Edgar Allen Poe's "The Raven" dramatized at The Garth Gallery in Columbia, Pennsylvania

            You decide to work on the Edgar Allen Poe’s captivating and dark image-rich poem, “The Raven.” Shadowy impressions of that ebony bird posed upon the bust of Pallus had haunted your thoughts for decades but it was only recently that you imagined dramatizing it. Then when you find yourself tapping your feet to the rythym of a jazz musician’s trumpet at The Garth Gallery in Columbia, Pennsylvania, the idea bursts into your consciousness.

             So you read the poem. How in Hell can you work this into a theatrical presentation? Theater involves a special kind of communication with spectators: the script is the guide, but the breath and the voice in all of their variations bring life to the characters, as do the movements, the forms that the body assumes, the costumes, the lighting, the pauses, the direction of intent for each action…

             One thing is to read a poem to yourself in front of your fireplace. Quite different is to recite it, hear the words resound. But how are you supposed to read it? In this case Poe helps and hinders at the same time. His verse is rich in images, is incredibly rhythmic and utilizes repetition as an essential recourse.

      
    However, what you propose is theatrical. So you have to ask yourself other essential questions: who is the protagonist? What is the role of the author, Poe, in the performance. What significance do the graphic images have? (midnight dreary, tapping, rapping, wind, nevermore, bust upon my chamber door, ebony fowl…) Is there an underlying meaning, does Poe want to “say” something with this poem? Should I say the lines rhythmically—as in the poem itself—or should I perhaps break them up into what might be closer to the rhythm of speech of a man living alone? What words or phrases should be stressed? How should the strong emotions of the protagonist be treated—his melancholic sense of loss for Leanore, the growing sense of dread, fear and frustration with the raven.

             I decided first to memorize the poem (not an easy task) and then step by step let the movements emerge, the dress, the idea of connecting up with Shakespeare’s Macabeth, the tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow speech where he laments the death of his wife and anticipates his own demise. Then a basement, in front of the boiler,  the rehearsing began. By the night of the performance—April 18^th—I had barely gone through the whole idea three or four times.  
  One interesting aspect of the performance developed with the ingenuity of the producer and master of ceremony, Louise Imm-Cooper, who suggested combining with poets who would read their poems. However, since not many were available we selected poems which we placed in a basket—to be chosen and read by participants in the event. We were greatly surprised when most of them did so, and very well!

Following the performance there was an exchange of ideas concerning the event and then I asked numerous spectators to send me their written critical views to be published in this blog.

Frank Lane:

 "As, I leave the theater of life and enter into the compressed theatrical space with a playbill in hand, I anticipate a dramatic slice of life that will be delivered with passion and in an esthetic form. "The Raven" certainly met my highest expectations, as did the performance space at Cafe Garth in Columbia. I have had a short but tempestuous relationship with regard to poetry. No, it was not a conflict between Trochaic Octameter and the Sonnet form but one about antiwar poetry.

Now, 40 years later, I return to see Alfredo of the Hopkins Theater–in –English Workshop from Argentina perform his rendition of the Raven by Poe. 

The semi-circular seating of the performance space and the prefatory poetry reading helped to create an intimacy between audience and performer. Each person picked from the collective communion basket an offertory poem to the Goddess Thaleia.

Before I read, my mind’s eye had images of Julian Beck (”we insisted on experimentation that was an image for a changing society. If one can experiment in theatre, one can experiment in life.”)  and of Pirandello's “Tonight We Improvise.”

With these references in mind, my experience of the performance of “The Raven” slowly moved me out of the modernist worldview and into a postmodern experience. Alfredo’s mastery of a highly structured poetic form and his skill as an improvisational artist shaped the ideas of the poem into a postmodern multi-sensory work. Refined kinetic movements, dramatic oratory and an authentic focus on the poetic narrative characterized his performance. 

The audience was guided by his sculpted facial expressions through the multiple images and symbols used by Poe. Each appeared to have its own dénouement, a tension that was carried by Alfredo’s improvisation. Kudos to the impresario, Louise Imm- Cooper, to the photographer Bill Adams, whose exquisite use of light intensified the photos, and to Nichols, the Sonneteer from Columbia, whose reading from Lloyd Mifflin reconnected the evening to modernity.

While the intensity of the raven echoed through the hall, upon the mantle sat a stoic symbol of parody. The vulture watched with steely eyes signifying that all of this and that of this performance would be lost in “Nevermore” if it were not for the sustaining power of Art. [1] Gary Botting, The Theatre of Protest in America, Edmonton: Harden House, 1972."

