tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45204290568125518872024-02-20T09:00:24.269-08:00Everyday MillayCarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-83910453785482628982013-12-15T16:21:00.001-08:002013-12-15T16:21:41.751-08:00Fatal Interview XLVIEven in the moment of our earliest kiss,<br />
When sighed the straitened bud into the flower,<br />
Sat the dry seed of most unwelcome this;<br />
And that I knew, though not the day and hour.<br />
Too season-wise am I, being country-bred,<br />
To tilt at autumn or defy the frost:<br />
Snuffing the chill even as my fathers did,<br />
I say with them, "What's out tonight is lost."<br />
I only hoped, with the mild hope of all<br />
Who watch the leaf take shape upon the tree,<br />
A fairer summer and a later fall<br />
Than in these parts a man is apt to see,<br />
And sunny clusters ripened for the wine:<br />
I tell you this across the blackened vine.<br />
<br />
<i>How often do we think back and recall our early hesitations, which we had forgotten in haste with the heat of new love? Vincent truly was country-bred, and even at her final home at Steepletop maintained beautiful and elaborate outdoor gardens. Here she likens the eternal hope of a growing spring to the hope of a new romance, but in retrospect. Fall has come, the vines are black, love has expired. </i><br />
CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-24156710180772537072012-01-17T18:40:00.001-08:002012-01-17T18:40:23.473-08:00Late January<div><p>Pluviose, hating all that lives, and loathing me,<br>
Distills his cold and gloomy rain and slops it down<br>
Upon the pallid lodgers in the cemetery <br>
Next door, and on the people shopping in the town.</p>
<p>My cat, for sheer discomfort, waves a sparsely-furred<br>
And shabby tail incessantly on the tiled floor;<br>
And, wandering sadly in the rain- spout can be heard<br>
The voice of some dead poet who had these rooms before. </p>
<p>The log is wet, and smokes; its hissing high lament<br>
Mounts to the bronchial clock on the cracked mental there;<br>
While (heaven knows whose they were - some dropsical old maid's)</p>
<p>In a soiled pack of cards that reeks of dirty scent,<br>
The handsome jack of hearts and the worn in queen of spades<br>
Talk in suggestive tones of their old love affair. </p>
<p>From "Translations from 'Flowers of Evil' by Charles Baudelaire" 1936</p>
</div>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-54575059063672753332012-01-15T18:12:00.001-08:002012-01-15T18:12:31.953-08:00Sonnet "Once more into my arid days"<div><p>Once more into my arid days like dew,<br>
Like wind from an oasis,or the sound <br>
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,<br>
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you<br>
Comes to destoroy me; once more I renew <br>
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found<br>
Long since to be but just one other mound<br>
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.<br>
And once again, and wiser in no wise<br>
I chase your coloured phantom on the air,<br>
And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise<br>
And stumble pitifully on to where,<br>
Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,<br>
Once more I clasp,- and there is nothing there.</p>
<p>From "Second April" 1921 </p>
</div>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-64414495868098893792011-07-10T13:41:00.000-07:002011-07-10T13:54:52.452-07:00Pity me not because the light of day<br />At close of day no longer walks the sky;<br />Pity me not for beauties passed away<br />From field and thicket as the year goes by;<br />Pity me not the waning of the moon,<br />Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,<br />Nor that a man's desire is hushed so soon,<br />And you no longer look with love on me.<br /><br />This I have known always: Love is no more <br />Than the wide blossom the the wind assails,<br />Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,<br />Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales.<br /><br />Pity me that the heart is slow to learn<br />What the swift mind beholds at every turn.<br /><br />Published around 1929 - Still looking this up<br /><br />Just a beautiful poem about love and loss and nature. No real reason, just thought I'd share it today.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-37910883516841459892011-07-09T08:50:00.000-07:002011-07-09T09:11:03.432-07:00Recuerdo<strong></strong>Recuerdo<strong></strong><br /><br />We were very tired, we were very merry— <br />We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. <br />It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— <br />But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, <br />We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; <br />And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.