Monday, January 15, 2018


At my sister's suggestion, I read the poem below.  It is a part of a collection of Edna St. Vincent Millay's work gathered in a book we each own. 
The book is:
Our copies have a different cover, but basically this is it.

I was given this book by my mama when I was 10.5 years old.
I didn't feel ready for it then.
As it turns out, I'm still not sure if I'm ready for it, 
or if I just don't do poetry well.
Especially long poems, written in ways that need dissection. 
I don't really have the patience.

I admire those like Michelle that do love poetry.
I think as an English teacher's daughter, I thought I should like this stuff more.
My mom did.
I still have many of her poetry ~ teaching & private collection books.
My sister has many others.

Anyway, here is the poem that was offered up to me, perhaps you will enjoy it.
If not, I understand.
Thanks go to my sister for pointing the way and to Dee for inspiring me to try something new and maybe not clearing my shelf, through reading...
but reading one poem in a book I've had for many years!
(BTW~ I have an extra copy of this book if anyone is interested in it!)

May you also be inspired in some new way,

PS I return to work tomorrow.  Hope I'm ready!

Photo by NAE ©2017

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950).  Renascence and Other Poems.  1917.

2. Interim
THE ROOM is full of you!—As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!—
Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room’s dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,—
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death—
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe’er I look is hideous change.
Save here. Here ’twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, “I have been here before!”
You are not here. I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door.—So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key!—
The room is as you left it; your last touch—
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly—hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust’s grey fingers like a shielded light.
There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table,—I cannot believe
That you are gone!—Just then it seemed to me
You must be here. I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, “I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end”;
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.
Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro…
And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a “t,”
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric “e’s.” You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
                            How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again. If you had known—
But then, it does not matter,—and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, “I picked the first sweet-pea to-day.”
To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow?—O my love,
The things that withered,—and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day—that day you picked the first sweet-pea,—
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet?—If only God
Had let us love,—and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th’ eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet,—I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
’Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first. I did not know,
Then, that it was the last. If I had known—
But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,
After all’s said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
            Few indeed! When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
“I had you and I have you now no more.”
There, there it dangles,—where’s the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that      
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down! I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!
“I had you and I have you now no more.”
O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified?—Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on! Would God—O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer? ’Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!
We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart. I had not thought
That I could move,—and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you. I have been torn
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me? And what am I
To life,—a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?
Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast,—save that contrast’s wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms. What now—what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not
Plant things above your grave—(the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.
I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, “My face is turned to you”;
I know not where you are, I do not know
If heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know:—not for one second’s space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured in the empty air.
Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!
—What do I say?
God! God!—God pity me! Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken? Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk awhile, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive. If all at once
Faith were to slacken,—that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing,—birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!
O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons! How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant—looking over—and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight—

    .    .    .    .    .    .
Ah, I am worn out—I am wearied out—
It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood, and I must sleep.


Liz A said...

Nancy - my dad (now deceased and about whom I will always have very mixed feelings) loved poetry and in his later years led poetry study groups and public readings of published and personal poems. I've never done much more than dip my toe into the deep pool that is poetry and it is perhaps telling that Billy Collins is the author best represented in my small collection. Likewise Edna St. Vincent Millay ... and so it may amuse you to know that I printed out and distributed Renascence to a book club I belonged to many years ago, typing each and every word (rather than copying and pasting), thereby willing myself to get more out of it.

Mo Crow said...

got about a third of the way through and it was just too wordy for me at 2am will try again a bit later!

AKW said...

I am glad you felt a little push to read it. It is long and wordy and does require more brain power than I often have, but it spoke to me, both about losing mom and dad and of course Gary. It's funny how we can walk into a room so soon after death and feel like the person was just there, just reading that book, or writing something down. And yet, they have evaporated. It is also funny how smells evoke memories and how music can trigger tears. I love when I find notes from mom, in her books, to enlighten me as to what she found important. I search to find that meaning she found. Thank you for sharing it with your community.

Ms. said...

Extreme grieving is what this poem contains...that stage of grief when anger expresses itself (for as you know, grief has many stages) for example is here:

".....what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds!"

It's certainly understandable to suggest that she was the queen of drama queens as one biography suggests and yet that does not do the poets prolific gifts fact it might be useful to refer to at least the outline of her life and to think of the time period too for she was never conventional...

Her early life led to years of poverty but her passionate search for expression and happiness never abated and they cost her dear. This is a helpful reference because the harsh and more understanding view are eluded to in the article to--

I love her for a thousand poems and have for a long long time. I read her out loud and that was my way into the words....One favorite is this - she reads it fast and almost clinically when she is already far from the time when she struggled to write it, where I read it slow and felt it along the way as she might have when she first wrote it...I experienced it:

but then this all may have no particular relevance to you, except that your mother loved her. That's enough.

Nancy said...

Liz~ So you have a similar connection to poetry then, I like that you found a way to try hard to be in the poems!

Mo~ Ha. Too wordy for me at most any hour!

AKW~ Aim, I do that as well with the mom books! If only we'd thought to ask more. Thank you for being here with me.

Michelle~ Ah, I knew you'd be here! And with such great input as well. I like your idea of reading aloud, which I'd not thought of as a way in. I do that with professional writing, but more as a check on myself to be expressing what I want to. As always, you are a wealth of information for me to look at over time. xo

Mo Crow said...

this is one of my favourite poems about death that I saw exhibited in the Crafts Pavilion at the Royal Easter Show as a beautiful piece of calligraphy back in 2005

Through Grief & Joy

Together we have walked
Hand in Hand
Now let us Rest
From the Journey

High above the quiet land
Around us the valleys are slumbering
& darkness veils the Sky

Only two larks are
Soaring & Dreaming
as they Fly
Come close & let them flutter
Soon it's time to sleep

Lest we should go astray
in this dark solitude
Peace so wide & silent
Deep in the sunset glow
How weary we are with wandering
Can this perchance be Death?

translated from the German poem by Josef Karl Benedikt von Eichendorff (1788-1857)

Nancy said...

Mo~ I like this poem as well. I seem to need shorter, simple wording...yet poetic! Part of the reason I love Mary Oliver and Wendell Berry and David Whyte...I can 'get' what they write!
This is one of my favorites. I thought I posted it here years ago, but couldn't find it. My sister and I discovered it when a friend of our mother's shared it with us after she had died. She told us that our mom had sent it to her when she had a family member die, telling her “I just fell in love with it…”

I loved it so much, that I read it at my mom's funeral. xoNancy

“Perfection Wasted” by John Updike

And another regrettable thing about death

is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,

which took a whole life to develop and market –

the quips, the witticisms, the slant

adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest

to the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched

in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,

their tears confused with their diamond earrings,

their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,

their response and your performance twinned.

The jokes over the phone. The memories packed

in the rapid-access file. The whole act.

Who will do it again? That’s it; no one;

imitators and descendants aren’t the same.

Ms. said...

I'm back to read comments since last I was here, and to say that Joni ARRIVED bringing a card full of sunshine with her. I'm DELIGHTED.

Nancy said...

Michelle~ I was hoping you'd come back for the more poems in the comments! I'm so happy to hear Joni arrived with all the sunshine in the world!! May she lift you and make you smile :)