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The Philosophy of Composition, by Edgar Allan Poe

In The Philosophy of Composition, Edgar Allan Poe explains in detail his process of poetic creation, exemplifying through his best-known poem, the marvelous The Raven.

Without intending to summarize even more what is already extremely summarized in the few pages of the essay, let’s go to some interesting topics.

Poe begins:

I select “The Raven” as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referrible either to accident or intuition— that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

Any surprises? Of course not.

Sweet illusion to those who think that a great artistic creation is the fruit of any divine illumination: it is the fruit of hard work, criteria, and rigor.

The Raven is, aesthetically, impeccable. The atmosphere and musicality that emanate from this little poem are magnificent.

And it is interesting to verify the progression of Poe’s creative process: first, the idea; then, the tone; then, the format; and finally, the composition.

That is to say: by composing The Raven, by thinking about how he would develop The Raven, Poe sat already knowing what he would compose, how much he would compose, and how he would compose. The unity achieved was not the result of luck.

Another interesting aspect of The Philosophy of Composition is the way Poe emphasizes the importance of the tone of the poem: primary, once defined, influences all other stages of poetic construction.

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

And The Raven, imbued with melancholy, overflows the feeling, and the reader, in a few verses, sees himself in a similar state of mind.

This occurs, first, because of the pictorial effects: the tempestuous night, the loneliness in the room, and the raven that erupts from the darkness.

Then, because of the melancholy coming from the death of the beloved woman.

And finally, because of the repetition of the closed, grave, and long phonemes at the end of the stanzas—”nevermore”, “nevermore”, “nothing more”, “nothing more”…

The Raven is a wonderful, untranslatable poem that, after closed, remains echoing. And if something is concluded after knowing its constructive process, it is that the high level, in poetry, is reached only as a result of tremendous rigor.

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Patience Is Necessary to Compose a Poem

I once said that forcing the beginning of the movement of the fingers is enough for the prose to take life. Or, in other words: prose is made by force. How different is poetry! In it, there is nothing to do: for it to come out with quality, it is necessary, above all, patience. In order to begin to compose it, the poem must be practically ready, that is: structurally defined and with the verses, at least, well sketched. And patience for the terrible work of finding among hundreds of thousands of words those that express the thought, fit the rhythm, and deliver the desired sonority. And more patience: for when, after exhausting work, the poem appears finished, it is time to put it to rest. Weeks? Months? What is clear is that, without tremendous patience, the verses do not reach the desired final form.

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Perseverance and Nothing More…

All my still tiny literary production is the fruit of a perseverance that I never had for any other activity. I must, I admit, pay honors to the ear plugs and muffs, an invention infinitely more useful than, for example, the telephone: when units of different models overlap, they produce peace and solve a large part of my problems. However, if I analyze more carefully, I find all reality hostile to my act of writing. It is Saturday: the day of alcohol and socialization. I find myself, at this very moment, with my computer on top of a shoebox, and it, in turn, is on a bedside table at the end of my room; I sit on a chair that looks more like a stool: low, uncomfortable, with no support for my back; and my legs are immobile, each one embedded in a space of no more than fifteen centimeters in the gap that opens, on one side, between the wall and the bedside table and, on the other, between this one and my bed. “This is a joke. From a place like this, no art will ever come out…”—but it’s not over: a car, in the street, plays loudly any sertanejo music; a neighbor screams on the phone—obstinate, she wants to penetrate my mind, but I smile, for I know she will not…—I thought a few months ago: “In my present condition, it is impossible to write”. But from here, from this tight, uncomfortable, and noisy space came almost all my few hundred pages, in poetry and prose. There is no silence—never!;—there is no waterfall rumbling pleasantly close to me; the view, from my window, is of a vandalized grey, electric and spiral fences, tangled wires hanging from poles, windows broken for years and never restored, among other unpleasant details. To write, to concentrate on writing, to produce art, is an act of rebellion against all that surrounds me; it is, essentially, a definitive and complete refusal. And I have, in this short time of work, paid the price in different currencies. There is no reward, no favorable prospect, and the time employed along these lines would be infinitely better employed, in the eyes of the world, in any other activity. Well, stupid world: I have never felt my efforts as honorable as now!

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The Poetic Principle, by Edgar Allan Poe

In radical opposition to a non-fictional text in prose, whose object is usually rationality, lies poetry, whose purpose is often rewarded with incomprehension.

The poet never sits concerned with the logical exposition of an idea or feeling: what he seeks is the power of expression, the beauty. And it is better the poem whose meaning is suggested, – and not lucidly demonstrated, – making room for interpretation, in total opposition to the character of a scientific text.

Well. Edgar Allan Poe, in this essay entitled The Poetic Principle, discusses his conception of poetry. Let us comment on some passages:

I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

Controversial. But if we understand a long poem as the concatenation of minor poetic units, Poe’s reasoning makes sense.

A poetic construction needs to be loaded with the same tone, with a well-defined goal, otherwise it will be less powerful. The poem, in this logic, boils down to a single movement of ascension.

Poe goes on to say where he thinks the value of a poem is:

The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length.

Just. Any rapture is, by definition, transitory. It is impossible to sustain excitement for long without losing its strength.

But what about the great epic poems?

Poe is categorical, referring to the Iliad:

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good reason, for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect sense of Art.

Here, a note.

The apex of several of the great poems is subordinated to the construction of a preparatory atmosphere—at times, it can be said, unnecessary but often fundamental, and several of the best poetic constructions have their unity as a qualitative and fortifying character.

To waste verses to build as one does in prose will certainly damage the quality of a poem. But how can we deny, for example, that Paradiso, even composed in smaller chants, as suggested by Poe, does not have the effect amplified by being where it is in the Commedia?

Other interesting passage:

It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.

Morality, truth, and judgment are, for the poet, chains. What the poet feels or thinks must necessarily be in the background in the act of poetic construction.

That is to say: when composing a poem, the poet must turn his spirit to the construction of a supreme, harmonious, and full beauty, even if this requires a detachment of his own essence: a poem, if great, goes beyond the concepts of the artist who generated it.

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