<br /> <br />We were very tired, we were very merry— <br />We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; <br />And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, <br />From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; <br />And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, <br />And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. <br /><br />We were very tired, we were very merry, <br />We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. <br />We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, <br />And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; <br />And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears, <br />And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. <br /><br />From "A Few Figs From Thistles" 1922<br /><br /><em></em>This poem is one of Millay's more fun and (I like to think) summery pieces. It is about comraderie and travel and generosity and love. I wonder which ferries she was riding on - perhaps some of the same routes that travel now between Rockland and the islands of <a href="http://www.northhavenmaine.org/">North Haven</a> and <a href="http://vinalhaven.org/">Vinalhaven</a> in Penobscot Bay. <br /><br />Islands you travel to by ferry; apples and pears and subway fares and a beautiful sunrise - so many ways in which Maine and Washington are twins, sitting a country apart at similar latitudes.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-33792910890807581412011-05-05T08:45:00.000-07:002011-05-05T08:53:32.590-07:00<span style="font-weight:bold;">Departure</span><br /><br /><br />It's little I care what path I take,<br />And where it leads it's little I care;<br />But out of this house, lest my heart break,<br />I must go, and off somewhere.<br /><br />It's little I know what's in my heart,<br />What's in my mind it's little I know,<br />But there's that in me must up and start,<br />And it's little I care where my feet go.<br /><br />I wish I could walk for a day and a night,<br />And find me at dawn in a desolate place<br />With never the rut of a road in sight,<br />Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.<br /><br />I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,<br />And drop me, never to stir again,<br />On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,<br />And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.<br /><br />But dump or dock, where the path I take<br />Brings up, it's little enough I care;<br />And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,<br />Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Is something the matter, dear," she said,<br />"That you sit at your work so silently?"<br />"No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.<br />There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea." </span><br /><br />(From "Harpweaver" 1923)<br /><br />This poem is one of Millay's better known poems, in fact it has been set to music and you can hear it sung here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TFlgrDNUPzc<br /><br />But it is a strange little poem that conveys a youthful restlessness that is all-consuming and yet powerless. It is a very teenage poem in theme, but it is not from her earliest work. The nature imagery and the underlying drive of desperation are the remarkable points here. The rhyming is good, the verse structure is very Vincent, but I love this poem because it conveys beauty and agitation together and perfectly.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-51551658345996965852011-05-02T09:58:00.000-07:002011-05-02T10:04:37.222-07:00Never May The Fruit Be PluckedNever, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough<br />And gathered into barrels.<br />He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.<br />Though the branches bend like reeds,<br />Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,<br />He that would eat of love may bear away with him<br />Only what his belly can hold,<br />Nothing in the apron,<br />Nothing in the pockets.<br />Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough<br />And harvested in barrels.<br />The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,<br />In an orchard soft with rot.<br /><br />(From "Harpweaver" 1923)<br /><br />I love the metaphor Millay employs throughout this poem. It is a reminder, warning and encouragement. The beauty and joy of love is an experience limited to the time frame it takes place in. There is no going back in time, and we often wish we had loved better and more fully when we look back. Vincent loved many people in her life and lost many of them. Her wisdom here was gained at a price, but the grace with which she conveys her knowledge in this simple poem shows her true talent as a poet.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-43101200509388476742011-04-29T13:40:00.000-07:002011-04-29T13:50:49.511-07:00Heart, Have No Pity... (Sonnet 29 from Fatal Interview)HEART, have no pity on this house of bone:<br />Shake it with dancing, break it down with joy.<br />No man holds mortgage on it; it is your own;<br />To give, to sell at auction, to destroy.