By Larry Lefkowitz –
A recently discovered previously unknown poem written by Edgar Allen Poe
together with notes on how it came to be written has caused a sensation among
Poe experts and aficionados.
As Poe’s notes testify, from New York City where he lived and worked, he
journeyed to the Catskill Mountains, where his doctor sent him to treat his
depression and over-alcoholic imbibing.
One sunny afternoon, as he sat under the shade of an oak tree, Poe was struck by
a sudden inspiration. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper
and a pen. He scribbled the verse that became the poem “Annabel Lee.” More
importantly, he then proceeded to relate how he came to write, in his words, “a
far greater poem,” namely, “Meeting Sheila in the Catskills.”
Just as he finished “Annabel Lee,” a young woman, with large dark eyes, walked
by. Anything dark attracted his attention, and he scrutinized her. A buxom
young woman, she boasted other attributes, including an impressive derriere and
(to quote Poe) “lips like the curve of Bear Mountain’s summit and breasts like
twin Catskill Mountains that sloped down to a belly flat as the beach at the
Jersey shore.”
“Who are you?” Poe could only stammer.
She stopped and gave him the once-over from foot to head before answering,
apparently not for the first time the focus of admiring attention from men.
“Sheila Shloshberg—in person.” After a pause, “Nu, and who are you?”
“Alas, but a poor poet,” Poe replied.
“Yeah, not much money in that.”
“I was speaking more philosophically.”
“My mother says I’m very philosophical. Especially when she wants me to do the dishes.
You want my philosophy of life? You got it”:
The chicken of life
Is by the shochet breasted
The stuffing remains.
Poe scratched his head, as he was given to do when his curiosity was aroused. “What’s a
shochet?”
“A kosher slaughterer.”
“You are a Jewess.”
“A Jewish woman.”
“Ah, Jewish. I believe the Talmudic expression, “Find wife, find good,” was originally,
‘Find wife, find a good woman.’”
“Whatever.”
“Maybe we…,” Poe hesitated, poetry was one thing, courting a woman, another.
Especially one with such magnificent proportions.
Sheila deciphered his intention. “Aoyb ir lang genug epes kenen pasirin.”
Poe bestowed on her a puzzled look.
“Yiddish for ‘If you live long enough anything can happen.’”
Was Sheila giving him hope or rejecting him?
Poe said nothing, not sure how to respond.
“Nu?” Sheila prodded.
Rare for him, at a loss for words, Poe, simply reddened and smiled a weak smile.
“’Inzihist,” she sneered.
Poe looked puzzled.
“The introspective.”
“In Yiddish,” he surmised out loud.
“You’re a fast learner.”
“You don’t mince words.”
“I mince chopped liver.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“If you say so.”
Such an unusual, impressive, forceful, and above all, beautiful woman demanded that he
write a poem about her.
He envisioned her as a free spirit, deeply connected to the natural world. He pictured her
wandering the Catskills with an untamed spirit, her laughter blending with the songs of
birds and the babbling brook. The poem took on a life of its own, a kind of modern Song
of Songs, guided by the essence of Sheila and the enchanting beauty of the Catskills.
“I will write a poem about you,” he exclaimed with fervor. “Maybe it will lead to our…”
“Forget it! I need a guy who can support me, and our family, I want a lot of kids. You
seem to me a leydikgeyer.”
“Oh?”
“A good for nothing.”
“At least good enough to immortalize you in a poem entitled, ‘Meeting Sheila in the
Catskills.’ Maybe it will cause you to rethink our relationship.”
“Don’t jump above your pupik.”
“Pupik?”
“Belly-button.”
Poe brightened. “That gives me an idea for an epic poem about navels of famous beauties,
Helen of Troy, Cleopatra—”
“You do get carried away.”
“Would that I could carry you away to our kingdom by the sea.”
“Atlantic City?”
Poe did not answer, occupied with writing his poem.
Back home in New York City, he polished his creation, working feverishly, still under
the influence of Sheila Shlossberg’s formidable personality, so unlike any other woman
he had met.
When it was done, Poe realized that “Meeting Sheila in the Catskills” was a creation
born form the depths of his imagination catalyzed by his actual meeting with her, a
tribute to his poetic skills. Though he had written “Annabel Lee,” he knew deep in his
heart that this newfound poem was a masterpiece in its own right, one with which
“Annabel Lee” could never compete. Perhaps for this reason, or because Sheila had
rejected him, or because he did not live afterward long enough to overcome being
rejected, he never published the poem.
But we have.
Word of Poe’s extraordinary creation quickly spread. Readers were captivated by the
ethereal world he had created, and “Meeting Sheila in the Catskills” became an emblem
of his unique talent. The poem reminded the reader of the transformative power of
nature and the boundless possibilities of the human spirit as embodied in Sheila
Shlossberg.
Poe had set out to write, and did write, “Annabel Lee,” but in the end, he discovered
something even more extraordinary—a piece of himself entwined with the beauty of the
Catskills and the enchantment of Sheila’s world, even if in reality his hopes for her—and
himself—did not eventuate. And as he continued his journey as a poet, it surely
sustained him. And it sustains us, rightly canonized as Poe’s most successful
manifestation of his poetic art.
Larry Lefkowitz is retired and engages in his hobby of writing—often, as here, humor. His stories and poetry have been widely published. He lives in Israel.
Art by Irina Tall