An Ancient Gesture -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #1827) An Ancient Gesture I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: Penelope did this too. And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day And undoing it all through the night; Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight; And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light, And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years, Suddenly you burst into tears; There is simply nothing else to do. And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: This is an ancient gesture, authentic, Greek; Ulysses did this too. But only as a gesture - a gesture which implied To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak. He learned it from Penelope... Penelope, who really cried. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

I've been reading a lot of Millay recently, trying to figure out precisely
what it is I find so compelling about her poetry. She's moved, in a
remarkably few years, from someone I'd barely heard of to my favourite poet
after Kipling - indeed, I think my primary wonder nowadays is not that I
like her so much, but that it took me so long to discover her.

Part of it, I think, is that (again, like Kipling), almost all of her work
appeals to me. Contrast this with, say, Keats - at his best he is
unutterably brilliant, but those poems that are *not* among his best give
me very little pleasure; I don't think I could spend an afternoon randomly
dipping into his work. Millay, on the other hand is delightful (I hesitate
to use as objective a word as 'good' here, because this is definitely a
personal thing) all the way through, from deservedly famous gems like her
Sonnet XLIII (Poem #590; I'd rank it up there with anything Shakespeare
wrote) to minor pieces like "Grown Up" (Poem #817).

Today's poem is a good case in point - I wouldn't ever expect to see it in a
"Best Poems" anthology, but I'd be totally unsurprised at its inclusion in
someone's "Favourite Poems" collection[1]. It has that typically Millay
combination of beauty and unexpectedness, combined with such perfect timing
that your breath catches at the end, and such precise imagery that lines
continue to haunt you long after the rest of the poem has faded.

martin

[1] and indeed, a quick google search brings up
    [broken link] http://katebenedict.com/LectioMillay.htm

[Links]

Wikipedia on Millay:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edna_St._Vincent_Millay

Ulysses and Penelope:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penelope

An interesting companion piece is Dorothy Parker's "Penelope":
  http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poet=6640&poem=52488

Three Songs of Shattering - I -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #1739) Three Songs of Shattering - I The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw, -- it must have been Very pretty. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

I was reading through a Dorothy Parker collection, and pondering Millay's
influence on her poems, when it occurred to me that we hadn't had a Millay
poem in a while. This one came to mind naturally enough, as being very
reminscent of Parker's work, and it highlights many of the things I enjoy
about both poets - the precision of form and language (and a precision that
manages to be flowingly organic rather than sterile), the ability to find
startlingly moving metaphors in the most seemingly everyday situations, the
mastery of bathos, and above all, the perfectly controlled outpouring of
pain and grief beneath the surface of a superficially light poem.

Tangentially, the first episode of the US TV show "Desperate Housewives"
aired here recently, and I felt that the general tone and content was very
reminiscent of Millay's poetry. Did anyone else make that particular
connection?

martin

Epitaph for the Race of Man: X -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #1589) Epitaph for the Race of Man: X The broken dike, the levee washed away, The good fields flooded and the cattle drowned, Estranged and treacherous all the faithful ground, And nothing left but floating disarray Of tree and home uprooted, -- was this the day Man dropped upon his shadow without a sound And died, having laboured well and having found His burden heavier than a quilt of clay? No, no. I saw him when the sun had set In water, leaning on his single oar Above his garden faintly glimmering yet... There bulked the plough, here washed the updrifted weeds... And scull across his roof and make for shore, With twisted face and pocket full of seeds. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

 Part X of the sonnet sequence "Epitaph for the Race of Man".
 Published in the collection "Wine From These Grapes" (1934).
 Form: Petrarchan sonnet.
 Rhyme scheme: abba abba cdcede.

 [Commentary]

 Poetry can offer consolation in the darkest of times. War, famine and
pestilence; flood, fire and drought -- poets have responded to terrible
events with works of power and passion, and readers have found in these
works new reserves of strength and determination.