<br />When you are blind to moonlight on the bed,<br />When you are deaf to gravel on the pane,<br />Shall quavering caution from this house instead<br />Cluck forth at summer mischief in the lane?<br /><em>All that delightful youth forbears to spend<br />Molestful age inherits, and the ground<br />Will have us; therefore, while we're young, my friend--</em><br />The Latin's vulgar, but the advice is sound.<br />Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here<br />For age to invest in compromise and fear.<br /><br />(From "Fatal Interview")<br /><br />This poem from Fatal Interview is a bittersweet one. In it Vincent proclaims that she wants to live every moment without reserve while she is young and not try to maintain her body for when she is older. I love that she addresses the heart here, and my favorite line is "Shake it with dancing, break it down with joy." <br /><br />The bitter part is that Vincent did die fairly young, and very shortly after the love of her life, Eugen, died. She loved and lived brightly and with all of her heart and her life was short. She did indeed burn her "candle at both ends" and it did not last the night. But the light was brilliant indeed.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-642879114159546822011-04-28T07:51:00.000-07:002011-04-28T07:57:42.444-07:00My heart, being hungry, feeds on food<br />The fat of heart despise.<br />Beauty where beauty never stood,<br />And sweet where no sweet lies<br />I gather to my querulous need, <br />Having a growing heart to feed.<br /><br />It may be, when my heart is dull,<br />Having attained its girth,<br />I shall not find so beautiful<br />The meagre shapes of earth,<br />Nor linger in the rain to mark<br />The smell of tansy through the dark.<br /><br />(From "Harpweaver" 1922)<br /><br />This poem was published in "Harpweaver and Other Poems" and she won a Pulitzer in 1923 for this volume. My favorite part of the particular poem is the last two lines. When I read them it makes me feel that I am standing in the rain, on a dark night, with the sweet scent of tansy rising up across the valley with the mist.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-14570990570126925342011-04-27T08:33:00.000-07:002011-04-27T08:40:53.333-07:00Thou Art Not Lovelier Than LilacsThou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no, <br />Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair <br />Than small white single poppies,--I can bear <br />Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though <br />From left to right, not knowing where to go, <br />I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there <br />Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear <br />So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so. <br />Like him who day by day unto his draught <br />Of delicate poison adds him one drop more <br />Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,<br />Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed <br />Each hour more deeply than the hour before, <br />I drink—and live--what has destroyed some men.<br /><br />(From "Renanscence" 1917)<br /><br />This is a very early poem, from Millay's first book of poetry, "Renascence." She compares the beauty of nature to that of this person she loves, and claims that their brilliant light would destroy someone who, unlike her, had not spent time being awestruck by the beauty of the earth. I love the comparison, and the imagery. What a beautiful poem and when we remember how young she was when she wrote it - she was 25 when this volume was published - it is even more remarkable.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-59169895648670321812011-04-27T08:02:00.000-07:002011-04-27T08:22:06.161-07:00Love Is Not All (Fatal Interview Sonnet XXX)Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink<br />Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;<br />Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink<br />And rise and sink and rise and sink again;<br />Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,<br />Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;<br />Yet many a man is making friends with death<br />Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.<br />It may well be that in a difficult hour,<br />Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,<br />Or nagged by want past resolution's power,<br />I might be driven to sell your love for peace,<br />Or trade the memory of this night for food.<br />It may well be. I do not think I would.