Edna St. Vincent Millay

Poststructural Pub
1

Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
The sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.



Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

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 pain 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 well may be. I do not think I would.



Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
“What a big book for such a little head!”
Come, I will show you now my newest hat,
And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!
Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;
You will not catch me reading any more:
I shall be called a wife to pattern by.
And some day when you knock and push the door,
Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,
I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.



Conscientious Objector (I shall die)

I shall die
but that is all
I shall do for Death

I hear him leading his horse out of the stall
I hear the clatter on the barn floor
He is in haste
he has business in Cuba
business in the Balkans
Many calls to make this morning
But I will not hold the bridle while he cinches the girth
And he may mount by himself
I will not give him a leg up

Though he flick my shoulders with his whip
I will not tell him which way the fox ran
And with his hoof on my breast
I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp

I shall die
but that is all
that I shall do for Death
I am not on his payroll

I will not tell him the whereabouts of my enemies either
Though he promises me much
I will not map him the route to any man’s door
Am I a spy in the land of the living
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me
Never through me shall you be overcome

I shall die
but that is all
I shall do for Death

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3

Yes, wonderful love poetry. To my knowledge the
greatest American woman poet of the last century.
The first poem ‘We were very
tired, we were very merry’ reminds me of being young
and riding back and forth all night on the Staten Island
ferry, as she did in that poem.

And lovely sonnets:

XIX
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 to-night, 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 the 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.

4

You know…I don’t particularly gravitate to poetry, but those are very nice. I do think she had a tremendous gift. I especially liked the Death one.

5

Yes, the Conscientious Objector poem reads almost
like something the Beat poets might have written.

She was bi-sexual and had an open marriage.
Many lovers of both sexes and some long term
love affairs. She was the first woman to win
the Pulitzer Prize. Apparently someone who
lived very much on her own terms, an
extraordinarily honest voice.

1892 to 1950.

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, “A Few Figs from Thistles”, 1920

6

The first ones were nice, but – finally – one that can be sung to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

7

No! NOOOOOO!!!

Gonzo has ruined poetry forever!!

Caj

8

Well, maybe the Yellow Rose of Texas.
It’s a live issue.
Some commentators say Millay was
going for The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

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Spring

TO what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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“Greatest American woman poet of the last century,” says Jim. Hmm, say I. First of all what does “greatest” mean in an art where, as Eliot says somewhere, “there is no competition.” And if we were to have such a run-off, would gender matter? Nationality? How about mixed doubles?

I’m just being cranky after my first day back at work. But here’s Elizabeth Bishop for you, courtesy of the website of the Academy of American Poets:

In the Waiting Room
by Elizabeth Bishop

In Worcester, Massachusetts,

I went with Aunt Consuelo

to keep her dentist’s appointment

and sat and waited for her

in the dentist’s waiting room.

It was winter. It got dark

early. The waiting room

was full of grown-up people,

arctics and overcoats,

lamps and magazines.

My aunt was inside

what seemed like a long time

and while I waited I read

the National Geographic

(I could read) and carefully

studied the photographs:

the inside of a volcano,

black, and full of ashes;

then it was spilling over

in rivulets of fire.

Osa and Martin Johnson

dressed in riding breeches,

laced boots, and pith helmets.

A dead man slung on a pole

–“Long Pig,” the caption said.

Babies with pointed heads

wound round and round with string;

black, naked women with necks

wound round and round with wire

like the necks of light bulbs.

Their breasts were horrifying.

I read it right straight through.

I was too shy to stop.

And then I looked at the cover:

the yellow margins, the date.

Suddenly, from inside,

came an oh! of pain

–Aunt Consuelo’s voice–

not very loud or long.

I wasn’t at all surprised;

even then I knew she was

a foolish, timid woman.

I might have been embarrassed,

but wasn’t. What took me

completely by surprise

was that it was me:

my voice, in my mouth.

Without thinking at all

I was my foolish aunt,

I–we–were falling, falling,

our eyes glued to the cover

of the National Geographic,

February, 1918.



I said to myself: three days

and you’ll be seven years old.

I was saying it to stop

the sensation of falling off

the round, turning world.

into cold, blue-black space.

But I felt: you are an I,

you are an Elizabeth,

you are one of them.

Why should you be one, too?

I scarcely dared to look

to see what it was I was.

I gave a sidelong glance

–I couldn’t look any higher–

at shadowy gray knees,

trousers and skirts and boots

and different pairs of hands

lying under the lamps.

I knew that nothing stranger

had ever happened, that nothing

stranger could ever happen.



Why should I be my aunt,

or me, or anyone?

What similarities–

boots, hands, the family voice

I felt in my throat, or even

the National Geographic

and those awful hanging breasts–

held us all together

or made us all just one?

How–I didn’t know any

word for it–how “unlikely”. . .

How had I come to be here,

like them, and overhear

a cry of pain that could have

got loud and worse but hadn’t?



The waiting room was bright

and too hot. It was sliding

beneath a big black wave,

another, and another.



Then I was back in it.

The War was on. Outside,

in Worcester, Massachusetts,

were night and slush and cold,

and it was still the fifth

of February, 1918.




From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Used with permission.


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Well, I said ‘to my knowledge,’ so what I said was true–
‘to my knowledge.’ Elizabeth B’s poem is extraordinary.
Got any more?

Above all I have affirmed a principle:

What’s the point of being a poet if you can’t
be champion?

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Sorry, Jim. I was just being pedantic. Occupational hazard.

Anyway, Bishop is really something. You can find several more of her poems online at the Academy of American Poets website. I think this link should lead you to a page with connections to the poems:

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/7

The notes on the site rather downplay the personal in her work in favor of the impressionistic. But I don’t think the latter would have been nearly as compelling without the hints of the former. (Agh, pedantry again.)

I particularly recommend “At the Fishhouses” and “The Art of Losing.” And her letters–out of print, I think, but well worth finding. She had a remarkable life, lived in the Maritimes, New England, Brazil, and a gift for being moving and clear at the same time.

13

ages ago, i dated a girl who was writing some big giant paper on edna. i managed to not listen to a thing she said about edna and i managed to not read a word of this thread either. and dating the girl didn’t work out either. we were kids.

i’ve actually expressed this opinion rather loudly in a room that suddenly got quiet right before i spoke and a whole room full i people heard me say, “i think shakespeare is lame.” quite a few people just had to tell me what they thought of that. man, if i would have cared, i would have been in pain.

14

:heart:

Absolutely wonderful, jim! I could sit and read such lovely poetry all day long…well, if I didn’t have a mess of kids and dinner to make :wink:

15

It must be the Goth in you, emm.

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I saw a couple of Edna’s poems in some collections by various poets and thought I’ve got to find more of this. I’ve been looking in all the bookshops in Lincoln and Louth for an anthology of her poetry for the last three months but to no avail. Thank goodness there’s a plentiful amount available on the net.