 Different poets, of course, have different approaches. For example, Dylan
Thomas' magnificent defiance in the face of death [1] contrasts dramatically
with the quiet acceptance of his namesake R. S. Thomas [2], and they each
have little in common with the heartfelt sorrow of W. H. Auden [3]. Yet each
of their poems speaks powerfully to something basic in human nature; our
experience is the richer for having them put our feelings into words.

 Today's poem offers yet another response to tragedy: that even in the
depths of despair, life (symbolized by the "pocket full of seeds") goes on.
Flooded fields can be drained; trees replanted; homes rebuilt. It's true
that we cannot bring back the lives that have been lost, but what we can do,
we will. It is this that makes us human; it is this that makes us great.
This is Millay's theme, and it is both heartbreakingly sad and profoundly
optimistic.

thomas.

[1] Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night -- Dylan Thomas
[2] Poem #392, Good -- R. S. Thomas
[3] Poem #256, Funeral Blues -- W. H. Auden

 [And finally]

 Poetry can console, but for those most affected by the terrible events of
last week, mere words may not be enough. We urge readers of the Minstrels to
contribute generously to various tsunami relief efforts; the following
website has a comprehensive set of donation links:
 http://wetware.blogspot.com/2004/12/tsunami-relief-efforts.html

 Incidentally, Martin, Sitaram and myself all come from south India, and we
each have family and friends there; fortunately, none of our near and dear
were hurt in the cataclysm. We thank all those who wrote in to express their
concern.

Beloved Dust -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Guest poem submitted by Angela

(Poem #1293) Beloved Dust And you as well must die, beloved dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead, This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead Than the first leaf that fall, --- this wonder fled. Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my love, you will arise Upon that day and wander down the air Obscurely as the unattended flower, It mattering not how beautiful you were, Or how beloved above all else that dies. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

This poem is the first I had ever read by Millay. At the time I
discovered it I was 19 and caring for my terminally ill mother. When I
read this poem I felt "This is it. This is how I feel." Acceptance of
the inevitability of her death mingled with a feeling of helplessness in
preventing it from happening. The last 2 lines were to me its clencher:
        It mattering not how beautiful you were,
        Or how beloved above all else that dies.

Angela.

[Millay on the Minstrels]

Poem #34, First Fig
Poem #49, The Unexplorer
Poem #108, The Penitent
Poem #317, Inland
Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
Poem #817, Grown-up
Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All
Poem #905, I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
Poem #926, Dirge Without Music
Poem #956, Ashes of Life
Poem #1064, Travel

Travel -- Edna St Vincent Millay

From Martin, whose email is still giving him problems:

(Poem #1064) Travel The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I'd rather take, No matter where it's going. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Another poem that really speaks to me (indeed, I believe that it is this
quality of speaking to, and often for, me that Millay possesses in greater
measure than any other poet with whom I am familiar). I am faintly reminded
of the old saying "It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive", but
even that misses the point - the word 'hopefully' implies that travelling is
a means towards an end. Millay celebrates, instead, the pure act of travel,
and the powerful attraction it can possess.

Of course, there is also a strong escapist subtext running through the poem,
the implication that, while the narrator might not care where she is
travelling *to*, she is certainly travelling *from* 'here'. However, I
believe, or perhaps prefer to believe, that that is not the poem's main
thrust - that, instead, the lure of the train is purely positive, a desire
to travel rather than to escape.

I've run a number of Millay's poems in the past, and attempted to analyse
their appeal; this one I'm running for the sheer visceral reaction it
provoked, and for the way it resonated with my own feelings on the matter.
Any further analysis would be superfluous.

-martin.

[Minstrels Links]

Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Poem #34, First Fig
Poem #49, The Unexplorer
Poem #108, The Penitent
Poem #317, Inland
Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
Poem #817, Grown-up
Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All
Poem #905, I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
Poem #926, Dirge Without Music
Poem #956, Ashes of Life

all of which can be found at
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_M.html#Millay

Ashes of Life -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Back after a period of net deprivation - thanks to Thomas for holding the
fort.

