Fanny: An Interpretation

Fanny
by Edgar Allan Poe

The dying swan by northern lakes
Sings its wild death song, sweet and clear,
And as the solemn music breaks
O'er hill and glen dissolves in air;
Thus musical thy soft voice came,
Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,
Which veils the solemn midnight sky,
Piercing cold evening's sable shroud
Thus came the first glance of that eye;
But like adamantine rock,
My spirit met and braved the shock.

Let memory the boy recall
Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,
When far away his footsteps fall,
Think that he deem'd thy charms divine;
A victim of love's altar slain,
By witching eyes which looked disdain.

Why did Edgar Allan Poe write a poem about somebody's ass? That is what I thought when I read the title of this poem - Fanny. Poe, it seemed to me, had too much class to write about something so trashy. Although his other works tended to concern the macabre and the psycho-gruesome, his approach had seemed sophisticated. The fact is that old Edgar was a guy, and that "class" was feigned. You knew at some point his true nature would surface. And surface it did; in the form of Fanny. It's not a pretty sight.

Guys like women's asses. If we had the talent, I'm sure we would all write a poem or two praising them. Since the majority of us aren't as gifted as Poe, our verses are manifested in whistles, howls and grunts. Sadly, our efforts aren't as appreciated as of those who can paint with a quill. Fanny is no more than a primal grunt from Poe as he wallowed in the inescapable truth of his maleness.

After reading Fanny I was confused. Not one mention of a butt; not even a cheek. This surprised me, because the word "ass" has many words that rhyme with it: bass, class, gas, glass, lass, mass, etc.. It should have been simple to write a poem using all of those rhymes, not to mention the plethora of rhymes that go with butt, buns, tush, rump, rear end, derriere, gluteus maximus, buttocks and, of course, pooper and turd cutter. Yet, the words in the poem did not seem to live up to the title. I felt disappointed. Instead of giving up, I decided to dig deeper into the hidden meaning of the words on the page. To my delight, Poe, like the master that he was, came through for me.

With most poetry, the meaning is never blatant. Hence the need for interpretation. I gouged the lines of verse to discover Poe's true perspective on the posterior.

The poem presents itself in retrospection of a man looking back on his younger years when he tangled with his attraction to "Fanny", as described in the third stanza: "Let memory the boy recall". The event encoded in memory must have taken place some time in the past, "when far away his footsteps" fell. Obviously, he met someone with a remarkable backside, and he confused his lust for the butt with love for the person who wore the butt. He "deem'd thy charms divine". Literally translated, those charms were an ass made in heaven.

The second stanza describes his first rendezvous with the "Fanny". This gets a little disgusting, so bear with me. Remember, I did not write this poem. I am merely an observer. Also, keep in mind that Poe was bent toward the degenerate side.

In this stanza, he finds himself in the Arctic (I will explain why later), as evidenced by sunburst through the clouds in the "midnight sky". Sun and midnight rarely commingle unless you are near one of the earth's polar regions during the summer. My hunch tells me he was in the north; that's just the kind of guy Poe was. The appearance of the cloudy sky provokes his memory of the initial look at the bung in question: "Thus came the first glance of that eye." In many circles (at least the ones with which I am familiar), the anus is referred to as "the brown eye". Why Poe chose to use this uncouth analogy, one can only guess. So, I will.

At this point in the interpretation process, it helps to have knowledge of the personality of the author. Poe was not very smooth with the ladies. He had a hard time meeting them. One covert strategy he employed was to climb into the pit of the ladies outhouse, pretending to be searching for a lost wallet, with the hopes of initiating a chance encounter. As he was extremely shy, he generally went unnoticed as he floundered in the sewage, too afraid to fulfill his scheme. From this vantage point, Poe had direct view of "the brown eye", if you will. It was during one of these endeavors that he spotted the "eye" of worship and became infatuated with it. You could imagine how the lighting underneath an outhouse might resemble that of a northern evening sky, so I will not offer a graphic description. It is this parallel that stimulates the author's memory to this occasion.

