Miss Gee -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by :

(Poem #1298) Miss Gee Let me tell you a little story About Miss Edith Gee; She lived in Clevedon Terrace At number 83. She'd a slight squint in her left eye, Her lips they were thin and small, She had narrow sloping shoulders And she had no bust at all. She'd a velvet hat with trimmings, And a dark grey serge costume; She lived in Clevedon Terrace In a small bed-sitting room. She'd a purple mac for wet days, A green umbrella too to take, She'd a bicycle with shopping basket And a harsh back-pedal break. The Church of Saint Aloysius Was not so very far; She did a lot of knitting, Knitting for the Church Bazaar. Miss Gee looked up at the starlight And said, 'Does anyone care That I live on Clevedon Terrace On one hundred pounds a year?' She dreamed a dream one evening That she was the Queen of France And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius Asked Her Majesty to dance. But a storm blew down the palace, She was biking through a field of corn, And a bull with the face of the Vicar Was charging with lowered horn. She could feel his hot breath behind her, He was going to overtake; And the bicycle went slower and slower Because of that back-pedal break. Summer made the trees a picture, Winter made them a wreck; She bicycled to the evening service With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She passed by the loving couples, She turned her head away; She passed by the loving couples, And they didn't ask her to stay. Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle, She heard the organ play; And the choir sang so sweetly At the ending of the day, Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle, She knelt down on her knees; 'Lead me not into temptation But make me a good girl, please.' The days and nights went by her Like waves round a Cornish wreck; She bicycled down to the doctor With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She bicycled down to the doctor, And rang the surgery bell; 'O, doctor, I've a pain inside me, And I don't feel very well.' Doctor Thomas looked her over, And then he looked some more; Walked over to his wash-basin, Said,'Why didn't you come before?' Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner, Though his wife was waiting to ring, Rolling his bread into pellets; Said, 'Cancer's a funny thing. 'Nobody knows what the cause is, Though some pretend they do; It's like some hidden assassin Waiting to strike at you. 'Childless women get it. And men when they retire; It's as if there had to be some outlet For their foiled creative fire.' His wife she rang for the servent, Said, 'Dont be so morbid, dear'; He said: 'I saw Miss Gee this evening And she's a goner, I fear.' They took Miss Gee to the hospital, She lay there a total wreck, Lay in the ward for women With her bedclothes right up to her neck. They lay her on the table, The students began to laugh; And Mr. Rose the surgeon He cut Miss Gee in half. Mr. Rose he turned to his students, Said, 'Gentlemen if you please, We seldom see a sarcoma As far advanced as this.' They took her off the table, They wheeled away Miss Gee Down to another department Where they study Anatomy. They hung her from the ceiling Yes, they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers Carefully dissected her knee. -- W H Auden

At last I've found Miss Gee (again)! I first encountered her cycling
along in her purple mac pursued by the Vicar bull in a college textbook.
In her own quiet way Miss Gee spoke volumes for loneliness, repression,
disease and death. Something about this sad, funny, cruel tale struck me
and I was never able to forget the protagonist.

Now many years later after searching in vain on the internet, I decided
to go and look through the Auden collection at the University. Sure
enough there she was in stack 800 something, hiding with her clothes
buttoned up to her neck!

For me the most important facet of the poem is that it never really lets
you sympathise easily with Miss Gee. Instead of creating dark
sentimental lines to make us feel Miss Gee's misery, Auden turns the
tables and invites us to laugh at her. And it is through the cruel humor
of this deceptively simple poem, through our own guilt, and recognition
that we begin to understand Miss Gee's tragedy...

Some things that caught my attention on reading this poem the second
time were the mention of Saint Aloysius, and the 'Cornish Wreck'. So I
went and did some research:

Saint Aloysius: Born in Castiglione, Spain on the 9th of March in 1568.
Aloysius was also deeply faithful and pious. By the age of 9 he had
privately decided on a religious Life, and made a vow of perpetual
virginity. He practiced many devotions and mortifications, and
safeguarded himself at all times from possible temptation. A kidney
disease confined Saint Aloysius to his bed for some time, removed from
the normal full social life of a young man in his position. Bedrest
would be a difficult challenge for any vigourous young man, but Aloysius
resigned himself to it. Far from being bored, or despairing of his
health, he spent his time in prayer and reading the Lives of the Saints.
His resolve to become a Jesuit was formed and firmed at this time. He
served in a hospital during the plague of 1587 in Milan. In time, he
fell victim to the dreaded disease himself, and died at the age of 23.
This young man, patron to all young people, was beatified in 1621, and
declared a saint in 1725.
        --
http://www.domestic-church.com/CONTENT.DCC/19980501/SAINTS/STALOY.HTM )

So it was to this gentle Patron Saint of the young and the sick that
Miss Gee prayed to make her a 'good girl'...

