeted hallway into the

             lobby,

     past the front desk and into the elevator.

     I pressed the button for the eighth floor

     and rode up alone to my destiny.

     There was a small mirror on the

           elevator wall,

     just above the button panel.

     It was there for the ladies and

           gentlemen,

on their way to parties,

to look one last time at the present.

And so I did. I stared into the face

of a twenty-seven-year-old man

who knew little about the ways of this

      world.

And for that moment I thought I saw

      someone else.

Someone who was walking towards me

from another place we held in common.

The elevator door opened

to wake me from my daydream.

Room 808 was my customer,

and I found myself at the door

tapping lightly on its face.

The rooms were spacious,

and the windows faced Central Park.

I could hear the sound of an electric

      fan

as the door opened, and I was greeted

by a fair-haired, frail-looking man.

He was in a dark suit,

And he was smoking a cigarette in a

      holder.

Quite a dandy. He greeted me warmly,

thanked me for being so prompt.

His employer was absolutely desperate

to be ready for an evening engagement

and had little time or desire to walk

the busy streets looking for a barber

      shop,

and if he did walk the streets,

he probably would be mobbed by

      admirers,

and he would definitely make my time

      worthwhile,

and I had come highly recommended.

Well, all these things came quickly

Out of this amiable, high-strung

      American

as he led me to a room where the light

      was good

     and which had been prepared

     with a chair, table, and large mirror.

     The sink was to the left of the table.

     I began setting the tools on the table

     and emptying my satchel of hair and

           skin products,

            which I had also brought with me.

            As I did, I looked up at the mirror,

            more so to see if it was clean than

                  anything else.

            When I did, I saw the reflection,

            a dark-haired man in the mirror

            standing in the doorway behind me.

            It was the ladykiller.

            It was Rudolph Valentino.

            He looked drawn and tired.

            He had obviously not shaved

            for his face was already darkening with

                  whiskers.

            He  was wearing a very white

                  undershirt

            and a pair of dark pants.

            By his side was a very slim, exotic

                   looking woman.

            They were arguing, but very quietly,

            in whispers like lovers separated

            by a thin wall from their neighbors.

            The woman kept insisting on

                  something,

            and she called him Rudy.

            He finally looked at me staring at him

            in the mirror and smiled slightly,

            stopping the woman in her sentence by simply saying,

                  "Enough!"

He closed the door behind him,

      walked towards me,

his hand out to shake my hand.

And to my surprise he said my name.

"I'm glad to meet you, Senor Sapia."

The look of amazement must have

      been on my face.

I suddenly began to feel flushed.

In the mirror I could see how red my

      cheeks were.

And then he apologized and told me

his secretary had a bad habit

of never informing people who their

customer was.

One time in California

he needed a manicure and a pedicure.

The hotel sent up an elderly lady

to give him what he requested.

But she was never told who her client

      was.

When Valentino walked out to greet

      her,

his pants leg rolled up, barefoot,

the woman drew in a long hard look

and fainted on the royal blue rug,

her silver hair perfectly in place.

Valentino tried to revive her

and members of his party called

for the house doctor and all was panic.

And the strange thing was

they couldn't revive her.

They declared the woman dead,

Valentino concluded, remorse in his

      voice.

The hotel cooperated,

reported the woman died of a heart

      attack

in the hallway, not Valentino's room.

He had enough of scandal.

This would have been too cruel,

too bizarre, he confessed.

I was struck by Valentino's story.

Why should he tell me

Facundo Sapia, a simple barber?

My girl, I was suddenly caught

between laughing and crying.

The poor man had a power

he couldn't control,

and here I was absolving him

of his sin, listening to his confession

like a priest in my white smock.

And now he was to do penance,

he was to give something up to me.

I would raise my chalice of shaving

      cream

and lift my silver razor to the light.

"Sapia means wisdom, doesn't it?" he

      asked.

"Yes," I told him. "My mother's name

      was Inocencia."

"Ah," he said. "What a beautiful name,

      Innocent Wisdom."