<br /><br />(From "Fatal Interview" 1931)<br /><br />This sonnet is fairly well known, probably because it is so accessible and easy to remember. The verse structure makes it a classic sonnet but the content makes it classic Millay. The first part of the poem is often said to be the objective part while the second half is the introspective portion, but knowing what we know about this set of poetry and how it was written largely about her affair with Dillon, it is easy to see that the entire poem is very personal. <br /><br />The first line is an excellent hook, it pulls the reader in with a general statement of truth. She draws pictures of how love cannot save the lives of people who are ill but reminds us that without love we can suffer greatly as well. Then she uses herself as an example of this fact and asks if there is anything that could force her to give away the feeling of the love they share, or the memory of this night together. She concludes, in her humanizing way, that it is possible. But not likely. <br /><br />Millay knew how precious love was, and in this little sonnet, with its quaint rhymes and imagery, she reminds us to cherish our loves as well.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-571495674032379082011-04-25T11:02:00.000-07:002011-04-25T11:05:58.528-07:00New England Spring, 1942The rush of rain against the glass<br />Is louder than my noisy mind<br />Crying, "Alas!"<br /><br />The rain shouts: "Hear me, how I melt the ice that clamps<br /> the bent and frozen grass!<br />Winter cannot come twice<br />Even this year!<br />I break it up; I make it water the roots of spring!<br />I am the harsh beginning, poured in torrents down the hills,<br />And dripping from the trees and soaking, later,<br /> and when the wind is still,<br />Into the roots of flowers, which your eyes, incredulous,<br /> soon will suddenly find!<br />Comfort is almost here."<br /><br />The sap goes up the maple; it drips fast<br />From the tapped maple into the tin pail<br />Through tubes of hollow elder; the pails brim;<br />Birds with scarlet throats and yellow bellies<br /> sip from the pail's rim.<br />Snow falls thick; it is sifted<br />Through cracks about windows and under doors;<br />It is drifted through hedges into country roads. It cannot last.<br />Winter is past.<br />It is hurling back at us boasts of no avail.<br /><br />But Spring is wise. Pale and with gentle eyes,<br /> one day somewhat she advances;<br />The next, with a flurry of snow into flake-filled skies retreats<br /> before the heat in our eyes, and the thing designed<br />By the sick and longing mind in its lonely fancies—<br />The sally which would force her and take her.<br />And Spring is kind.<br />Should she come running headlong in a wind-whipped acre<br />Of daffodil skirts down the mountain into this dark valley<br /> we would go blind.<br /><br /><br />(From "Mine The Harvest" 1954)<br /><br />This is one to just enjoy.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-38989653772872057392011-04-25T10:46:00.000-07:002011-04-25T11:00:23.226-07:00How innocent we lie amongHow innocent we lie among <br />The righteous!--Lord, how sweet we smell, <br />Doing this wicked thing, this love, <br />Bought up by bishops!--doing well, <br />With all our leisure, all our pride, <br />What's illy done and done in haste <br />By licensed folk on every side, <br />Spitting out fruit before they taste. <br /><br />(That stalk must thrust a clubby bud, <br />Push an abortive flower to birth.) <br /><br />Under the moon and the lit scud <br />Of the clouds, the cool conniving earth <br />Pillows my head, where your head lies; <br /><br />Weep, if you must, into my hair <br />Tomorrow's trouble: the cold eyes <br />That know you gone and wonder where. <br /><br />But tell the bishops with their sons, <br />Shout to the City Hall how we <br />Under a thick barrage of guns <br />Filched their divine commodity. <br /><br />(From "Mine The Harvest" 1954)<br /><br />Where to start? The first important thing to note is that this poem is found in "Mine The Harvest," one of Millay's later books. The maturity of the verse structure makes sense for this timing but the subject matter does not. The beauty of this poem, for me, is in its ability to blend social commentary with joyous passion. I love the alliteration she uses with "cool, conniving earth." But my favorite part of this poem is the last part. It has a victorious feel to it, a rebellious, young and free declaration.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-56279154967318235142011-04-25T10:37:00.000-07:002011-04-25T10:46:31.191-07:00Song For Young Lovers In A CityThough less for love than for the deep <br />Though transient death that follows it <br />These childish mouths grown soft in sleep <br />Here in a rented bed have met,<br /><br />They have not met in love's despite.<br />Such tiny loves will leap and flare <br />Lurid as coke-fires in the night, <br />Against a background of despair. <br /><br />To treeless grove, to grey retreat <br />Descend in flocks from corniced eaves <br />The pigeons now on sooty feet, <br />To cover them with linden leaves. <br /><br />(Published in Poetry Magazine, 1938)<br /><br />This poem is interesting in that it is about someone else (at least in theory). Millay wrote very often about her own feelings and experiences, and less often about what she imagined others felt and did. In this poem she draws for us a picture of two people younger than herself, genders unspecified. The first lines pose a riddle, what is the "transient death" she is talking about here that draws these two together? I love the line "lurid as coke-fires in the night" and the image of a sad, grey city that she paints to contrast the relationship she describes. There is a beautiful, song-like quality to the last stanza that sticks with you as the poem ends. Enjoy!CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-31197549816816334152011-04-23T14:01:00.000-07:002011-04-23T14:04:26.033-07:00Doubt No More That OberonDoubt no more that Oberon—<br />Never doubt that Pan<br />Lived, and played a reed, and ran<br />After nymphs in a dark forest,<br />In the merry, credulous days,—<br />Lived, and led a fairy band<br />Over the indulgent land!