Annabel Lee visits Blackpool

 a collaboration between Edgar Allan Poe and Ashley Lister

 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 she worked by the tower, for three quid an hour

Near that bingo that sells the cheap tea.

I’d just left school and she’d just left school

In this kingdom by the sea

This was back in an age, before minimum wage

I and my Annabel Lee

When three quid an hour, wasn’t bad by the tower

In this kingdom by the sea

We worked day-long shifts, selling rock and crap gifts

I and my Annabel Lee

We worked all summer-through, flogging plastic dog-poo

To those visiting by the sea.

And we loved with a love that was more than a love

I and my Annabel Lee

With a love that the managers’ watching above

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago

In this kingdom by the sea

That the bosses, those tossers, who wielded the power

Came down from their seats in their ivory tower

Decrying and lying, defying belief

Blaming her, claiming that she was a thief

And sacking my Annabel Lee

Cruelly firing – no chance of rehiring –

My beautiful Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those bosses that tore us apart

Yes, she’d taken some stock, Twenty gross of cheap rock

But she also had stolen my heart

And some cuddly toys, And kids hats for small boys

But she also had stolen my heart

And a case of key rings, And some other cheap things

But she also had stolen my heart

Now the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of my beautiful Annabel Lee.

She works on a car boot, selling dodgy nicked loot

From this kingdom by the sea

And the managers watching, covetously above

Can never dissever my soul from the love

Of my beautiful Annabel Lee

And, cos I keep supplying, the stuff that she’s buying

In this kingdom by the sea.

Our love is uplifting, because I keep shoplifting

For my beautiful Annabel Lee.

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A swinging time with Edgar Allan Poe.

I can’t imagine he was particularly a party animal, but his poems are the reason I started writing. The disturbing images and beautiful rhyme are so perfectly evocative and haunting. Poe drew my attention to the power of language, and that’s where I first fell in love with words. For this blog, I’m going to put in a poem I wrote in sixth form. I was bored in a class, and recently distressed over a broken friendship so in with my disengaged mind was mulling over it. During the teaching hour a magpie fluttered onto a metal beam crossing the window and inspiration struck. Here is my own version of ‘The Raven’.

 

 

Little magpie, your life is coincidentally small, cruelly reminding me of mine,

Perched upon steel in a concrete jungle, preening, dreaming.

Your feathers twined with darkness, glistening with the skies tears,

And though you don’t fix your gaze, I know you can feel my sorrow.

 

I could easily say you are out to prey,

With a beak of melancholic grey, away,

From sunshine and laughter in which all is reflected in day,

For you seem to be the night when you flutter out to play.

 

You could be the reason my stomach hurts so,

Your deep aching pecks spreading ice with each blow.

And you could take joy in the cracks, now dispersing,

Along my childlike heart, time echoing and reversing.

 

My blood would look pretty in your feathers, a crimson gloss of pain,

So I imagine it to be what you are preening, not the hot summer rains.

I could imagine that Morrigan has sent you, hands knitted with glee,

Sensing the chaotic war that writhes within me.

 

But alas you are gone now, leaving nothing behind,

But my worry still lingers along with the tick tock of time.

Away with Morrigan; magpie, there’s no war to be won,

If you temper my fire, I will reach for the gun.

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In memories not forgotten - A tribute to Edgar Allan Poe by Colin Davies

In memories not forgotten - A tribute to Edgar Allan Poe by Colin Davies

In death you sleep with the dark ones

Shadows falling on you like silk

“Peace now” she whispers in the rain

And the Raven hangs his head, in silence

Images live in words because you dreamt

Feelings entwined in night air

“Live long” she whispers in the distance

And the Raven hangs his head, in silence

The words stop coming but live forever

Your legacy haunts the halls of modern minds

“I love you” she whispered in the morning

And the Raven hangs his head, in silence.

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Writing and Money

 

 By Ashley Lister

 "If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favour you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”

Dorothy Parker (attrib)

I echo the sentiments that have been shared this week. It’s Saturday and each day so far this week on the Dead Good Blog there’s been sage and erudite advice from the team of regular writers here: all sharing their insights into the mechanics of our vocation. Now it’s my turn and, as the sub-topic doesn’t seem to have been covered so far, I may as well touch on the subject of writing and money.

I could repeat Moliere’s thoughts here: “Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” Or I could reiterate Johnson: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” I could even cite Twain who advised: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for.”

But these are cynical mindsets, driven by a capitalist ideal where financial success equates to achievement and accomplishment. And, as a writer, I’m aware there is little money fairly distributed to writers in the publishing world.

As an example, consider the fact that Edgar Allan Poe received the grand total of $24 in his lifetime for ‘The Raven’, and this was after selling it twice. Compare this paltry amount with the Fifty Shades trilogy, which was making its author $1,000,000 dollars a week at one point after its release. If we compare these two financially, E L James’s fiction is vastly superior to ‘The Raven’.

However, I don’t think there would be many critics who would agree that judgement reflects on the comparative quality of the two works.

If the measure of success in writing was solely determined by financial reward, this would mean the ‘best’ writers of our generation are Stephanie Meyer, Jeffrey Archer and Dan Brown.

That’s a heady concept to digest. If, for one instant, I thought that was true, I’d cite it as compelling evidence that capitalism is a flawed system and should be abandoned immediately ad I'd advocate rioting the in the streets and unstoppable anarchy.

But what would I know? I’m a writer so I know nothing about the subject of money. A writer talking about money is like the pope talking about contraception. An outsider can look at either of them and ask: What the f**k would he know about that subject?

So, to develop Twain’s maxim, I’d say: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, carry on for as long as the vocation still entertains you.”  Or, at least, until one of Dorothy’ Parker’s well-meaning friends puts you out of your misery and shoots you whilst you’re happy.  

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Editing the Great Writers

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