And he sat down in the chair,

looked into the mirror, and asked me

to help him with this man in the mirror,

meaning, of course, himself.

I covered him with the white apron.

And I began to apply the shaving cream

to his face while his eyes stared

directly into the eyes of the pitiful man

he thought he saw in the mirror.

I began to lather and disguise

that perfect face, slowly, with

 compliance,

like an accomplice to the development

of the belief in one god.

Perhaps her god was what

the elderly lady thought she saw

before she fainted into death.

As I shaved Rudolph Valentino,

he remained silent, and I remained

      silent.

My hands had to be steady,

for they guided the instrument

and I simply followed.

Valentino noticed my hands.

They looked like his father's hands,

the way the fingers naturally curved

when the hand relaxed.

I began to cut his hair;

he trained his eyes on my hands.

"You do not realize it," he said,

"but you are cutting away at my life too,

time leaving me like moments

falling to the floor."

Suddenly, I was afraid of a man

I could easily destroy

with one swerve of my razor,

with one jolt of my scissors.

A man who was a great lover,

not philosopher.

I didn't want to hear philosophy.

I wanted to know about the desert at

      night,

the ride of the four horsemen,

the posture of the tango.

But he was speaking about death,

his own death.

And he was implicating me.

But most frightening of all,

I had this disturbing feeling he was

      right.

He was dying. I was dying.

We were all dying at this moment,

in this place, where his hair fell calmly

to the floor like our simple desires.

Somehow I gathered my courage

and told him he had something

all men wished they had.

It was not his money or his appearance.

He immediately turned directly to me,

causing my scissor to glance

slightly off of his left ear.

He just stared at me.

Didn't say one word.

He lust looked and looked into flay face.

I felt like a broken fish under the eye

      of God;

he was waiting for the answer.

What he had was a way with women.

I told him about the woman I was in

      love with

but who did not even care if I lived or

      died.

She did not even know I existed.

Oh, she was a friend of a friend,

and we talked, but I could sense

she had no fascination for me.

It was odd to tell this to Rudolph

      Valentino,

a man never scorned by a woman,

a man who had probably made love

to every woman he touched.

Well, we continued in silence.

I trimming his hair,

which was in need of a haircut,

and he turned toward the mirror,

staring into his own eyes,

then once or twice stealing

a quick, deliberate glance at me.

The silence in the room made

everything else around us so

      loud.

My scissors clipping steadily.

The car horns from down on the street.

Suddenly I could hear the young man

and the exotic looking woman

in the next room arguing,

at first with quick exchanges and long

      pauses.

Then their voices grew more intense,

      more hateful,

until finally I heard a crash or a fall,

I really wasn't sure which.

But I could hear someone crying and

      gasping

and trying to talk, trying to defend.

It was the young man's voice.

I think she had hit him with something.

Valentino's eyes changed.

"Damn it, damn it," he started saying.

"Yes, I'm lucky," he said to me,

"and I'll probably be lucky in hell too."

He suddenly laughed, as if he realized

something ridiculous

far beyond his reach,

distant as his past.

By then I had begun putting talcum

      powder

around his neck, ready to remove

the white apron covered with his hair.

His image in the mirror was the image

I had seen in the dark theatre.

Valentino gave the mirror his famous

      profile,

the delicate ears, the high forehead,

      the angular nose.

"Senor Sapia," he said, very

      conclusively,

"your reputation is not exaggerated."

With that, he gave me a one hundred

      dollar bill

from a money clip he had in his

      pocket,

and he walked ceremoniously out the

      door.

Something happened to me, mi

      muchacha.

Something seized my senses.

He had said it himself:

"You are cutting away at my life too."

We all take something from each other.

It was then I got down on my knees,

began gathering with these hands his

      hair,

hurrying like a mad man,

afraid someone would open the door,

      catch me,

afraid someone would see my

uncontrollable frenzy.

One month later he died and I

      discovered

the magical power of the hair.

It was then when I used that power.

I used it to seduce a woman I loved.

The woman who didn't love me.


by Yvonne Sapia