Poetry of the Week: Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sunday night events conspired to set me researching a gap in my knowledge: for all my focus on Romanticism and the Gothic, I know very little about how these literary movements spread and changed in America. Honestly, I know very little about the American literary tradition to begin with. But I was specifically searching for my love, Gothic Romanticism, and so I skipped over the known quantity of Poe, disregarded the evolution of modern horror genres in America, and kept searching for a poet who evoked the qualities of mortality and transcendence I associate with my favorite poets and poems.

And I mostly drew a blank. I wasn't doing in depth research, to be fair, but the moment you search around for Gothic in America, you get less about Poe's poetry and more about Poe's prose. If you search for New England, you get history lessons in Weird Fiction (which I do enjoy, but was not my focus). And as is usually true, if you're doing an initial shallow pass, all the names graciously offered up to you are male, usually white.

Eventually I found Edna St. Vincent Millay. A name that sounded vaguely familiar, but ultimately not one I knew. She's a 20th century poet, and it might not be entirely fair or accurate to tie her to a literary tradition decades and an ocean away, but if you read "Renascence" below, you'll see why she echoes that to me. More importantly, however, she was an activist and from what little I've been able to dig into, a fascinating person. She won multiple awards for her poetry, including being the third woman to win the Pulitzer for same. She spoke out against injustices in her time, including some ways and instances that remind me of issues we're facing today.

I'd love to tell you more about her, but I haven't had the time to do more research. I fell asleep Sunday night wishing I could devote myself fully to researching philosophy and poetry and all the ways the writings of the past decades and centuries are still alarmingly relevant to our current struggles. This morning I woke up and looked at the ice slick sidewalks and grey-white sky and wanted nothing more than to sit down at my desk with a mug of tea and write New England horror stories. But Sunday night I prepared for Monday work and went to sleep, and today I sat down at a different desk and did the work that pays me.

I like my job. I enjoy my coworkers. I'm paid well. I have flexibility and interesting challenges. But at the end of the day I know that I'm choosing between the best version of myself and the version who can donate to help cover my friends' medical expenses. I will continue fighting for health care, food, and shelter for all. And to all of the people who say that with government assistance no one would work, I counter with a question: How many poets have we lost because they couldn't feed themselves? Or if art doesn't matter to you, how many brilliant, cancer-curing scientists had to sacrifice their chances at education to take care of their loved ones? How far could we have progressed as a culture and a species if so many weren't scrabbling simply to survive in a world of increasingly artificial scarcity? Why is it a bad thing that robots are taking over jobs and freeing up humans to focus on other concerns? In an ideal world, the one that we should be constantly striving toward, we should all be free to choose our own paths. But we're not there yet, and too many have been convinced that's not even worthwhile to work toward. I hope that changes.

I'll keep thinking about what that means for me, and giving you some of the fruits of my free time here. This year, that will mostly mean female American poets, because I'm upset to know so few.

But you came here for poetry, and so please enjoy:

Renascence
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line 
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I’d started from; 
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.

Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.

But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I’ll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And -- sure enough! -- I see the top! 
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I ‘most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

I screamed, and -- lo! -- Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.

I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not, -- nay! But needs must suck
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out. -- Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.

All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight 
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious thrust,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.

And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire, --
Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each, -- then mourned for all!

A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.

No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.

Ah, awful weight! Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more, -- there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who’s six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.

How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and -- crash!
Before the wild wind’s whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.

I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see, --
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --
I know not how such things can be! --
I breathed my soul back into me.

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;

Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e’er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!

Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky, --
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat -- the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

Tea Blends: Wizard and Moon Updates!

Scrolling through Adagio's catalog a couple of weeks ago, I found that they carry dried ginger! So I immediately purchased some, (along with a few other mix-ins), and went to revisit some of my ginger-based blends. The dried ginger is everything that I wanted it to be, and unsurprisingly superior to chopping up bits of candied ginger that you happen to have at home.

That said, the recipes require a little tweaking to handle the new ingredient:

Faithful of the Moon (Revised)
For every teaspoon of white tea,
 - 1/4 teaspoon lapsang souchong
 - 1/8 teaspoon of sage
 - 1/8 teaspoon ginger
 - a pinch of lavender (or better yet, jasmine)
Steep at ~180°F for four or five minutes.

The changes: The sharpness of the ginger means that it can be halved from the original recipe, and finally reaching something closer to the flavor profile I'd been aiming at means that the sage can take more of a center stage. The lavender, on the other hand, needs to be dialed back. I didn't have any jasmine on hand, unfortunately, but from the get go I wanted this to be a jasmine blend, since the dried flowers look like little moons, and with the new ginger/sage flavor I think the jasmine would finally work.

Wizards Tea (Revised)
For every teaspoon of breakfast blend (in this case, an Irish Breakfast tea),
 - 1/4 teaspoon lapsang souchong
 - 1/4 teaspoon whole peppercorns
 - 1/8 teaspoon candied ginger
 - 1/8 teaspoon of orange rind
 - a pinch of red pepper flakes
 - 1/4 stick of cinnamon
Steep at boiling for ~5 minutes.

The changes: Again, the dried ginger has a much stronger and sharper flavor than the candied, and should be halved in this recipe. Additionally, the change enhances the spiciness, so I recommend dialing back on the red pepper flakes.

I'm much happier with both of these blends now, and once I track down some jasmine I might mix up a larger batch of the Gibbous Moon blend to drink more regularly.

