In this post, we are going to discuss Edgar Allan Poe by referencing more of his excellent poetry. In this case, in discussing “The Conqueror Worm” by Poe, we find that, much like “The Raven,” it’s mechanically sound. It also has an undercurrent of evil, which is unequivocally menacing: “It writhes! –It writhes!” It’s also a magnificent addition to Poe’s already airtight catalogue of horror and suspense.
The “Conquer Worm” in this case can be seen as death at the end of a tumultuous play. The fear, the fright, and the violence present in his works is always something worth investigating, as it is rarely just that, but more symptomatic of a deeper psychological undercurrent. Take for instance the following lines: “Out—out are the lights—out all! / And, over each quivering form, / The curtain, a funeral pall.” The “funeral pall” in question is one of death and it inevitability. Of course, relating this back to gothic horror is essential because it’s Poe, so we can’t leave out the guilt and sin aspect. Fear as the “quivering form” can only allude to those masses in shaking terror–sinners be damned to Hell.
“The Conqueror Worm” by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
