[Time does not bring relief; you all have lied] - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.


An anguished account of how time might not heal all wounds, Edna St. Vincent Millay lists every way in which her heart continues to break for the absence of her lover.  Every single place where he has been, anything they've experienced together, it all reminds her of her lost lover.  Even in new places, where there is no memory of him, she is struck by the way in which there is no memory of him, and so, she stands "stricken, so remembering him."  I have little to say, because I feel like the poem speaks for itself clearly.

Autumn - T. E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night-
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.


Hulme's poetry, along with Ezra Pound's, are the real genesis of the Imagist movement in poetry.  This poem, along with the rest of Hulme's works, are characterized by clear and precise images, with little ink wasted on sweeping moralization.  I think the great strength of Imagist poetry is its power of suggestion in relation to its economy.  In seven lines, Hulme paints a singular image, one that exists for the briefest moment.  The senses are immediately engaged from the first line.

"A touch of cold in the Autumn night-" is the first thought of the poem, and it s not even a complete sentence.  We're given an image, a sensation, and it is followed then by action, movement, walking.  The moon, ruddy "like a red-faced farmer" is leaning over the hedge.  A nod to acknowledge it, no need to "speak."  Speaking here would mean, I think, attributing some sort of moral quality of larger significance to the moon in the scene.  Instead, Hulme nods, acknowledges its beauty, and continues on.

He gives the stars a bit more character, calling them "wistful."  Their faces are white and shining, like those of children.  Is this a good thing, a bad thing?  Does it make Hulme think of peace, of youthful vivacity, of sadness?  Who can say?  Rather, he presents us with the image, and lets us feel as we may about it.  What's certain is that the image is evocative and beautiful.  For a poem to bring to mind such clear and vivid images in such a few lines is a real triumph of the power of suggestion, and it makes a break from the oftentimes overblown sentimentality and rhapsodic human personification and reverence of Nature present in Romantic poetry.  I really appreciate the clarity of suggestion at work in Imagist poetry, and Hulme is one of its great architects, sadly lost to us in his youth, in the war in 1917.

Colonoscopy - John Updike

Talk about intimacy! I'd almost rather not.
The day before, a tussle with nausea
(DRINK ME: a liter of sickly-sweet liquid)
and diarrhea, so as to present oneself
pristine as a bride to the groom with his tools,
his probe and tiny TV camera
and honeyed words. He has a tan,
just back from a deserved vacation
from his accustomed nether regions.

Begowned, recumbent on one's side,
one views through uprolled eyes the screen whereon
one's big intestine snakes sedately by,
its segments marked by tidy annular
construction-seams as in a prefab tunnel
slapped up by the mayor's son-in-law.
A sudden wash of sparkling liquid shines
in the inserted light, and hairpin turns
loom far ahead and soon are vaulted past
impalpably; we float, we fall, we veer
in these soft, pliant passages spelunked
by everything one eats.
                                   Then all goes dark,
as God intended it whenever He
sealed shut in Adam's abdomen
life's slimy, twisting, smelly miracle.
The bridegroom's voice, below the edge of sight
like buried treasure, announces,
"Perfect. Not a polyp.  See you in
five years." Five years? The funhouse may have folded.


Many people often assume that poetry is about delicate subjects: love, nature, beauty, philosophy, refined topics approached in a professional manner.  Well now, let's do away with that assumption, yes?  John Updike gives us a highly "intimate" view up his ass, for lack of better word, with great humor and unfortunately juicy details.  Besides helping dispel the popular myth that poetry can only broach certain topics, the poem is slightly morbid and delightfully funny.  Though I am too young to relate to the experience of having a colonoscopy, I can appreciate the absurdities and silly indignities of medical procedures.

The opening exclamation, "Talk about intimacy!" sets the tone of the poem.  Updike is prepared to go into details that maybe you'd rather not hear (his diarrhea, the way the intestines glisten and snake, that "smelly miracle"), and even though he'd "almost rather not" he's going to anyways!  From the liquid purge to the doctor (freshly tanned from a vacation away from people's buttholes), no detail is spared.

Updike goes on to describe a bottom clenching scene: in a gown, on one's side, with little dignity, watching the TV to watch "one's big intestine snake sedately by."  I particularly like the line, "we float, we fall, we veer in these soft, pliant passages spelunked by everything one eats."  Updike is become observer to his own insides, that hallway trod by all the food he's ever eaten.  It's a bizarre thought, and quite gross, but charming and funny nonetheless.

The ending, where Updike thinks that the abdomen maybe should have always stayed private, "as God intended it whenever He sealed shut in Adam's abdomen life's slimy, twisting, smelly miracle," contains a note of rueful humor, a brief reflection on mortality.  With his bridegroom doctor mentioning how pristine his colon's interior is, he says "See you in five years."  Updike wonders if he'll have that long.  "The funhouse may have folded" he says, meaning, "If I live that long!"  Somewhat fittingly, this poem was published in 2006.  Updike himself passed away in 2009, presumably still with a spotless colon.

Pied Booty - Dabney Stuart

Glory be to God for sexy things-
For cries of coupled lovers as they bind and bow;
For moles that on her hip'll make his dolphin swim,
Fresh and fired up; nutty balls; G-strings;
Lovescapes pulsing and flesh-shoaled - furrow and plow;
And all shapes, their leer and freckle and whim.

All people dumpy, bald, regressive, strange;
Whoever is fickle, faithful (who knows how?)
With slick, abrasive; sweet, sour, disheveled, trim;
Who father-forth and mother-forth all change-
Praise Him.