Cornish Wreck: Apparently there are some 3,500 odd wreck sites that have
been accounted for around the dangerous Cornish coastline. Some if not
all of these have become tourist attractions, and thousands of avid
divers dissect the Cornish coast for these wrecks.
        -- [broken link] http://lyonessetrading.co.uk/THE%20SEA/WRECKS.htm

Miss Gee is among the thousands of silent lives that have been destroyed
by the ravages of cancer. Of course she happened to be one of the rare
few who lived beyond her life in the anatomy chambers. After a life time
of repression, buttoning-up, and muffled yearnings (for loving couples
and the Vicar) Miss Gee finally had her pick of Oxford Groupers*
hovering around her wreck!

* Grouper: noun, plural 'groupers' also 'grouper'
Etymology: Portuguese 'garoupa'
Any of numerous fishes (family Serranidae and especially genera
Epinephelus and Mycteroperca) that are typically large solitary
bottom-dwelling fishes of warm seas
        -- www.m-w.com

but also

* a member of the "Oxford Group": This movement, which began around
1908, was originally called "A First Century Christian Fellowship". It
was begun by Frank N. Buchman, a Lutheran minister from Pennsylvania.
The Oxford Group was focused upon changing the world, 'One Person at a
Time'. At Oxford Group 'House Parties', members 'surrendered' on their
knees and gave testimony (or shared) of their deliverance from their
'sin' of alcoholism, smoking, etc. Around 1940 the Oxford Group changed
its name to Moral Re-Armament. This movement still exists today with
offices worldwide.
        -- [broken link] http://members.tripod.com/aainsa/history/founding.html

Snake -- D H Lawrence

Guest poem sent in by singh_abs2000

(Poem #1282) Snake A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink there. In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me. He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough And rested his throat upon the stone bottom, And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness, He sipped with his straight mouth, Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body, Silently. Someone was before me at my water-trough, And I, like a second-comer, waiting. He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do, And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do, And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment, And stooped and drank a little more, Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking. The voice of my education said to me He must be killed, For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous. And voices in me said, If you were a man You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off. But must I confess how I liked him, How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless, Into the burning bowels of this earth? Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured? I felt so honoured. And yet those voices: If you were not afraid, you would kill him! And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more That he should seek my hospitality From out the dark door of the secret earth. He drank enough And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken, And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black, Seeming to lick his lips, And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air, And slowly turned his head, And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream, Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face. And as he put his head into that dreadful hole, And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther, A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole, Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after, Overcame me now his back was turned. I looked round, I put down my pitcher, I picked up a clumsy log And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter. I think it did not hit him, But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste, Writhed like lightning, and was gone Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front, At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination. And immediately I regretted it. I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act! I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education. And I thought of the albatross, And I wished he would come back, my snake. For he seemed to me again like a king, Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld, Now due to be crowned again. And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords Of life. And I have something to expiate: A pettiness. -- D H Lawrence

          (From: Birds, Beasts and Flowers)

This is one of those poems that leaves its impressions deep in ones mind (I
am still haunted by that silent shimering serene snake)...the fact that it
also happens to be written by D. H.  Lawrence who voies some fundamental
issues that I deeply feel about makes this poem doubly precious!

The most striking aspect of this poem is the sense of tight conflict that it
evokes. Man vs. (his own?) nature, mystery vs. conformity, cool waters vs.
afternoon heat, Satan vs. Adam. The biblical connotations are pretty
obvious, and in his typical iconoclastic way Lawrence flouts the heavens by
finally acknowledging this alternative Lord of life.