        Bill Adams: “I really enjoyed your interpretation. Many years ago I had heard the Raven’s lone, “nevermore” done in a gloomy eerie fashion which suggests anthropomorphic quality. The generally accepted reasoning is Poe choose the Raven and designed the wording of the poem around a “bird brain” who was simply taught to say its name, a mindless automaton and the way in which you said it supported that assumption, so I was curious if that play any part in your presentation. The way you presented it was in keeping with what is thought to be Poe’s so you are in good company.”

               Describing himself as a relative moralist, he asserted that there is neither a right nor a wrong way of doing things. “If the purpose of your performance was to do it as Poe would have done it, then a host of issues become important. But you were doing your own interpretation and therefore the only judge is you yourself as to how well you did it.”

               Carol Galligan, painter: “I was thinking about the rhythm yesterday. My son ‘brought me up’ with is percussion studies. The sounds of the beat of a drum is so familiar to me. Had you ever thought of just doing the ‘dance’ (I call it a ‘dance’) of all the movements without words, only making sounds with each movement? Maybe just the beat of a drum. I would have to be a good drummer…an educated percussionist who can make the drum speak with you (Poe). I think I experienced the piece as a dance. I loved the use of black…oh, and then the blowing out of the candle…so significant!!! I love the way you turned a black piecve of material into a pair of wings!!! Beautiful! I do not object to improvisation…absolutely not! I can’t be objective about that. It’s the way I paint!!! I also call what I do a dance.”

      
  You are alone, in silence, in darkness, with your fantasies, all is a shambles, and sadness sees no light. A verse enters your memory, images flitter in the dim reflected light of the fireplace. Edgar is there slumped over and mumbling about a strange visitor, an illusion from the past whispers in your ear: “It’s the Raven, it has returned! Wake up! Oh, is it you my love, Lenore is it you?”

      Night of poetry reading and dramatization of “The Raven.” Come read your favorite poem, listen to others read theirs, then grab your seat for Alfred Hopkins’ dramatization of Poe’s memorable verse.

  

       April 18^th 6:30 in the evening at The Garth, 22 South 2^nd Street, Columbia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. Booking:  Donation: $7.00.

             * Contact: hopalfred@gmail.com

"Method for Defense against Scorpions," a short story by Argentine writer Fernando Sorrentino

People are surprised, fearful and even indignant over the considerable proliferation of scorpions which threatens Buenos Aires, a city which until quite recently had been entirely free of this particular genus of arachnid.

Unimaginative individuals have recourse to an overly traditional method of defense against the scorpions: the employment of poisons. The more imaginative fill their houses with toads, frogs and lizards, in the hope that they will devour the scorpions. Both groups fail abominably: the scorpions firmly refuse to ingest poisons while the reptiles refuse to ingest scorpions. Both groups, in their ineptness and haste, succeed in one thing only: to exacerbate —even more, if possible— the hatred which scorpions profess toward all humanity.

I have a different method. I have attempted, unsuccessfully, to disseminate it; like all trailblazers, I am misunderstood. I believe my method to be, in all modesty, not only the best, but the only possible method of defense against the scorpions.

Its basic principle consists of avoiding a direct confrontation, of engaging in brief but risky skirmishes, of concealing our enmity from the scorpions. (Of course, I know that one must proceed with caution, I know that the sting of a scorpion is fatal. It is true that if I were to stuff myself into a diving suit I would be completely safe from the scorpion; it is no less true that if I were to do that the scorpions would know, with complete certainty, that I fear them. And I am very much afraid of scorpions. But one mustn’t lose his equanimity.)

An elementary measure, one which is effective while free from overemphasis on violence and ominous theatricals, is composed of two simple steps. The first is to tie the cuffs of my trousers with very taut rubber bands; this is to prevent the scorpions from crawling up my legs. The second is to pretend that I suffer greatly from cold and to wear a pair of leather gloves at all times; this is to avoid being stung on the hands. (More than one negative spirit has pointed out only the disadvantages that this method entails in the summer without recognizing its undeniable and more general merits.) The head, however, should be left uncovered; this is the best way of presenting the scorpions with a brave and optimistic image of ourselves. Besides, scorpions are not normally in the habit of hurling themselves from the ceiling onto the human face, although at times they do. (This, at any rate, is what happened to my late neighbor, the mother of four cunning little kiddies, now orphans. To make matters worse, these facts give rise to erroneous theories which only serve to make the struggle against the scorpions more arduous and troublesome. As a matter of fact, the surviving husband, with no adequate scientific basis, affirms that the six scorpions were attracted by the intensely blue color of the victim’s eyes and adduces as flimsy proof of such a rash assertion the fact, totally fortuitous, that the stings were distributed in groups of three to each pupil. I honestly believe that this is a mere superstition dreamed up by the cowardly mind of this pusillanimous individual.)

