The poignant millay

Title

The poignant millay

Creator

Chica, Wilfredo M.

Language

English

Year

1961

Rights

In Copyright - Educational Use Permitted

Fulltext

THE POIGNANT MILLAY WILFREDO M. CHICA SALIENT among the qualities of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry, one all her readers will agree on, is the articulate poignancy of her lyricism of pain, sadness and loss. It is so prominent the reader inescapably notices — and is carried away by — it. We find it early in her work. In INTERIM where she mourns the death of a beloved, this poignant strain begins: . . . part of your heart Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled In the damp earth with you. The note is heard again in SORROW, Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain, — Dawn will find them still again; in EBB, I know what my heart is like Since your love died: ... a hollow ledge Holding a little pool . . . A little tepid pool. Dying inward from the edge. Page 4 THE CAROLINIAN and in such poems as PASSER MORTUUS EST, HYACINTH and MORITURUS. It appears more and more often so that we discover a familiarity growing in us, feeding an expectation to encounter and to hear this note of keen feeling. And we are not disappointed. The regularity continues; in fact, the succeeding lyrics are almost always keyed to this strain. One may ask: over what things is she so poignant? what moves her to such swift, piercing emotions? As we mentioned above, this particular gift of Millay she devoted to expressing, describing pain, sadness and loss. Now there are things and things in this world the experience of which sometimes bring grief, disappointment and disenchantment. Every man knows that — and every woman, especially a woman and an artist like Millay who had an abounding love of life, an almost ecstatic joy in experience and who felt a sense of miracle in life and death. We will mention only a few significant themes. At one instance we find her grieving over the death of a dear friend: But your voice . . . . . . the beauty of that sound ... In no way at all Ever will be heard again. On and on eternally Shall your altered fluid run Bud and bloom and go to seed: But your singing days are done; But the music of your talk Never shall the chemistry Of the secret earth restore. All your lovely words are spoken. Once the ivory box is broken. Beats the golden bird no more. —El eg y At another, love estranged from a cold and selfish world pains her: How far from home In a world of mortal burdens Is Love, that may not die . . . —Th e Ha r d y Ga r d en O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure! —Th e Ca me o Life, hard and demanding, weighs heavy on her, disenchanting her to wish for grim death: Life, were thy pains as are the pains of hell, So hardly to be borne, yet to be borne, And all thy boughs more grim with wasp and thorn Than armoured bough stood ever; too chill to spell With the warm tongue, and sharp with broken shell Thy ways, whereby In wincing haste forlorn The desperate fool must travel, blind and torn. Yet must I cry; — a Sonnet from Th e Bu c k in t h e Sn o w With this poignant note streaming in and through Millay’s lyrics one may justifiably fear that the poetess’ works are depressing. It is true her poems are often sad but they are never maudlin nor oversentimental. Her poignancy does not stem only from pain or sadness for its own sake. Rather it is the result of poetic contemplation realizing not only the exquisite beauty of life, nature and this world but also the accompanying pain that grips the artist’s soul finding the insufficiency of all he beholds. This poignant note is not something new, not something Millay has innovated. The reader of poetry is familiar with it. He has heard it in the immortal lines of Yeats, I am haunted by numberless Islands, and many a Danaan shore. . . —Th e Wh it e Bir d s of Arnold, Sophocles long ago Heard It on fhe Aegean, and If brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flaw Of human misery; But now I only heat Its melancholy, long, withdrawn roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. —Do v er Be a c h and Rossetti: Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away Into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand. Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. —Re me mb e r Edna St. Vincent Millay’s gift is that she has made the feeling so moving and keen, so personal and intimate that it has been identified with her. Also, what distinguishes her from other poets in this matter is her attitude towards it. To her, this poignancy in experience is not shocking nor a cause for despair. It is a reality that is woven into the strands of life, something which he who would be initiated into, participate, enjoy, understand and perhaps change life has to accept and work with: I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts In fhe hard ground. So if Is, and so if will be, for so if has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, fhe wise and fhe lovely. Crowned wifh lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Down, down, down Into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned. —Dir g e Wit h o u t Mu s ic SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1961 Page 5

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