<br />Ah, for in this dourest, sorest<br />Age man's eye has looked upon,<br />Death to fauns and death to fays,<br />Still the dog-wood dares to raise—<br />Healthy tree, with trunk and root—<br />Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,<br />And the starlings and the jays—<br />Birds that cannot even sing—<br />Dare to come again in spring!<br /><br />(From "Second April")<br /><br />This poem was running through my head today, perhaps because spring is starting to show itself, even through the rain.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-45928676148782005922011-04-20T08:08:00.000-07:002011-04-20T08:13:47.613-07:00The Little Hill (an Easter poem)<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Little Hill</span><br /><br />Oh, here the air is sweet and still,<br /> And soft's the grass to lie on;<br />And far away's the little hill<br /> They took for Christ to die on. <br /><br />And there's a hill across the brook,<br /> And down the brook's another;<br />But, oh, the little hill they took,--<br /> I think I am its mother! <br /><br />The moon that saw Gethsemane,<br /> I watch it rise and set:<br />It has so many things to see,<br /> They help it to forget. <br /><br />But little hills that sit at home<br /> So many hundred years,<br />Remember Greece, remember Rome,<br /> Remember Mary's tears. <br /><br />And far away in Palestine,<br /> Sadder than any other,<br />Grieves still the hill that I call mine,--<br /> I think I am its mother!<br /><br />(From "Second April")<br /><br />Millay is not known as a religious poet, and perhaps this poem is not as religious as it is sentimental. This is a beautiful little poem that communicates an enormous grief in five little rhyming sets of four lines. The emotion she shows us here is a full-felt, whole-soul empathy with the tragic pain that comprises the first half of the Easter story. Perhaps it is not a healthy empathy or a good emphasis but it is a beautiful poem and this seems like the best time of year to appreciate it.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-22657541136379579232011-04-16T14:01:00.000-07:002011-04-16T14:11:05.136-07:00Theme and Variations VIII "The Time of Year Ennobles You"Theme and Variations VIII<br /><br />The time of year ennobles you.<br />The death of autumn draws you in. <br /><br />The death of those delights I drew<br />From such a cramped and troubled source<br />Ennobles all, including you, <br />Involves you as a matter of course.<br /><br />You are not, you have never been<br />(Nor did I ever hold you such)<br />Between you banks, that all but touch - <br />Fit subject for heroic song...<br />The busy stream not over-strong.<br />The flood that any leaf could dam...<br /><br />Yet more than half of all I am <br />Lies drowned in shallow water here:<br />And you assume the time of year.<br /><br />I do not say my love will last;<br />Yet Time's perverse, eccentric power<br />Has bound the hound and stag so fast<br />That strange companions mount the tower<br />Where Lockhart's fate with Keats is cast<br />And Booth with Lincoln shares the hour.<br /><br />That which quelled me, lives with me,<br />Accomplice in catastrophe.<br /><br />From "Huntsman, What Quarry?"<br /><br />This is one of eight exquisite poems in a series called "Theme and Variation." The set of poems is about the end of a relationship and it has both comforted and inspired me. Even when I am not in a place where I can directly relate to the theme of the poems, the imagery and haunting verse structure always draw me in. Enjoy.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-88396488597849528992011-04-14T08:54:00.000-07:002011-04-14T09:07:13.848-07:00Dirge Without Music<strong></strong>Dirge Without Music<strong></strong><br /><br />I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.<br />So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:<br />Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned<br />With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. <br />Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.<br />Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.<br />A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,<br />A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost. <br />The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,<br />They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled<br />Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.