Exactly as when on the defense, it is necessary to pretend to be unaware of the existence of the scorpions while attacking them. As though by accident, I —as cool as could be— managed to kill from eighty to a hundred scorpions every day. I proceed in the following manner which, for the survival of the human race, I hope will be imitated and, if possible, perfected.

Appearing distracted, I sit down in the kitchen and begin to read the newspaper. Every once in a while I look at my watch and mumble to myself, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the scorpions: “Damn! Why the devil doesn’t Pérez call?” Pérez’ undependability angers me and provides the excuse to stamp my feet wrathfully on the floor a few times; in this way I massacre no less than ten of the innumerable scorpions which cover the floor. At irregular intervals I repeat my expression of impatience and in this manner I manage to kill quite a large number. This is not to say that I slight the equally innumerable scorpions which completely cover the ceiling and the walls (which are five quivering, throbbing, shifting black seas); from time to time I feign an attack of hysteria and hurl some heavy object against the wall, not neglecting to keep cursing that damned Pérez for taking so long to call. It’s a shame that I’ve already broken several sets of cups and dishes and that I live among dented pots and pans; but the price of defending oneself from the scorpions is high. At last, someone inevitably calls. “It’s Pérez!” I shout and rush to the phone. Naturally, my haste and my anxiousness are such that I fail to notice the thousands upon thousands of scorpions which softly carpet the floor and burst underfoot with the gelatinously harsh sound of an egg being cracked. At times —but only at times; it wouldn’t do to overindulge in this recourse— I trip and fall full length, thus appreciably enlarging the area of my impact and, consequently, the number of dead scorpions. When I get to my feet once more, my clothes are completely decorated with the sticky corpses of a great many scorpions; detaching them one by one is a delicate task but one which allows me to savor my triumph.

Now I’d like to indulge in a short digression in order to relate an anecdote, enlightening in itself, concerning an incident that happened to me some days ago and in which, without intending to do so, I played a heroic role, if I say so myself.

It was lunch time. As usual I found the table covered with scorpions; the silverware, covered with scorpions; the stove, covered with scorpions... With patience, with resignation, with my eyes averted, I gradually pushed them off and on to the floor. Since the struggle against the scorpions consumes the greater part of my time, I decided to fix myself a fast meal: a few fried eggs. There I was, eating them, every so often pushing aside some particularly bold scorpion that had climbed up on the table or that was walking on my knees when, from the ceiling, an especially vigorous and robust scorpion fell —or jumped— into my plate.

Petrified, I dropped my knife and fork. How was I to interpret that behavior? Was it merely a chance occurrence? An attack on my person? A test? I remained perplexed for some instants... What were the scorpions’ intentions toward me? Being a seasoned soldier in the battle against them, I understood immediately. They wanted to force me to modify my method of defense, to make me decidedly shift to the offensive. But I was very sure of the effectiveness of my strategy; they would not succeed in tricking me.

With repressed rage I saw the scorpion’s thick, hairy legs splashing in the eggs, I saw its body becoming impregnated with yellow, I saw the venomous tail waving in the air like a shipwrecked sailor calling for help... Objectively considered, the scorpion’s death struggle constituted a beautiful spectacle. But it made me a bit nauseous. I almost bungled it; I thought of tossing the contents of the plate into the incinerator. Still, I have a great deal of will power and managed to restrain myself in time. If I had not, I would have earned the abhorrence and the reproof of the thousands upon thousands of scorpions which, with renewed suspicion, were watching me from the ceiling, the walls, the floor, the stove, the lamps... Then they would have had a pretext to consider themselves under attack and who knows what could have occurred.

I steeled myself and, pretending not to notice the scorpion that was still struggling in my plate, I ate it distractedly together with the egg and even mopped the plate with a crust of bread in order not to leave even one bit of scorpion and egg. It turned out to be not as repugnant as I had feared. Just a trifle acid perhaps, but that sensation might have been due to the fact that my palate was still unaccustomed to the ingestion of scorpions. With the last mouthful I smiled with satisfaction. Later it occurred to me that the scorpion’s shell, tougher than I would have liked, might cause me indigestion so, delicately, in order not to offend the rest of the scorpions, I drank a glass of Alka Seltzer.

There are other variants of this method but, and this is the crux of it, it is necessary to remember that it is essential to proceed as if one were unaware of the presence —better yet, the existence— of the scorpions. Even so, I am now assaulted by some doubts. I think the scorpions have begun to realize that my attacks are not accidents. Yesterday, when I dropped a pot of boiling water on the floor, I noticed that, from the refrigerator door, some three or four hundred scorpions were observing me rancorously, suspiciously, reprovingly.

Maybe my method too is destined to fail. But, for now, I cannot think of any better method of defending myself from the scorpions.

  (From En defensa propia, 1982)

Spanish title: “Para defenderse de los escorpiones”; translated by Clark M. Zlotchew