Jealous Angels

NARRATOR / NIGHT WATCHMAN (gentle, amused):
It’s amazing what feels different in a museum at midnight.
In the daytime, the lights are bright, the brochures are tidy, the gift shop is cheerful…
…but when the doors are locked and the echoes stretch a little longer…
you start to notice the small things.

The way the glass cases hold their breath.
The way the EXIT signs glow like tiny red moons.
And, sometimes…
the way one little plastic head keeps nodding…
long after everyone’s gone home.

Tonight, we’re back in the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Ar    tifacts.
And down one of the quieter aisles—past the superhero lunchboxes, past the snow globes that never stop snowing—
Somewhere between Shakespeare in his ruffled collar and a slightly bewildered Jane Austen…
there he is.

Transcript

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity. This series is Conversations with Toys, and this episode is the first of three episodes in a series called “Poe on a Spring”  This specific episode it's called jealous angels

And as usual, let’s get the disclaimer out-of-the-way.

This podcast is a dramatization that blends historical research with fiction, satire, and imagined conversations between people, toys, and other objects. It is not a documentary and not professional advice of any kind. No character, toy, product, or brand depicted in this podcast is authorized by, endorsed by, or officially affiliated with any company, manufacturer, museum, or organization; references to specific names are for storytelling only and do not imply sponsorship or approval.

Now let's have some fun.

[SOFT, SLIGHTLY SPOOKY MUSIC UNDER — NOTHING TOO DARK]

NARRATOR / NIGHT WATCHMAN (gentle, amused):
It’s amazing what feels different in a museum at midnight.
In the daytime, the lights are bright, the brochures are tidy, the gift shop is cheerful…
…but when the doors are locked and the echoes stretch a little longer…
you start to notice the small things.

The way the glass cases hold their breath.
The way the EXIT signs glow like tiny red moons.
And, sometimes…
the way one little plastic head keeps nodding…
long after everyone’s gone home.

Tonight, we’re back in the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Ar    tifacts.
And down one of the quieter aisles—past the superhero lunchboxes, past the snow globes that never stop snowing—
Somewhere between Shakespeare in his ruffled collar and a slightly bewildered Jane Austen…
there he is.

A tiny man in a black coat.
A serious mustache.
Eyes that look like they’ve seen too many midnights.
And beneath that mournful gaze… a spring.
And on a shoulder is a raven
This, my friends,
is the Edgar Allan Poe bobblehead.

[TINY, FAINT “SPRONG” AS THE HEAD WOBBLES]

Night watchmen (leaning in, almost whispering):
I swear I only brushed the shelf a little.
But his head began to nod…
up and down…
up and down…
As if he were saying,
“Yes, yes… at last. Someone to talk to.”
And then he started talking

NARRATOR / NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Welcome to Conversations with Toys.

POE BOBBLEHEAD (dry, slightly theatrical, maybe a bit Southern Gothic meets Richmond):
Ah. At last.
A living soul who isn’t just rushing past to buy a keychain.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (startled, but amused):
…Did you just—?

POE BOBBLEHEAD (head wobbling softly):
Yes. Yes, that was me.
Do calm yourself.
You work in a museum full of talking toys and you’re surprised by a bobblehead?

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Fair point.
You’re… Edgar Allan Poe?

POE BOBBLEHEAD:
A plastic approximation,
pressed and painted and glued onto a spring.
But yes, I answer to Poe.
Or “the Raven guy.”
Or “that spooky fellow Mom says you can’t read until you’re older.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN (chuckling):
People do know you mostly for one poem.

POE BOBBLEHEAD:
Oh, I’m quite aware.
For many listeners, I am essentially a man in a gloomy room,
asking a bird terrible questions
and never getting the answer he wants.
I wrote about love, and loss, and mystery…
invented detectives, even!
And yet, I get reduced to “goth crow man.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
To be fair, it’s a very memorable crow.

POE BOBBLEHEAD (offended):
Raven.
Raven, if you please.
Even on a spring, a man has his dignity.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (warmly):
Right. Raven.
Tell me, Mister Poe—
what’s it like, being a toy version of yourself?

POE BOBBLEHEAD:
Strange.
Some children tap my head for luck on spelling tests.
Some adults keep me on their desks,
hoping I’ll whisper the first line of their next novel.

Most of the time, I just watch.
I bobble while people write,
and worry,
and drink too much coffee.

It is not so different from being a writer, really—
only less ink and more dust.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
People say your stories are dark.
But when I listen closely, they sound like…
someone trying very hard to make sense of their own fears.

POE BOBBLEHEAD:
Exactly.
I took the things that frightened me—
loneliness, loss, the feeling that your own heartbeat is too loud—
and I put them into stories.
When you write them down,
your fears have to follow the rules of a sentence.
They have to stand in line.
They become… manageable.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So, in a way, you were using creativity
the way a child might talk to a favorite toy at night.
Telling the truth to something that will listen.

POE BOBBLEHEAD (softening):
Yes.
A toy listens without judgment.
So does a blank page.
If someone’s listening to this
and they feel a little too haunted by their own thoughts…
they could do worse than pick up a notebook,
or a paintbrush,
or a musical instrument.
Not all ravens say “Nevermore.”
Some of them are just waiting to carry a message out of your mind
and into the world.

Poe
Permit me to recite two of my most famous poems.  As a bit of background let me point out that most people feel the poem is about grief. I had lost many people close to me due to tuberculosis - such women as my mother, foster mother, and a wife. Some say that Lenore represents all those losses and the Raven represents my overwhelming grief -  a sadness that was greater than any force that I could withstand. Many people alive in the 19th century understood my grief because they were personally affected by tuberculosis.

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 name 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 stillness 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 upon 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 farther 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 fancy 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 hath 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 name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 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!

Pause

Now "Annabel Lee" is about an all-consuming love between the narrator and his beautiful maiden.  He believes that his love for Annabel LeeAnnabel Lee is a love so profound that it incites heavenly angels to send a wind chilling and killing his love, leading her to a tomb by the sea, where the narrator still lies beside her, their souls forever bound despite death, as the narrator laments their lost love, attributing her death to jealous angels. 

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 this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

NIGHT WATCHMAN (gentle):
Thank you Mr. Poe. What is there left to say?
The lights in the museum will come back on soon in a few hours
Kids will run past this shelf,
some of them with toy ravens on their T-shirts,
some of them just noticing a funny little man on a spring
who nods when the floorboards creak.

Most of them will never know
that tonight,
the Edgar Allan Poe bobblehead
Recited two of his most well-known poems.

POE BOBBLEHEAD (quietly):
Quoth the bobble…
“what is your story”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I’m the Night Watchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Toys and Childhood Artifacts.
Thanks for keeping me company.
Until next time…
I’ll keep an eye on the toys—
and they’ll keep an eye on us.

Sources include: The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poe: Mournful and Never-Ending Remembrance by Kenneth Silverman, Poe’s Richmond by Agnes M. Bondurant, and The Reason for the Darkness of the Night: Edgar Allan Poe and the Forging of American Science by John Tresch

Thank you for listening to celebrate creativity.

Aquarium from Carnival of the Animals by composed by Camille Sans-Saen, Performed by the Seattle Youth Orchestra. Source: https://musopen.org/music/1454-the-carnival-of-the-animals/. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).