<br />More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. <br />Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave<br />Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;<br />Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.<br />I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.<br /><br />(From "Buck In The Snow" 1928)<br /><br /><em></em>I read this poem as part of a poetry presention I did for Speech competitions in high school. I made it to state and through the quarter finals. I didn't enough points to progress past semi-finals and I remember clearly reading in the critiques of my presentation that my reading of this poem - Millay's "Dirge Without Music" was too emotional and dramatic, and thus I didn't get the full amount of points from the judges. <br /><br />They were right, to a point. Speech competitions are about professional, reserved presentation. But perhaps I made the wrong choice of poem, because how can anyone read something so powerful, defiant and soulful without feeling it resonante throughout their being?<br /><br />Working at the hospital I meet many inspirational people. But they are not well, and some of them pass away, and it is difficult to accept that these beautiful, strong people are gone.<br /><br />I know that I've mentioned before that Millay suffered many losses early in her life, and death took many of the people she loved from her. This poem is so uniquely Vincent. It is about death but not about mourning. Perhaps the most tear-jerking line in the poem "More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world", happens near the end, and I feel that the poem does move from reserve to emotionality, with the feeling of the poem peaking at the second to last line. And then she ends the way she began with "I am not resigned."CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-87563122241805980122011-04-13T07:57:00.000-07:002011-04-13T08:09:05.143-07:00Sonnet "Oh You Will Be Sorry"Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!<br />Give back my book and take my kiss instead.<br />Was it my enemy or my friend I heard?-<br />"What a big book for such a little head!"<br />Come, I will show you now my newest hat,<br />And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink.<br />Oh, I shall love you still and all of that.<br />I never again shall tell you what I think.<br />I shall be sweet and crafy, soft and sly;<br />You will not catch me reading any more<br />I shall be called a wife to pattern by; <br />And someday when you knock and push the door,<br />Some sane day, not too bright and not to stormy<br />I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.<br /><br />(From "A Few Figs From Thistles")<br /><br /><em></em>Millay was so ahead of her times when it came to the recognition of women as the intellectual equals of men. For her first poetry competition she submitted her epic work "Renascence" and got second place, even though most people agreed her poem was better than the first place poem, which was written by a man. In fact, the man who wrote the winning poem wrote her a letter telling her that he believed her poem was better than his, and that she should have won first place.<br /><br />I like the flippancy of this poem too. The casual endearment of the line "I shall love you still and all of that" but her determination that she will be gone one day because he does not appreciate her for what she really is. <br /><br />Indeed, the man she married was in love, not just with Vincent, but with her poetry as well.CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-61396706931171542942011-04-12T15:35:00.000-07:002011-04-12T15:39:16.945-07:00The PenitentI had a little Sorrow,<br />Born of a little Sin,<br />I found a room all damp with gloom<br />And shut us all within;<br />And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,<br />"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,<br />And I upon the floor will lie<br />And think how bad I've been!"<br /><br />Alas for pious planning—<br />It mattered not a whit!<br />As far as gloom went in that room,<br />The lamp might have been lit!<br />My little Sorrow would not weep,<br />My little Sin would go to sleep—<br />To save my soul I could not keep<br />My graceless mind on it!<br /><br />So I got up in anger,<br />And took a book I had,<br />And put a ribbon on my hair<br />To please a passing lad,<br />And, "One thing there's no getting by—<br />I've been a wicked girl," said I:<br />"But if I can't be sorry, why,<br />I might as well be glad!"