Tuesday, December 20, 2005

3 by Edna St. Vincent Millay




behold now a female poet genius. pay attention. pay attention.

this: this

this text below of hers is what she might have entered into her poblog (poetry weblog) today:

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

(1)

First several entries
in her poem:

"Journal"

(from Mine the Harvest)


This book, when I am dead, will be
A little faint perfume of me.
People who knew me well will say:
"She really used to think that way."

I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but, being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me, somehow to say
"This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me."

Thoughts come so thickly to my head
These days, and will not be gainsaid,
Almost I think I am about
To end my thinking and pass out.

I have no heart to chide a thought
That with the careful blood is bought
Of one of my last moments here,
However barren it appear,--
Wherefore respectfully I write
Such dullness as I now indite.

That need is mine which comes to each:
To speak aloud in honest speech
What doubts and dogmas have confined
The shadowy acres of his mind.

If I, making my awkward way
Among my cluttered thoughts some day,
The lost and ominous key should find
To the sealed chamber of my mind,
Would I the secret room explore
And, knowing what I know, know more?

What fearful thing might not there be
Therein, to take away from me
The remnant of my little hour?--
Which, dark though it be, is not so dour
As in that chamber might be found;
Else should I now be underground.


(2)

"Deep in the muck of unregarded doom..."

(from Make Bright the Arrows)


Deep in the muck of unregarded doom,
Where none can make a conquest, none have room
To stretch an aching muscle,--there might be
Interstices where impulse could go free...

There, where accomplishment cannot achieve,
Valour defend, religion quite believe,
Or vengeance plot behavior, --there may still
Be cracks, uneasy instinct well might fill
And even worm its way along, until
All might begin again; and Man receive
In prospect, what he never can retrieve.



(3)

"Jesus to His Disciples"


(from Mine the Harvest)


I have instructed you to follow me
What way to go;
The road is hard, and stony, --as I know;
Uphill it climbs, and from the crushing heat
No shelter will be found
Save in my shadow: wherefore follow me; the footprints of my feet
Will be distinct and clear;
However trodden on, they will not disappear.

And see ye not at last
How tall I am?--Even at noon I cast
A shadow like a forest far behind me on the ground.


[signed] Steven Streight aka Vaspers the Grate
:^)

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