(Poem #956) Ashes of Life Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will, -- and would that night were here! But ah! -- to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! Would that it were day again! -- with twilight near! Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; This or that or what you will is all the same to me; But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, -- There's little use in anything as far as I can see. Love has gone and left me, -- and the neighbors knock and borrow, And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, -- And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow There's this little street and this little house. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

A beautiful poem, Millay giving me, as usual, that wonderful thrill of
seeing a poet get it wonderfully, satisfyingly *right*. And today's poem is
not just beautiful, but impressive - the concentration of imagery in each
line, the way the lines blend into a seamless whole, and the sheer music of
the words are breathtaking.

The way the poem's construction reinforces its content is worth a closer
look. "Love has gone and left me, and the days are all alike", starts the
poem, encouraging the reader to flow with, rather than seek to vary, the
rather metronomic rhythm. The invariance is reinforced by repetition - the
repetition of "love has gone and left me' at the start of each verse, the
parallel constructions like "eat I must and sleep I will', and the climactic
"And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow" all underscore the
poem's basic theme.

The most notable variation in the rhythm is the series of stresses in "slow
hours strike", where the words lose their rhythmic flow and gain an emphasis
that evokes the dull, weighty striking of the clock as it ticks the weary
hours off. This is followed immediately by the brilliant "Would that it
were day again! -- with twilight near!" - as perfect a phrasing of the
sentiment as any I've seen.

And finally, the poem appears to end uncharacteristically weakly - this is,
however, perfectly consistent - like the speaker's days and nights, the poem
has no satisfying conclusion, just a weary trailing off that promises no
change and no surcease.

Links:

Millay poems on Minstrels:
  Poem #34, First Fig [with biography and criticism]
  Poem #49, The Unexplorer
  Poem #108, The Penitent
  Poem #317, Inland
  Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
  Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
  Poem #817, Grown-up
  Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All
  Poem #905, Sonnet: I will put Chaos into Fourteen Lines
  Poem #926, Dirge Without Music

-martin

Dirge Without Music -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #926) Dirge Without Music I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, -- They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave, Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

 Rhyme scheme: abab.
 Metre: irregular.

 What can one say about a poem as magnificent as this? That it's defiant,
and courageous, and resolute? Or that it's sad, and lonely, and vulnerable?
That it's finely crafted, meticulously detailed, skilfully plotted? Or that
it's raw, visceral, spontaneous? Choose what adjectives you will (and to be
honest, I think _all_ of the above apply); the truth is, the poem speaks for
itself more powerfully than any second-hand description could ever hope to
do. So go, read it again, and think, and feel, and be grateful for Millay,
for Yeats, for Auden, for William Shakespeare and Dylan Thomas and John
Donne, for Robert  Browning, John Keats, Rudyard Kipling, for Tennyson and
Eliot and Pound and Dickinson, for Li Po, Omar Khayyam, Matsuo Basho -- in
short, for all the wonderful poets who've written all the wonderful poems
that it has been my privilege and joy to share with this list.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Edna St. Vincent Millay:
Poem #34, First Fig
Poem #49, The Unexplorer
Poem #108, The Penitent
Poem #317, Inland
Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
Poem #817, Grown-up
Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All
Poem #905, Sonnet: I will put Chaos into Fourteen Lines

Elegies and the like:
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #46, Lament for Boromir  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #50, In Memory of W. B. Yeats  -- W. H. Auden
Poem #144, On the Eve of His Execution  -- Chidiock Tichborne
Poem #157, O Captain! My Captain!  -- Walt Whitman
Poem #220, Lament for Eorl the Young  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #256, Funeral Blues  -- W. H. Auden
Poem #286, An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog  -- Oliver Goldsmith
Poem #335, After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #392, Good  -- R. S. Thomas
Poem #448, To The Immortal Memory of the Halibut,
  On Which I Dined This Day, Monday, April 26, 1784  -- William Cowper
Poem #500, A Dirge  -- Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #672, Death -- Thomas Hood
Poem #707, The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner -- Randall Jarrell
Poem #751, Elegies -- Guillevic
Poem #770, A Thing of Beauty is a Joy for Ever -- John Keats
Poem #774, Ray -- Hayden Carruth
Poem #796, Death Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnets: X) -- John Donne
Poem #918, John Kinsella's Lament for Mrs Mary Moore -- William Butler Yeats