<br /><br />From "A Few Figs From Thistles"<br /><br /><em></em>What a funny little poem! It sure sticks in my head at times though. Very flippant and trite and full of whimsy, but still it resonates. And there's a message there too - because we all "might as well be glad"CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-23430370220335368172011-04-11T09:05:00.000-07:002011-04-11T09:24:11.588-07:00Fatal Interview Sonnet XI - "Not In A Silver Casket"<strong>Sonnet XI</strong> <strong></strong><br /><br />Not in a silver casket cool with pearls <br />Or rich with red corundum or with blue <br />Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls <br />Have given their loves, I give my love to you. <br />Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring <br />Worked in such fashion and the legend plain- <em><br />Semper fidelis, </em>where a secret spring <br />Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain: <br />Love in the open hand, no thing but that, <br />Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt, <br />As one should bring you cowslips in a hat <br />Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt, <br />I bring you, calling out as children do: <br />"Look what I have! - And these are all for you." <br /><br />(From "Fatal Interview" 1931) <em><br /><br />I was reminded of this poem by a comment on "No Lack of Counsel," a poem I posted in March. These two sonnets are similar, as the commenter noted, in their depiction of a woman who is honest about her intentions and emotions, even though she knows that her honesty puts her at a disadvantage in her attempts to charm the man she loves.</em> <em></em><em><br /><br />Millay was indeed intoxicated with her attraction to Dillon, and this poem strikes me as remarkable in its dedication to simple beauty in the midst of such a turbulent affair. It almost sounds as if it was written for Boissevain, and perhaps it was, but it appears in the middle of a book of sonnets written for Dillon. </em><em></em><em><br /><br />She begins by saying what she is not doing, and it may help to know that red corundum is ruby and blue is sapphire. Her love is not locked away as others might, or dependent on a ring to keep a vow. She is giving her love freely, though she knows that is risky, as she writes in "No Lack of Counsel."</em> <em></em><em>I admire her ability to love so freely. She had suffered many losses and heartbreaks, as her earlier poetry makes clear, and yet she loved without reservation still. It is a lesson and an inspiration and I'm so grateful that such a soulful person was also such a talented poet. </em>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-63198753082521247782011-04-07T08:44:00.000-07:002011-04-07T08:58:43.310-07:00Rendezvous<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" >Rendezvous</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Not for these lovely blooms that prank your chambers did I come. Indeed,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I could have loved you better in the dark;</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">That is to say, in rooms less bright with roses, rooms more casual, less aware</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Of History in the wings about to enter with benevolent air</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">On ponderous tiptoe, at the cue, "Proceed."</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Not that I like the ash-trays over-crowded and the place in a mess,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Or the monastic cubicle too unctuously austere and stark,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">But partly that these formal garlands for our Eighth Street Aphrodite are a bit too Greek,</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">And partly that to make the poor walls rich with our unaided loveliness</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Would have been more chic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Yet here I am, having told you of my quarrel with the taxi-driver over a line of Milton, and you laugh; and you are you, none other.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Your laughter pelts my skin with small delicious blows.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">But I am perverse: I wish you had not scrubbed--with pumice, I suppose--</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The tobacco stains from your beautiful fingers. And I wish I did not feel like your mother.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">(From "Huntsman, What Quarry?" 1939)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >This poem was running through my head last night but I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is Vincent's declaration that she "could have loved you better in the dark" and her quick correction of herself to show that she merely means that the room is overly decorated. And perhaps it is the simply perfect expression she uses when she says "you are you, none other" and adds a line about laughter that surprises me in its elegance.<br /><br />In retrospect, perhaps I was trying to work out exactly what Vincent was talking about when she says she was quarreling with a taxi driver "over a line of Milton." I had always thought it was some antiquated expression for money or a place she was trying to go but now I think that Vincent, ever the intellectual as well as the poet, was actually arguing with the driver of her taxi over what the exact phrasing was of a line from one of Milton's poems! Now that would be an interesting story.