A sexy and funny parody of the Gerard Manley Hopkins poem "Pied Beauty" (which I recently posted), Dabney Stuart's "Pied Booty" successfully maintains much of the structure and vocal pleasure of the source material while adding humor and eroticism.  Most surprising to me, the poem manages to skirt between irreverence and the religious piety of the original.

While the poem's overall tone is comedic and largely in jest, I think there's a real reverence here for mothers and fathers, and the sexy side of Creation.  The last two lines,  "Who father-forth and mother-forth all change- Praise Him" is a real statement of praise and respect for the challenging work of mothering and fathering, and that nobility in bringing change (in the form of children) into the world.  The capital H "Him" in the last line does bring to mind a Creator God, the one of "Pied Beauty" who deserves praise for the beauty of his Creation.  In this context, however, it's not for dappled things that we rejoice, but for sexy things.  Who doesn't like sexy things, right?

The images in this poem manage to capture Gerard Manley Hopkins distinctive couple-hyphen descriptions while conveying humorously sexy images.  A few entertaining examples include: "coupled lovers" "for mles on her hip that'll make his dolphin swim" (a delightfully absurd euphemism), "nutty balls" "dumpy, bald, regressive, strange."  I also particularly enjoy the amazement at fidelity Stuart includes, with the line, "Whoever is fickle, faithful (who knows how?)"  Who knows, indeed?  Stuart manages to be irreverent without being disrespectful, sexual without being crass, and funny without trampling the spirit of the source material.  This is the essence of parodic poetry in my mind, and I'm delighted to have read this poem.

Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome for he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tugley wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day!  Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


We all need a little nonsense in our lives!  As Alice remarks upon reading this inThrough the Looking Glass:  'It seems very pretty,' she said when she had finished it, 'but it's rather hard to understand!' (You see she didn't like to confess, even to herself, that she couldn't make it out at all.) 'Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don't exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that's clear, at any rate.'

The very correct point made there is that while the language is deliberate nonsense (and very fun to say!), there's still a story being told, and the giddy, childish energy of the poem fills the mind with wild and exciting images.  No two people will see the same scene when they read this poem, and that's a good thing.  I think trying to understand it too much would ruin the effect, and dull what is otherwise a delightful read.

While there are meanings that can be assigned (some provided by Carroll himself) they are of little consequence.  It does not matter that the Jubjub bird is described as a "desperate bird that lives in perpetual passion" in The Hunting of the Snark.  That's largely irrelevant.  What matters is that you must beware the Jubjub bird!  I hope this bit of nonsense brightens your day.  Don't let's be silly.  Taking ourselves too seriously is one of the worst things we can do.

To a Young Lady, Netting - Thomas Love Peacock

While those bewitching hands combine,
With matchless grace, the silken line,
They also weave, with gentle art,
Those stronger nets that bind the heart.

But soon all earthly things decay:
That net in time must wear away:
E'en Beauty's silken meshes gay
No lasting hold can take:

But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin'd,
(And all these charms in thee are join'd)
Can throw that net upon the mind,
No human art can e'er unbind,
No human pow'r can break.


Observing a woman weaving nets by hand, Peacock first marvels at the artfulness of the work, relates it to how love can act as a net on the heart, and how none but a perfect love, in which all virtues are combined, can be everlasting.  The central message is that just Beauty alone (or by extension, just Virtue, or just Sense) can create anything resembling permanence.

The woman to whom the poem is addressed is spoken of only obliquely.  We have no account of what she looks like, no sense of her station, or thoughts.  The only things we are told is that her hands are "bewitching" in how they work the net, and that in her, Beauty, Virtue, and Sense are all combined.  Rather than this being an actual love poem, it seems fairly clear that it is a meditation on those qualities that are required for a perfect, or lasting love, and the "Young Lady" of the title is simply a vessel to embody these qualities.

A perfect "net" is one that cannot be unbound or broken by any human power.  This is the net in which perfect love snares the heart, as Peacock makes clear with the line "those stronger nets that bind the heart."  What I wonder is if this is meant to idealize a fleshly love, one between two people, why not assign more physical descriptors apart from bewitching hands to this young lady netting?  And if it is meant to be a stand in for a more perfect, Divine love, why not include more devotional imagery?  I suppose I am left feeling somewhat unsatisfied with the poem's conclusion.  It seems too easy, somehow too simple.  I do enjoy the language of the poem even if it is direct and un-imaginative.  It's pleasant enough to read, but I feel as a whole, it lacks art, and its message is worn and faded.

The Ecchoing Green - William Blake

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush,
The birds of the bus,
Sing louder around,
To the bells' cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen
On the Ecchoing Green.

Old John, with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say.
'Such, such were the joys.
When we all girls & boys,
In our youth-time were seen,
On the Ecchoing Green.'

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end:
Round the laps of their mothers,
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen,
On the darkening Green.


A vivid and beautiful imagining of three generations at play on an Ecchoing Green on the cusp of spring and summer, Blake's poem captures what is so enticing about the season.  The sounds of birds, the laughter and hoots of children at play, the quieter, knowing laughter of the elders, enjoying the sight of youths in full bloom (as they once were themselves)!

There's not much meat to the poem if I'm honest, but you don't always want hearty meat.  To continue the food metaphor, this poem is like iced tea on a summer's day; it is refreshing and satisfying without making one's stomach (mind?) all full and bloated.  It's a lovely depiction of a scene easily imagined, and it's ability to put a fond, wistful smile on my face as I look out the window at the breezes stirring the flowers and trees, is its real strength.  Sometimes it's enough for a thing to be only beautiful.