Dolor -- Theodore Roethke

(Poem #1075) Dolor I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils, Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper-weight, All the misery of manila folders and mucilage, Desolation in immaculate public places, Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard, The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher, Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma, Endless duplication of lives and objects. And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions, Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica, Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium, Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows, Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces. -- Theodore Roethke

[Commentary]

The first time I read this poem [1] I misinterpreted it as being just
another rant (albeit a rather good one) against the increasing mechanization
of modern society, and the concomitant death of craftsmanship and
individuality. Certainly that is one of Roethke's points, and it's not one I
disagree with. But the poet has a subtler message as well: that the
insidious spread of uniformity across _things_ has a deleterious effect on
_people_. It's easier to put a human being in a box when there are other
boxes all around; easier to contain thought when the world seems merely a
container for other objects. All neatly labeled and categorized and indexed,
in inexorable, desolate order.

[1] Ermm, let's be honest. It was all of five minutes ago :)

[Construction]

Notice how Roethke, like Whitman in "When I heard the Learn'd Astronomer"
(Minstrels Poem #54), uses long and decidedly unpoetic words in clunky,
choppy phrases to convey the stultifying effect of mechanical repetition and
duplication. Unlike the Whitman poem, however, there is no final easing up,
and so "Dolor" feels somewhat heavy-handed... On the other hand, "long
afternoons of tedium" could very well have been the inspiration for a phrase
we all know and love, so who am I to complain? :)

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

Poet #Roethke
Poet #Whitman

[Afterthought]

While I agree with the overall thrust of Roethke's poem, on further
reflection I must take exception to the first couple of lines: I happen to
_like_ the easy weight of sharp new pencils, the smell and texture of fresh
sheets of paper. They always make me feel creative :)

The Waking -- Theodore Roethke

Guest poem submitted by Monica Bathija:

(Poem #912) The Waking I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, And learn by going where I have to go. Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go. -- Theodore Roethke

What attracted me to this poem first was the first line - "I wake to sleep
and take my waking slow". It seemed perfect for a dreamy lazy not-morning
person :). And of course "I learn by going where I have to go". Now every
time I read this poem I find it has something new to tell me through each
and every line. Besides the whole musicality of it.

Monica.

[Minstrels Links]

Named Poetic Forms:
Poem #904, The Shrinking Lonesome Sestina -- Miller Williams
Poem #905, I will put Chaos into fourteen lines -- Edna St. Vincent Millay
Poem #906, To a Fat Lady Seen From the Train -- Frances Cornford
Poem #907, Miss Charlotte Brown, Librarian, Goes Mad -- Felix Jung
Poem #908, Haiku -- Yosa Buson
Poem #909, The Limerick Packs Laughs Anatomical -- Anon.

Villanelles:
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #202, Missing Dates  -- William Empson
Poem #393, One Drunken Night  -- Peter Schaeffer
Poem #677, Time will say nothing but I told you so  -- W. H. Auden
Poem #706, It is the pain, it is the pain endures  -- William Empson

Theodore Roethke:
Poem #267, The Meadow Mouse

The Meadow Mouse -- Theodore Roethke

Was planning to run this immediately after 'The Midnightmouse' last week, but
forgot...

(Poem #267) The Meadow Mouse 1 In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stocking Sleeps the baby mouse I found in the meadow, Where he trembled and shook beneath a stick Till I caught him up by the tail and brought him in, Cradled in my hand, A little quaker, the whole body of him trembling, His absurd whiskers sticking out like a cartoon-mouse, His feet like small leaves, Little lizard-feet, Whitish and spread wide when he tried to struggle away, Wriggling like a minuscule puppy. Now he's eaten his three kinds of cheese and drunk from his bottle-cap watering-trough-- So much he just lies in one corner, His tail curled under him, his belly big As his head; his bat-like ears Twitching, tilting toward the least sound. Do I imagine he no longer trembles When I come close to him? He seems no longer to tremble. 2 But this morning the shoe-box house on the back porch is empty. Where has he gone, my meadow mouse, My thumb of a child that nuzzled in my palm?-- To run under the hawk's wing, Under the eye of the great owl watching from the elm-tree, To live by courtesy of the shrike, the snake, the tom-cat. I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass, The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway, The paralytic stunned in the tub, and the water rising,-- All things innocent, hapless, forsaken. -- Theodore Roethke

What most interests me about today's poem is its division into two very distinct
parts. It starts off as an exceedingly ordinary animal poem, of the sort that
abounds in school workbooks. Indeed, if I didn't know its provenance, I would be
tempted to label it juvenilia (and not very precocious juvenilia at that) and
think no more about it.

The second section, though, is everything that the first is not - original,
disturbing, provocative, carefully constructed... I especially like the
phrasing: while it's not stunning in and of itself, it is very effective at what
it sets out to do, and it's original enough to stick in your mind.

The transition isn't particularly abrupt, but it's very noticeable. And most
definitely intentional - the final stanza (the actual crux of the poem) wouldn't
work half as well without what went before it. In a sense, the very ineptitude
of the first section draws attention to the power of the last ten lines.
Skilfully done.

thomas.

[Biography]

Theodore Roethke was born in Saginaw, Michigan, in 1908. As a child, he spent
much time in the greenhouse owned by his father and uncle. His impressions of
the natural world contained there would later profoundly influence the subjects
and imagery of his verse. Roethke attended the University of Michigan and took a
few classes at Harvard, but was unhappy in school. His first book, Open House
(1941), took ten years to write and was critically acclaimed upon its
publication. He went on to publish sparingly but his reputation grew with each
new collection, including The Waking which was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in
1954.

He admired the writing of such poets as Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Blake, and
Wordsworth, as well as Yeats and Dylan Thomas. Stylistically his work ranged
from witty poems in strict meter and regular stanzas to free verse poems full of
mystical and surrealistic imagery. At all times, however, the natural world in
all its mystery, beauty, fierceness, and sensuality, is close by, and the poems
are possessed of an intense lyricism. Roethke had close literary friendships
with fellow poets W. H. Auden, Louise Bogan, Stanley Kunitz, and William Carlos
Williams. He taught at various colleges and universities, including Lafayette,
Pennsylvania State, and Bennington, and worked last at the University of
Washington, where he was mentor to a generation of Northwest poets that included
David Wagoner, Carolyn Kizer, and Richard Hugo. Theodore Roethke died in 1963.