Poem #921, Charlie Freak -- Steely Dan

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Guest poem submitted by Vivian Eden:

(Poem #905) I will put Chaos into fourteen lines I will put Chaos into fourteen lines And keep him there; and let him thence escape If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines. Past are the hours, the years of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude: I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess; Or answer. I will only make him good. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Recently you put out a call for named verse forms. This sonnet has it all -
a poem about poetry, about closed forms, about chaos and order of course,
about Eros, about women and men in general ("I will only make him good"),
about the poet's power and control, about self-knowledge, about art,
mysticism ("something simple not yet understood"), religion and what goes
into the willing acceptance of any restrictions in art and life. It is also
perfectly crafted and self-ironic. In short, a tour de force.

Vivian.

[Minstrels Links]

Edto St. Vincent Millay:
Poem #34, First Fig
Poem #49, The Unexplorer
Poem #108, The Penitent
Poem #317, Inland
Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
Poem #817, Grown-up
Poem #860, Sonnet: Love Is Not All

Sonnet: Love Is Not All -- Edna St Vincent Millay

My thanks are due to Rajat Sharma for introducing me to this poem:

(Poem #860) Sonnet: Love Is Not All Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain, Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink and rise and sink and rise and sink again. Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for release or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

"Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes,
then burn the ashes.  That's our official slogan."
        -- Ray Bradbury, "Fahrenheit 451"

I read Bradbury's classic cautionary tale long before I had even heard of
Millay, but I assumed (given the august company she was placed in) that she
was a writer of note. Unfortunately, the first few poems of hers that I came
across were remarkably unremarkable, and so I added Millay to my list of
Poets Whom Other People Like.

That categorization has changed, though, and I think it was today's poem
which changed it. The tinge of desperation that colours even her most
romantic offerings is present, of course, but there's something else as
well: a compression of thought and word and deed, a _concentration_
reminiscent of no one so much as the early Dylan Thomas. The relentless flow
of metaphors in the opening three lines, the density of syllables in the
wonderful third couplet, the desolation of the sestet - they're all handled
with consummate craftsmanship, and they come together to form a whole that
unequivocally _works_.

The twist right at the end is typical. The lines preceding it are dark, yes,
but where some writers would have been cynical, Millay's tone is one of
experience refined by sorrow. She knows first-hand what love can and cannot
do, and that knowledge makes her final, defiant affirmation of its
importance all the more poignant and powerful. Love is not everything, but
it does not need to be; what it is, is enough.

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Edna St. Vincent Millay:
Poem #34, First Fig
Poem #49, The Unexplorer
Poem #108, The Penitent
Poem #317, Inland
Poem #590, Sonnet XLIII
Poem #604, Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
Poem #817, Grown-up

Walt Whitman:
Poem #54, When I heard the Learn'd Astronomer
Poem #157, O Captain! My Captain!
Poem #268, The Dalliance of the Eagles
Poem #246, I Hear America Singing
Poem #445, A Noiseless Patient Spider
Poem #498, The World Below the Brine
Poem #508, I saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing

Grown-up -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #817) Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight? -- Edna St Vincent Millay

A delightfully whimsical little piece of commentary, all the funnier for
its grain of truth. Not to mention nostalgic memories about fighting with my
parents over bedtime <g>. As usual, Millay gets the tone and choice of words
perfectly right; like her 'Unexplorer', this is not a children's poem, but
it is unmistakably a poem about childhood (to say nothing of adulthood), an
image as vivid and compelling as any in Milne or Watterson.