The power of his infatuation or his "spirit"..."like the adamantine rock" vanquished his normal apprehensiveness as it "braved the shock". He pursued and seized the ass and the woman to whom it belonged. Like most relationships based on carnal attraction, this one failed. Focus switches from the single "eye" (her tush), which originally enticed him, to the "witching eyes that looked disdain". Disdain brought about when she finally learned of his cesspit meanderings, which also explained his interesting aroma. He should have known he could not keep his squalid past a secret forever. My guess is that one of his buddies, hopped up on mead, haphazardly blurted it out at a party. She dumped him, leaving him "a victim on love's altar slain".

With a broken soul and pain in his heart, he traveled to the North Pole to introspect. The first stanza begins at this point. After appropriating some of his pent up aggression on the skull of a swan, he takes time to reflect. As he listens from a distance to the wailing of the broken fowl, his retrospection begins. He realizes that the swan's "wild death song" (probably "Killed By Death", by Motorhead) echoes his waning state of being. "Thus trembled on thy tongue my name." I'm not sure if swans have tongues, but it doesn't matter. The metaphor works, and he probably got extra credit for using a personification. It would not have been as effective if he chose to write, "Thus trembled on thy BILL my name". That would have been silly, and Poe would have lost all credibility.

We now know what Poe is telling us. It's an idea that has been around for eons and can be summed up with the old proverb, "Don't let the little head do the thinking for the big head." This philosophy is never a main ingredient in a successful relationship, although it works well as a garnish. Poe's greatness allows him the ability to expand on this adage: "...unless you don't mind becoming distraught, moving to the North Pole and clubbing water fowl".

Tell Tale Dad

I intended to watch this season’s inaugural episode of The Apprentice so as to begin a string of season long reviews of the show. However, my objective was interrupted by a rapping at my chamber door. It was my son standing with the decomposed remains of Edgar
Allan Poe interrogating it for clues as to what the hell The Tell Tale Heart was all about.

Son, I asked (he was named after blues legend, Son House), are you reading The Tell Tale Heart in school? Yes, they had read it together in class that day. Being the über-dad that I am, I feigned interest in his schooling and asked him what he thought of the story. After about fifteen minutes of word fragments, you-know’s and um’s, I figured he didn’t comprehend much of the plot. I asked him if he was actually in the classroom when they read the story. He was there physically, but I’m guessing, mentally, he was wandering around the girls’ locker room handing out towels. Luckily, I was wearing my über-dad utility belt, which contained duct tape, a butter knife, two cans of beer, one paper towel, a golf score card, a roll of Lifesavers and the Unabridged Edgar Allan Poe. I suggested we read the story together, thinking it would be easier than me explaining the it to him, seeing that all I could remember about it were the car chases and the nude scenes.

We took turns reading paragraphs, crossing out the words neither of us knew, with me providing explanatory commentary along the way. As we delved, he became more and more stoic as I immersed myself in the story, enthralled by Poe’s dazzling imagery and effortless flow. Before long, I had a set built out of the couch and entertainment center, and I was acting out the story using the dog as the old man with the "evil eye". I may have been a little over enthusiastic with my portrayal, as the dog is now dismembered and buried underneath the house. Not to worry, we have another dog, who is more of a writer than an actor. So, she’s safe.

After my Tony Award winning performance, Son continued to wallow in Poe bewilderment. He still didn’t comprehend the gist of the story. Again, I tried to explain and retell the story to him in words he could understand. I even offered to kill the other dog. Eventually, I gave up. I don’t know, Son, let’s ask the rotted corpse of Edgar Allan Poe. It was lying on the floor next to a stuffed Sponge Bob doll. "‘Gar", I asked, "can you please explain to the boy what The Tell Tale Heart is all about?" To which he replied, "I’m not sure, I was drunk when I wrote it. In fact, I don’t even remember writing it. Do you have any cheese?"

Son and I looked at each other for a moment. Then, simultaneously, we both bust out laughing, holding each other’s spleens. "Dad," he said, wiping a jovial tear from his eye, "I guess drunk people just write weird stuff sometimes." That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past two hours! The important thing is that he finally got it, and he is now a big fan of Poe. It was one of the most satisfying moments of my dadhood. A feat right up there with the time ex-Mrs. Rub left me alone with the kids for the first time and neither of them died. To celebrate, I unhooked the two cans of beer from my über-dad utility belt and let my son watch me drink them. We hung Poe on a hanger and put him in the closet, in case either of us is ever required to read The Murders in the Rue Morgue or listen to the Iron Maiden song of the same name.