Edna St. Vincent Millay (Masterful American Poetess 1892 - 1950)

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Edna St. Vincent Millay’s career and celebrity began in 1912 when she entered her poem “Renascence” into a poetry contest in The Lyric Year. The poem was so widely considered the best submission, that when it was ultimately placed fourth, it was quite the scandal for which Millay received much publicity. As a celebrated American lyrical poet and playwright, she went on to become the first woman to ever receive the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry; She won the Pulitzer in 1923. She was also an accomplished playwright and speaker who often toured giving readings of her poetry.

Her private life was equally interesting. She was known for not only her fiery red-haired beauty, but for her bohemian lifestyle as well. One could say her unconventional childhood led into an unconventional adulthood. She was an acknowledged bisexual who carried on many affairs with women, an affection for which is sometimes evident in her poems and plays. Perhaps red-heads do have more fun.

She used the pseudonym Nancy Boyd for her prose work.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why

By Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

1st Three Selections from A Few Figs from Thistles

By Edna St. Vincent Millay
FIRST FIG

My candle bums at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

SECOND FIG

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

RECUERDO

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable--
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry--
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawlcovered head,
And bought a moming paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare

By Edna St. Vincent Millay
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.
Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,
And lay them prone upon the earth and cease
To ponder on themselves, the while they stare
At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere
In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese
Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release
From dusty bondage into luminous air.
O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,
When first the shaft into his vision shone
Of light anatomized! Euclid alone
Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they
Who, though once only and then but far away,
Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

Mathematicians recognize her poem "Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare" (1922) as an expression of mathematical beauty, or an homage to the geometer Euclid.

The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver

By Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"you've need of clothes to cover you,
and not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,—

"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.

"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let
His son go around!"
And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap."

And, oh, but we were silly
For half and hour or more,
Me with my long legs,
Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?

Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas
I cried with cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year old.

And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where.

Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,
Shw wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke,
And when I awoke,—

There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteeen,
And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.

And piled beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.

MsJacquiiC · #1 04-19-2008, 07:00 AM

Quote:

SECOND FIG

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Tribute.

Validly unhinged, sweet and uninhibited
Fiercely melancholy Temptress exhibited
Ruby, My Dear. Perhaps doth Thelonious
play for you? Tribute for the salacious
and risque: Yay - That in my own work
I might find such unbridled passion.

Happy National Poetry Month!

butchiesmom · #2 04-19-2008, 12:26 PM

I had thought the first poems beautiful and poignant until I read the last with tears in my eyes. I knew she was a great poet but to read her work like this is like a priviledge never thought to have happened!

I'm so glad you posted this Jacquii!
Gail

PaintedDiary · #3 04-19-2008, 07:54 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by MsJacquiiC

Tribute.

Validly unhinged, sweet and uninhibited
Fiercely melancholy Temptress exhibited
Ruby, My Dear. Perhaps doth Thelonious
play for you? Tribute for the salacious
and risque: Yay - That in my own work
I might find such unbridled passion.

Happy National Poetry Month!

She is and was outstanding! Your Tribute is phenomenal as well! Such passion in her writing bled through in every word. It's an honor to get to know more of her with this biography and I will be looking forward to more. BTW, these biographies are awesome Ms Jacquii and thank you for taking time to post them!

Kim

MsJacquiiC · #4 04-19-2008, 08:33 PM

Thanx so much LADIES - I agree MS GAIL! That "Ballad" piece is most melancholy - I too shed a tear - Such masterful storytelling went into making the piece no doubt - but when I read the final two stanzas and especially the "Frozen dead." part - I was like OH MY GOD!

Oh MS KIM - you flatter me

- I did work a bit longer on the Tribute for Millay though - I was just blown away by her writing - I wanted to do a little something special, as her writing really touches me in a way some of the other biographies I've posted haven't. It's like Millay's "life" reminds me of my own in so many ways.... And her poetry = WOW! So yes - I'm glad you like my Tribute! I think I may one day compile the tributes and make some sort of chapbook perhaps - Just a spontaneous thought - but yes! In the process of posting these biographies - I've been givin so much inspiration - so I've taken that inspiration and posted tributes of thanks really - That's what they are - just a personal way for me to say Thank you for the brilliant inspirations! And it's interesting - because this is the most I've written in such a while....

And yes - YAWL may notice I slide an extra piece in there for Millay

- I'd generally only posted 3 example works - but for Millay = 4 - just so in awe of the masterful craftsmanship and personality of her writing.

Jacquii.

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