I make no promises regarding regularity of tea updates here in the future, but there are a few posts lingering on my queue of old, and I'm still making new blends off and on. I'm trying one out currently that's nothing to write home about and has no particular theme, but I'll see about sharing such thoughts here more often.

Poetry of the Week: Ending 2016 in Fire

Few of us have been fond of 2016. Mentioning the year itself has taken on a cursed quality in the media, in private conversations. Even foes on vehement sides of political divides can share sympathy about the past twelve months.

For myself, it's been a personally difficult year. I've attended two funerals, lost the last of my grandparents, said goodbye to a beloved pet of 14 years, dealt with various more complicated and personal issues, and I'm still not fully equipped to talk about how this last election has shaken me. Suffice to say that I came out under an administration that progressed human rights and made it feel like we were moving forward as a world and a community, and now people I know are getting targeted and harassed, and my existence is once again a matter of debate and public opinion.

But for the lowest of lows, there were also highs. I attended two funerals, but also two weddings. I spent time with friends I haven't seen in years, and strengthened friendships both new and old. There are people who rely on me, and people who will be there to support me when I need it. I don't mean to hide how terrible this year has been overall, but despite all of it, if I look back to December 29th, 2015, I felt lost and alone in ways that I don't any more. The world may not be in a better place now than it was then, but tired and bruised though I am, I'm better off.

So I'll accept the pains and trials and lessons of this year, and consign the rest to the fire. Fires of cleansing, of anger, of passion. Fires of trial. Fires of death and rebirth. Maybe 2017 won't be any better than 2016, but life and growth continue regardless, sometimes the stronger for having survived.


Fire and Ice - Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire, 
Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire 
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice, 
I think I know enough of hate 
To say that for destruction ice 
Is also great 
And would suffice.


Fire - Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.

And this all we can do
To use our little light
Before, in the piercing wind,
It flickers into night:

To yield the heat of the flame,
To grudge not, but to give
Whatever we have of strength,
That one more flame may live.


You cannot put a fire out - Emily Dickinson
You cannot put a fire out;
  A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
  Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood       
  And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
  And tell your cedar floor.


To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire - William Butler Yeats
While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.


Keep your lanterns burning and your hearths warm. I hope your winter is filled with folks who love you, and that you have a happy new year.

Poetry of the Week: Alone

As is becoming usual, this week's poem is not what I was looking for, but still feels sufficiently relevant to share.


Alone - Maya Angelou
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Poetry of the Week: A Curse For A Nation

I'm pinning this poem here to remind me of its existence, and in the hope that it reminds me of goals I've had in the past and ways I'd like to help in the future.

Slightly unrelated, looking up poetry from and about early America has been fascinating. Much of the poetry I know and find is what was lauded and now survives. At some point next year I'll make a concerted effort to gather modern poetry.

A Curse For A Nation - Elizabeth Browning

I heard an angel speak last night,

And he said 'Write!

Write a Nation's curse for me,

And send it over the Western Sea.'

I faltered, taking up the word:

'Not so, my lord!

If curses must be, choose another

To send thy curse against my brother.

'For I am bound by gratitude,

By love and blood,

To brothers of mine across the sea,

Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

From the summits of love a curse is driven,

As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore

My heart is sore

For my own land's sins: for little feet

Of children bleeding along the street:

'For parked-up honors that gainsay

The right of way:

For almsgiving through a door that is

Not open enough for two friends to kiss:

'For love of freedom which abates

Beyond the Straits:

For patriot virtue starved to vice on

Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:

'For an oligarchic parliament,

And bribes well-meant.

What curse to another land assign,

When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Because thou hast strength to see and hate

A foul thing done within thy gate.'

'Not so,' I answered once again.

'To curse, choose men.

For I, a woman, have only known

How the heart melts and the tears run down.'

'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write

My curse to-night.

Some women weep and curse, I say

(And no one marvels), night and day.

'And thou shalt take their part to-night,

Weep and write.

A curse from the depths of womanhood

Is very salt, and bitter, and good.'

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,

What all may read.

And thus, as was enjoined on me,

I send it over the Western Sea.

The Curse

Because ye have broken your own chain

With the strain

Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,

Yet thence bear down with brand and thong

On souls of others, -- for this wrong

This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight

In the state

Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,

Yet keep calm footing all the time

On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime

This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in God's name,

With a claim

To honor in the old world's sight,

Yet do the fiend's work perfectly

In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while kings conspire

Round the people's smouldering fire,

And, warm for your part,

Shall never dare -- O shame!

To utter the thought into flame

Which burns at your heart.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations strive

With the bloodhounds, die or survive,

Drop faint from their jaws,

Or throttle them backward to death;

And only under your breath

Shall favor the cause.

This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men draw

The nets of feudal law

To strangle the weak;

And, counting the sin for a sin,

Your soul shall be sadder within

Than the word ye shall speak.

This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erect

That Christ may avenge His elect

And deliver the earth,

The prayer in your ears, said low,

Shall sound like the tramp of a foe

That's driving you forth.

This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,

They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,

As if carried too far.

When ye boast your own charters kept true,

Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do

Derides what ye are.

This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,

Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate

As ye look o'er the wall;

For your conscience, tradition, and name

Explode with a deadlier blame

Than the worst of them all.

This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,

Go, plant your flag in the sun

Beside the ill-doers!

And recoil from clenching the curse

Of God's witnessing Universe

With a curse of yours.

This is the curse. Write.