Links:

  The Unexplorer (complete with Millay biography): poem #49

  Complete list of Millay poems on Minstrels:

  Poem #34 First Fig
  Poem #49 The Unexplorer
  Poem #108 The Penitent
  Poem #317 Inland
  Poem #604 Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare
  Poem #590 Sonnet XLIII (What lips my lips have kissed...)

-martin (who has often retired at half past eight <g>)

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Thanks to Sunil Iyengar for suggesting today's poem

(Poem #604) Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

I'm afraid that this is not one of my favourite Millay poems - much as I
usually love her work, I feel that she has failed to do the subject justice
(or, perhaps, that the matter doesn't really suit her style; either way, it
lacks the feel of her really great pieces).

However, it does fit very neatly into the theme, and is worth a read, if as
much for its symbolism as for the actual poem. The comparison of
mathematical insight to a divine revelation, for instance, is a rather
standard image, but one that springs naturally to mind, for reasons not too
hard to see - most of the universe can be explained using a judicious
combination of mathematics and religion :).

Also very interesting is the parallel drawn between the transcendence into
beauty and the transition from sound to light. Mathematics seems to have
associated with it a certain abstract purity that finds its closest
reflection in our images of space and light, or perhaps light comes closest
to the geometric ideal of a straight line (one of the cornerstones of
practically all mathematics, and certainly one of the key tools in its
development). And of course, there is the obvious reference back to the
light/revelation image,

The basic form is Petrarchan, with a slightly unusual rhyme scheme in the
sestet (though see http://www.sonnets.org/basicforms.htm - the sestet had a
pretty flexible rhyme scheme). Notable is the fairly heavy use of
alliteration, which adds to the poem's somewhat 'weighty' feel.

As an afterthought, this heaviness is probably my main objection to the poem
- Millay has tried to capture both the majesty and the ethereal nature of
mathematics, but has associated with the former a weight that is quite at
variance with the latter.

Note:

Euclid is probably one of the most famous, and certainly one of the most
influential mathematicians of all time; his 'Elements', a massive
compilation of the mathematical knowledge of time time revolutionised the
field, setting the standard for rigour that even now characterises
mathematics.

  Almost from the time of its writing and lasting almost to the present, the
  Elements has exerted a continuous and major influence on human affairs. It
  was the primary source of geometric reasoning, theorems, and methods at
  least until the advent of non-Euclidean geometry in the 19th century. It
  is sometimes said that, next to the Bible, the Elements may be the most
  translated, published, and studied of all the books produced in the
  Western world. Euclid may not have been a first-class mathematician. He
  certainly was, however, a first-class teacher of mathematics, inasmuch as
  his textbook has remained in use practically unchanged for more than 2,000
  years.
        -- EB

I could go on about Euclid for several pages; however, inasmuch as this is a
poetry list I'll leave you to explore the several excellent books and
webpages about him and his work yourselves <g>.

Links:

Here's a biography of Millay: poem #34

And two of Euclid:
[broken link] http://www.treasure-troves.com/bios/Euclid.html
http://www-groups.dcs.st-and.ac.uk/~history/Mathematicians/Euclid.html

And here is one of his more celebrated theorems - 'beauty bare' indeed!
[broken link] http://www.math.umd.edu/~krc/numbers/infitude.html

-martin

Sonnet XLIII -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Guest poem submitted by Jose de Abreu:

(Poem #590) Sonnet XLIII What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. -- Edna St Vincent Millay

I'm truly indebted to the minstrels for introducing me to the works of Edna
St Vincent Millay. I like her poems for their sweet and simple nature, with
often a tinge of sorrow; and today's poem is no exception.

Jose.

[thomas adds]

On content: While I don't _quite_ share Martin's (and Jose's, evidently)
fondness for Millay, I do like this poem: images like 'the lonely tree' and
'the rain ... full of ghosts' are utterly enchanting. Perhaps it has
something to do with the time of year - Millay's gentle melancholy slots
perfectly into a cold and rainy October like the one we're having right now.

