Many of us who walk on the dark side have a special fondness for Edgar Allan Poe. As a child, I took Poe's hand and let him lead me into the twilight world of his imagination--where black cats possess terrifying prescience, where worms rule supreme, where women come back from the dead, and where even prose can be sheer poetry. This page is Uncialle's tribute to her old favorite. I must thank J, who took the photographs of the ravens whose images I have used on this page.

Poe's tomb lies within the old Burying Ground of Westminster Church, in Baltimore, Maryland, but the Burying Ground is much older than the church. In October 1998, Uncialle and Magnus visited the place where Poe lies buried. The old Burying Ground stares out upon a busy street through high, barred gates.

Just inside the gates stands this impressive monument of white marble, under which Poe now lies, along with his beloved child-wife, Virginia Clemm, and her mother. Bouquets of flowers lie wilting at the monument's base, left by admirers like Uncialle. One offering I found quite poignant: a withering wreath of bittersweet (base of plinth, on the right). This is Poe's tombstone, in the world's view. However . . .

Down a narrow brick path, past the tombs of Revolutionary War soldiers, past the sad gravestones of small children, past ranks of Civil War dead, in the deep shade behind the tall brick church--is found another stone, less grand, invisible from the street, lost in dead leaves and in time. This raven-haunted stone marks the original burial site of Edgar Allan Poe. (His grandfather, David Poe, a hero of the Revolutionary War, lies just to the east. ) After Poe, who died in obscurity, was "discovered," he and the two women were exhumed and moved to the gate site, where the splendid monument was erected. I think that Poe, who may have had a horror of being buried alive, would have been in favor of being moved. And all authors, after all, wish to be remembered.

Does Poe's spirit linger in this darkling place? Oh, yes. As Uncialle and Magnus approached the old grave, a shadow flanked us. Astonishingly, a black cat, appearing as from nowhere, was suddenly there upon the grass. The cat had no stain or hair of white, and its eyes were the green of sunwashed peridot.

The cat was quite at home in the Burying Ground. It stretched, briefly stalked a squirrel, and finally poured itself into a narrow gap between an old wall and an iron gate, and vanished.

Each January 19, Edgar Allan Poe's birthday, a solitary mourner of unknown identity leaves a half-consumed bottle of cognac and a single rose on Poe's grave. The unknown mourner has left this tribute each year for many decades. I do not leave a bottle and a rose, but this page, as my poor tribute in this modern age of pixels and pestilence.

Rise up, old teacher, and terrify new generations. Go, spirit of Edgar, and dream for them some very dark dreams.