Tuesday, November 19, 2013

November Poetry


In my November 2011 post, I wrote this:

Almost four years ago, to the day, I wrote the following post, and it seems so apropos to the time of year, to the photograph I took yesterday, that I hope you won't mind me re-posting it.  My non-tennis elbow is flaring up under the pressure of marking an on-line assignment (which requires too much time at the keyboard) -- and I'll admit I may have spent more time than advisable on Twitter recently. Elbow, wrist, shoulders, and back are all threatening to rebel, and it seems wise to listen, not to sit typing a lengthy post.


Two years later, November 2013, I'm similarly loath to spend extra time at the keyboard. So I've changed out the photograph from my earlier post (I LOVE hawthorne berries at this time of year, such a rich red against the green and gold leaves still clinging to the branches).  Otherwise, though, I'm following what's become a late Autumn tradition on this blog (last year's November Millay here, with a different photo again) and I'm recycling text.  But the heart of that text is a lesser known sonnet by one of my favourite poets.

And really, should one ever apologisinge for re-visiting the brilliant Edna St. Vincent Millay? I think not! So without further ado, here's a late autumn post from 2007, still as relevant, I hope, as it was then. 



More Millay

In addition to yesterday's tidbits from Nancy Milford's Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay, here's a deliciously cheeky line from a letter she wrote to her publishers. Having been drawing advances from them during years of illness (much of it related to addiction), she had to resist their push to publish books she didn't feel would do her reputation credit. One such proposal was for a book of her love poems, introduced by a foreword in which she would provide some autobiographical context for each poem. Fearing that such a publication would attract the wrong kind of reader, she declined respectfully, closing with this fabulous line:
Trusting, however, in closing, that for one year more it may be said of me by Harper Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances. (489)

And here's a sonnet written, appropriately enough, in the autumn of Millay's life, when she was about my age, mid-50s.* It's a sonnet that testifies to Millay having recovered her powers after years of illness, depression, and little productive writing, and a sonnet worth savouring as we approach the end of autumn (sneaking up a bit too close to winter!).

Tranquility at length, when autumn comes,
Will lie upon the spirit like that haze
Touching far islands on fine autumn days
With tenderest blue, like bloom on purple plums;
Harvest will ring, but not as summer hums,
With noisy enterprise--to broaden, raise,
Proceed, proclaim, establish: autumn stays
The marching year one moment; stills the drums.
Then sits the insistent cricket in the grass;
But on the gravel crawls the chilly bee;
And all is over that could come to pass
Last year; excepting this: the mind is free
One moment, to compute, refute, amass,
Catalogue, question, contemplate, and see.

I love the way Millay works the octave, stretching its lyricism, building tension -- there's a certain fraught vulnerability to tranquility's tender beauty

 of the tranquility
 -- it's "at length" and only "touching far" places on the horizon. But I especially love the last four lines of the sestet, the buildup to the caesura and then that catalogue of evaluative processes so different from the strident achievements of summer, the move through "compute, refute, amass" all the way to that marvellously open "see." A "see" which, rhyming with the "free" above, is delivered with such triumph, at the end of the list of verbs, that we almost forgot that the mind is only free "One moment."
What I find really interesting about the claims she's making in the sonnet is that she's attributing to autumn some processes and possibilities I probably would assign to winter. I wonder how much that has to do with Millay's difficulties reconciling herself to aging. A public figure whose physical attractiveness and sexual charisma had been such a defining element, she may have been especially motivated to figure the autumn of her life in positive and productive terms.

*now, of course, posting this in November, 2013, I'm 60, so moving quite close to winter, from which point autumn looks even better!

6 comments:

  1. I remember this poem from last year. Love your thoughts. Isn't the end of all that activity (quiet and cerebral as it may be) that we may finally see? See life as the beautiful gift it is. See the symbiotic relationship of life and death (the chilly bee). See the tranquility that comes with acceptance.
    Thanks for posting this again.

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    1. Yes, that symbiosis. . . and viewing the relationship as such, that acceptance, that calm . . .thank you. . .

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  2. I very much identify with the last two lines. We have more time and more freedom to think as we get older. And hopefully to see and make meaning of our lives.

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    1. Yes, although ironically (or poignantly?) we only have that "more time and more freedom" for "one moment," as Milly writes. . . So we should pause while we can. . . and See.

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  3. Poems that touch us at one point in life may do so, but with a different tenor, later on.
    I love that "chilly bee".

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    1. It's so true, the different tenor poems (or, really, any works of art) take on at different points of our life. . . .and yes, that slowed-down "chilly bee" somehow sticks in our image bank, doesn't it?!

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I'd love to hear your response to my post. Agree, disagree, even go off on a tangent, I love to know you're out there, readers. Let's chat, shall we? I apologize, though, for the temporary necessity of the Word Verification -- spam comments have been tiresomely numerous lately, and I'm hoping to break that pattern.

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