On form: Today's sonnet is cast in the classic Petrarchan form, of which
Britannica has this to say:

"The Petrarchan sonnet characteristically treats its theme in two parts. The
first eight lines, the  octave, state a problem, ask a question, or express
an emotional tension. The last six lines, the sestet, resolve the problem,
answer the question, or relieve the tension. The octave is rhymed abbaabba.
The rhyme scheme of the sestet varies; it may be cdecde, cdccdc, or cdedce
... In most cases the form [is] adapted to the staple metre of the
language--e.g., the alexandrine (12-syllable iambic line) in France and
iambic pentameter in English."

        -- EB

Although I wouldn't call the sestet of today's poem a resolution, it
certainly betokens a quietude that's absent in the octave...

thomas.

Inland -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Back after a while...

(Poem #317) Inland People that build their houses inland, People that buy a plot of ground Shaped like a house, and build a house there, Far from the sea-board, far from the sound Of water sucking the hollow ledges, Tons of water striking the shore -- What do they long for, as I long for One salt smell of the sea once more? People the waves have not awakened, Spanking the boats at the harbor's head, What do they long for, as I long for, -- Starting up in my inland bed, Beating the narrow walls, and finding Neither a window nor a door, Screaming to God for death by drowning -- One salt taste of the sea once more? -- Edna St Vincent Millay

As long-time readers of the list are doubtless aware, I love sea poems and
I love Millay, and this poem has disappointed neither set of expectations.
The sea is, in some ways, the perfect embodiment of Nature -- boundless,
untameable, "his Sea in no showing the same, his Sea and the same 'neath
each showing" -- in short, the very antithesis of civilization and its
"little boxes all the same". And Millay has captured this conflict
beautifully, with a poem that traverses a spectrum of moods, starting off
quietly and ending with a rising scream and a slap in the face.

As with many sea poems this progression of moods is very likely intended to
mirror the ever changing nature of the sea itself. This particular poem also
reminds me of a breaking wave - the long, slow buildup, followed by the
sudden rise and crash against an unyielding shore. And beneath the wave, the
gentle undercurrent of ripples suggested by the repeated words and phrases.
(Of course, it is all too easy to read more meanings and analogies into a
poem than its author ever intended, but such resonances only enhance the
experience; in the final anaylsis most poems are the joint creation of the
poet and the reader.)

m.

Links:

We've run a number of Millay poems in the past, all available at
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html

There's a Millay biography and some further links at poem #34

The Penitent -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #108) The Penitent I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I, "And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I've been!" Alas for pious planning - - It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My little Sorrow would not weep, My little Sin would go to sleep -- To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! So I got up in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my my hair To please a passing lad, And, "One thing there's no getting by -- I've been a wicked girl," said I: "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!" -- Edna St Vincent Millay

A charming poem, if not as brilliant as some of her other pieces. Millay was
nothing if not unconventional - encouraged towards independence of thought
from a young age, she cocks a snook at orthodox morality in a manner
somewhat reminiscent of Dorothy Parker, though far less acidly. To quote one
of her biographies, "in those first volumes Millay was the voice of
rebellious 'flaming youth,' of the young people who were bent on gathering
'figs from thistles' and burning their candles at both ends, of the girls
who claimed for themselves the free standards of their brothers."

Constructionwise, the somewhat singsong metre gives the poem a delightful
air of irreverence. I also love the playful complexity of the form, with the
varied line lengths, the occasional internal rhyme, and, for semi-personal
reasons, the abcbdddb rhyme scheme.

m.

The Unexplorer -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Due to severe time constraints this will be the last poem I send for a month
or possibly more :( Thomas will either double his output or skip alternate
days, depending. Guest poems can be sent to him. Anyway, for a swan song of
sorts...

(Poem #49) The Unexplorer There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once -- she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not travelled more.) -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Millay's lighter poetry is perhaps not as well known as her more serious
stuff, or her love poems, but it is IMHO just as good, and certainly as
delightful. This particular one captured the essence of growing up
perfectly, and so simply that I hesitate to say anything about it. It is
also, for some reason, evocative in an intertextual sort of way - I was
reminded of bits of Calvin and Hobbes, Milne, Tolkien and a few others,
though I can't really say why.