Those who have read and are familiar with Lawrence's work would be able to
see the oft repeated motif of sexual and mystic repression forced by society
and its instinctual (re)awakening.  Needless to say the poem abounds with
freudian symbols; the snake, the trough, the hole in the earth...In fact the
poem is so cogent that when studying it we spent hours on each line!

Despite all the literary paraphernalia that often goes with Lawrence there
is something deeply human about his work. At some level we have all
experienced the sense of confusion, intrigue, awe, lust, anger, guilt (The
albatross is a reference to the "Rime of the Mariner" by Coleridge where a
sailor brings misfortune upon his ship by shooting the bird), shame and
ultimately sadness and wistfulness (...come back, my snake) that overcomes
us whenever we come face to face with our 'deeper' darker beings (what after
all are the origins of the original sin?)...

Well! Who else but Lawrence for the closing statement:

"If there is a serpent of secret and shameful desire in my soul, let me not
beat it out of my consciousness with sticks. It will lie beyond, in the
marsh of the so-called subconsciousness, where I cannot follow it with my
sticks. Let me bring it to the fire to see what it is. For a serpent is a
thing created. It has its own raison d'etre. In its own being it has beauty
and reality. Even my horror is a tribute to its reality. And I must admit
the genuineness of my horror, accept it, and not exclude it from my
understanding. . . .  There is a natural marsh in my belly, and there the
snake is naturally at home. Shall he not crawl into my consciousness? Shall
I kill him with sticks the moment he lifts his flattened head on my sight?
Shall I kill him or pluck out the eye which sees him? None the less, he will
swarm within the marsh. Then let the serpent of living corruption take his
place among us honourably. . . . For the Lord is the lord of all things, not
of some only. And everything shall in its proportion drink its own draught
of life."

(p. 235 DHL: Life into Art by Keith Sagar/University of Georgia Press,
Athens, 1985)

There are plenty of online discussions of this classic poem. One of
my favorites is:
http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem1252.html

Poetry -- Pablo Neruda

GUest poem sent in by singh_abs2000

(Poem #1271) Poetry And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating planations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe. And I, infinitesmal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky. -- Pablo Neruda

This was my first Neruda Poem (ok I admit I was introduced to him
through the film 'Il Postino' (Great Movie, Must watch!) ).
And when I heard it, I could feel the tips of my forgotten wings
quiver!

Neruda is such a passionate poet...but his passion is earthy, and
gentle, yet so...immediate. With this passion he can recreate the
most primeval of human emotions.

Like the 'encounter' with poetry...

Somehow, reading this poem brings images of Van Gogh to my mind.
Images - the heavens unfastened, palpitating planations, shadow
perforated (love that one!), winding night, the universe...wheeling
with the stars, hearts broken free on the open sky. What Van Gogh
did with paint in the 'Starry Night', Neruda does with words
in 'Poetry'.

By the way It would be great if we could get the original spanish
for this, too!

Finally I feel that this poem is particularly apt for
the 'Minstrels', since it captures something that is shared by all
of us here...the tug of poetry, fervid summons of the messiah that
lets the disciples loose,  freewheeling in the open skies!

Morning XXVII -- Pablo Neruda

Guet poem sent in by singh_abs2000

(Poem #1263) Morning XXVII Naked, you are simple as one of your hands, smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round: you have moon-lines, apple-pathways: naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat. Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba; you have vines and stars in your hair; naked you are spacious and yellow as summer in a golden church. Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails - curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born and you withdraw to the underground world, as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores: your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves - and becomes a naked hand again. -- Pablo Neruda

What can be said about what cannot be said...that Neruda could say it?

For me this poem captures all the beauty and painful longing of mortal
love...while reading this poem I realized that this poem could equally be a
lover talking of his love lying next to him...or a mother talking of her own
nakedness suckling at her breasts...

Needless to say my favorite line of all times is in here...

  "you have moon-lines, apple-pathways;
  Naked, you are as slender as a naked grain of wheat"

But more than all this there is something unspeakably sacred in these words.
I cant point my fingers at it...it sweeps you when you come face to face
with this poem.

P.S. I have noticed that there are very few Nerudas in the
collection...so I hope this poem opens a new gateway to more Neruda
discoveries! [actually, eight poems isn't all that few, considering. more
would, of course, always be nice :) - martin]