Edgar Allan Poe was like a 19th century Ricky Gervais: he basked in genius, needled the pompous, and didn’t care what you thought of him.

Ironically, Poe’s life was so wrought with tragedy and misfortune it’s amazing he survived the 40 years he did, much less that he evolved into one of America’s most respected writers/poets.

Most know the basics: Poe was born in Boston on January 19, 1809. His parents were actors, but his father bailed on the family not too long after Edgar was born. His mother died shortly thereafter, leaving him an orphan.

From there, John and Frances Allan raised him, primarily in Richmond, Virginia and London, England. John Allan was a relatively wealthy merchant and put Edgar in good schools.

Eventually, Poe was disowned by Allan, left the University of Virginia after an accumulation of gambling debts, and joined the Army.

Along the way, though, Poe kept writing and, as author James Lee Burke has said, “remained true to the gift.”

After leaving the military, Poe began in earnest his career as a poet, critic and editor.  He bopped around looking for work, including stints in New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and back in Richmond.

While in Baltimore, a local newspaper published some of Poe’s poems, and he won a contest for his story “Manuscript Found in a Bottle.” Despite these honors and the modest cash awards, Poe described himself during this time as “wretchedly poor.”

Creepily, Poe also married his 13-year-old cousin in Baltimore. Virginia Clemm was her name. She died young, too (age 23).

Poe’s mysterious death in Baltimore has added to the legend. Speculation abounds as to exactly what happened, but all seem to agree that in early October 1849, Poe was found nearly unconscious in a tavern on East Lombard Street. He was taken to what eventually became known as Church Hospital and died about four days later.

The years immediately after death weren’t kind to Poe either.  He was buried in an unmarked grave in the family plot at Westminster Burying Ground on Fayette and Greene Streets. Poe also suffered the indignity of his literary nemesis, Dr. Rufus Griswold, publishing a slanderous obituary, then spending the next eight years trying to further harm Poe’s reputation.

Eventually, when Poe’s grave was in disrepair, an effort was made for a proper memorial. In 1875, Poe’s remains were re-interred in the grave now seen at the northwest corner of the cemetery. The ceremony was attended by Walt Whitman, among others.

Thereafter, appreciation for Poe’s work and genius gained momentum, reaching unforeseen heights 120 years later when an NFL football franchise named its team after his most famous poem. Five years later, the Baltimore Ravens won Super Bowl XXXV.

It’s both cool and appropriate that students at Maryland’s law schools are never far from Poe. UM Law now owns Westminster Hall and is literally on the same block as his grave. UB Law students enjoy the iconic Poe statue by Sir Moses Ezekiel that faces Mount Royal Avenue.

The hope, I suppose, is that students at both schools use the macabre Bard of Baltimore to remind them of a few things:  Remain true to whatever gifts you’ve been given, appreciate parents who support you, needle the pompous, and enjoy life, because the clock ticks get louder and louder.

Also, don’t marry your 13-year-old cousin, and avoid taverns on Lombard Street.

Happy belated 202nd birthday, Edgar.

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