And to repeat myself, the following site contains an extensive collection of
Millay's poetry, with a very well-chosen picture before each one:
<[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/6865/esvm.html>

Au revoir,

m.

First Fig -- Edna St Vincent Millay

(Poem #34) First Fig My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends-- It gives a lovely light! -- Edna St Vincent Millay

Another simple, gemlike poem to which there is really nothing for me to add.
Millay is high up on my list of poets whom I feel deserve to be better known -
her poetry is wonderfully lyrical, often moving and always beautiful.

Biographical Notes:

  Edna St. Vincent Millay, born in 1892 in Maine, grew to become one of the
  premier twentieth-century lyric poets. She was also an accomplished
  playwright and speaker who often toured giving readings of her poetry. All of
  that was in her public life, but her private life was equally interesting. An
  unconventional childhood led into an unconventional adulthood. She was an
  acknowledged bisexual who carried on many affairs with women, an affection
  for which is sometimes evident in her poems and plays. She did marry, but
  even that part of her life was somewhat unusual, with the marriage being
  quite open, and extramarital affairs, tho not documented, quite probable.

  Millay enjoyed her free-spirited childhood and adolescence and the creativity
  that it inspired. At the age of twenty, she entered her poem "Renascence"
  into a poetry contest for the The Lyric Year, a contest from which 100 poems
  were to be chosen to be published. It was, at first, overlooked as being too
  simplistic, However, one of the judges took a second look at it and the poem,
  now one of her most well known, ended up winning fourth place. It was that
  poem which really started her on her literary career, beginning with a
  scholarship to the then all female college of Vassar.

  Millay kept up her writing, both poetic and dramatic while at Vassar. It was
  during this time that she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her book The
  Harp-Weaver and other Poems.

        -- excerpted from the 'Renascence' website
        <http://members.aol.com/MillayGirl/millay.htm#BIOGRAPHY>

Criticism:

  Undoubtedly some of the furor aroused by her earlier poems was due to the
  period of their appearance; in those first volumes Millay was the voice of
  rebellious "flaming youth, " of the young people who were bent on gathering
  "figs from thistles" and burning their candles at both ends, of the girls who
  claimed for themselves the free standards of their brothers. With the
  exception of Elinor Wylie in her last great series, no woman since Elizabeth
  Barrett Browning, it has been argued, excels her in that (Sonnet) form.
  Hildegarde Flanner spoke of "the sense of freshness and transparent
  revelation that early lyrics conveyed," of "the infusion of personal energy
  and glow into the traditions of lyric poetry, and deceptively artless ability
  to set down the naked fact un-fortified." She brought a new sense of poetry
  as song to a generation. In any poll of literate (not professional) opinion,
  it is stated that she would have almost certainly have been named first among
  the contemporary poets of America. The skill with which she employed the
  sonnet, developed over a number of years, perhaps most evident in "Epitaph
  for the Race of Man" (1928) and Fatal Interview (1931), can be explained in
  large part by the tension created between form and content: "I will put Chaos
  in fourteen lines," she said in Mine the Harvest. Moreover, it has become
  clear that she helped to free the poetry of American women from thematic
  inhibitions.

  Following her successes in the 1920's and early 1930's, Millay's poetry
  gradually suffered a critical and popular decline. Unfortunately, her real
  poetic achievements were overshadowed by her image as the free (but
  "naughty") woman of the 1920's. During the last two decades of her life,
  Millay was almost ignored critically, although her Collected Sonnets appeared
  in 1941 and Collected Lyrics in 1943. Since the late 1960's, however, there
  has been a renewed interest in Millay's works, with more sympathetic critical
  evaluation.

    -- From <[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/6865/millaybio.html>

Incidentally, if you would like to read more of her work, there are a number of
Millay pages on the net, of which my favourite is
<[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Paris/LeftBank/6865/millay.html>

Martin