<br /><br />And the story of this poem is interesting. She sent it to Dillon with a large collection of other poems but this was the one he published in his magazine, the only one he seemed to like completely. Perhaps it is his odd taste to refuse rhyme in place of casual verse, or perhaps it just seemed the most fitting description of how things really were between the two of them.<br /></span>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-91121249789606781652011-04-06T07:42:00.001-07:002011-04-06T07:42:39.848-07:00Song Of A Second April<br /> <br />April this year, not otherwise <br />Than April of a year ago <br />Is full of whispers, full of sighs, <br />Dazzling mud and dingy snow; <br />Hepaticas that pleased you so <br />Are here again, and butterflies. <br />There rings a hammering all day, <br />And shingles lie about the doors; <br />From orchards near and far away <br />The gray wood-pecker taps and bores, <br />And men are merry at their chores, <br />And children earnest at their play. <br />The larger streams run still and deep; <br />Noisy and swift the small brooks run. <br />Among the mullein stalks the sheep <br />Go up the hillside in the sun <br />Pensively; only you are gone, <br />You that alone I cared to keep. <br /> <br />(From "Second April" 1921)<br /> <br />First, a few definitions. Both hepaticas and mullein are flowering plants that Millay refers to by their latin names. They are common in the northeast, and being perennial plants they herald the coming of a new season. Both are generally in bloom in April, as one would expect from Vincent's description.<br /> <br />The mud and snow are here in New England during this April of 2011 as well. Spring is finally starting to show itself in slightly warmer temperatures and the sound of songbirds in the mornings. It is a beautiful season, full of hope for summer and warm days.<br /> <br />But it is also a season of memory, remembering last April and the ways in which is was more full of a naive kind of love than this April is. Every sign of the season returns this April, but there are some things that the changing of the season will not bring back, and as Vincent ironically points out in her final lines, those are often the things you would most long for with the return of Spring.<br /><br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hepatica<br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MulleinCarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-71209396798185499722011-03-31T07:32:00.000-07:002011-03-31T07:40:58.160-07:00Weeds<strong>Weeds</strong> <br /><br />White with daisies and red with sorrel<br />And empty, empty under the sky!-- <br />Life is a quest and love a quarrel-- <br />Here is a place for me to lie. <br />Daisies dpring from damnèd seeds, <br />And this red fire that here I see <br />Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, <br />Cursed by farmers thriftily. <br />But here, unhated for an hour, <br />The sorrel runs in ragged flame, <br />The daisy stands, a bastard flower, <br />Like flowers that bear an honest name. <br />And here a while, where no wind brings <br />The baying of a pack athirst, <br />May sleep the sleep of blessèd things, <br />The blood too bright, the brow accurst. <br /><br />(From "Second April" 1921) <em><br /><br />I apologize for my brief hiatus from posting. Life has gotten in the way of poetry once again, but I'm "back to good" now, to quote Matchbox 20. </em><em></em><em><br /><br />How many times have I expressed a sentiment similar to Vincent's third line in this poem "Life is a quest and love a quarrel" and recently it seems more true than ever. But in nature, especially in the Springtime we have recently been blessed with in New England, we can find comrades and resting places for our troubles and stresses and "sleep the sleep of blessèd things."</em>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4520429056812551887.post-11955787833676640452011-03-16T07:48:00.000-07:002011-03-16T07:53:57.798-07:00Eel-Grass<span style="font-weight: bold;">Eel-Grass</span><br /><br />No matter what I say,<br />All that I really love<br />Is the rain that flattens on the bay,<br />And the eel-grass in the cove;<br />The jingle-shells that lie and bleach<br />At the tide-line, and the trace<br />Of higher tides along the beach:<br />Nothing in this place.<br /><br />(From "Second April" 1921)<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I love the imagery of the shells sitting on the beach where the tide has left them, and the line on the beach where the water was when the tide has gone out. Lately I am remembering how important it is to visit the ocean, and let the beauty of nature overcome daily stresses.<br /></span>CarolynRosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08806722901720107395noreply@blogger.com0