Masterpiece Monday: Poems for Memorial Day

Image via Small Wars Journal

While every other American besides me enjoys their holiday (as I have a full tutoring shift today), I want to remind you that on top of the barbecues and road-trips, you should take a little time to remember the reason for your three-day weekend.

While everyone has their own opinions on war and the military, I think that we can agree that the loss of human life is tragic. Because Memorial Day is about remembering those soldiers who never returned, I thought I would share three poems about their ultimate sacrifice.

“Oh, Stay at Home, My Lad, and Plough” by A.E. Housman (1859-1936)

Oh stay at home, my lad, and plough
The land and not the sea
And leave the soldiers at their drill,
And all about the idle hill
Shepherd your sheep with me.

Oh stay with company and mirth
And daylight and the air;
Too full already is the grave
Of fellows that were good and brave
And died because they were.

“The Volunteer” by Elbridge Jefferson Cutler (1831-1870)

“At dawn,” he said, “I bid them all farewell,
To go where bugles call and rifles gleam.”
And with the restless thought asleep he fell,
And wandered into dream.

A great hot plain from sea to mountain spread;
Through it a level river slowly drawn;
He moved with a vast crowd, and at its head
Streamed banners like the dawn.

There came a blinding flash, a deafening roar,
And dissonant cries of triumph and dismay;
Blood trickled down the river’s reedy shore,
And with the dead he lay.

“The Flag” by Edith Matilda Thomas (1854-1925)

There were three colors in the banner bright
On which maidens stitched and stitched all day.
Their needles glanced, for with the morning light
Each saw her hero-lover march away.

Save one the maidens stitch with fond proud haste;
And her they chide, “Why do thy fingers lag?
Think but how fair will gleam, by farm and waste,
The red and white and blue of their loved flag.”

The maiden lifted neither hands nor eyes:
“The red of flowing blood I see,” she said,
“The white of faces upturned to the skies,
The blue of heaven wide above the dead.”

I love these poems because of their powerful imagery and the multiple points-of-view represented, from the soldier himself to the parents and lovers he leaves behind. Serving your country is arguably the hardest job there is, and although most people are fiercely proud of their troops, we would much rather live in a world where their occupation is unnecessary, just so they can remain with their loved ones.

Until the day when we as a globe can set aside politics and religion, greed and corruption, for the sake of diplomacy, we will need our servicemen and women. And to those who cannot be with their friends and family to jump in the swimming pool, eat a hotdog, or watch some fireworks, I say with the utmost sincerity,

Thank You.

Masterpiece Monday: Poems About Loss

Tattoo of Thomas' famous lines

Today is a somber day, because it’s the one-year anniversary of my beloved grandfather’s death. Coincidentally, it’s also his birthday, so I find it an apt reminder of how life and death are so intertwined. Thus, for Masterpiece Monday, I thought I would share with you my favorite poems regarding loss. You are more than welcome to add to the discussion your own experiences with grief and any pieces of literature that help you cope.

“Death, Be Not Proud” by John Donne (1633)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas (1952)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Death is one of the most ubiquitous topics in poetry, and these poems are two of the most famous that discuss it. (Donne’s poem is even the focus of a film starring Emma Thompson called “Wit,” in which she plays a scholar who is diagnosed with cancer. A total sob-fest, but I highly recommend it).

I chose these poems because even though they come from two completely different eras, they share some common themes. Donne’s belief in an afterlife allows him to downplay death’s power, while Thomas only uses the word “death” once, instead preferring to call it a “good night.” Donne says to not fear death because it holds limited might, and Thomas adds that people do not have to accept death with weakness, but rather hold onto their strength and vitality.

I’m not using these poems as examples of how to view death, because I understand that everyone deals with loss differently. Some find comfort in an afterlife, others don’t. Some prefer to go out in their prime, others hang on to every day given to them. Neither is right nor wrong, and we should support one another through difficult times despite our varied coping mechanisms.

All I know is that today is a reminder of how much those who are gone are not forgotten, because we can still cherish the memories we made with them. After a year, I still miss my grandfather terribly, but I know that he lived a rich life and I am so grateful for the moments we shared together.

Blogging this has been therapeutic, and I want to thank my readers for all your support. It’s nice to feel part of a community–and it’s even nicer when we’ve bonded over some great books and poems!

I’ll leave you with a final quote by A. Sachs: “Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives.“

Make sure you live your life to the fullest today, and every day!

Love, Book Club Babe

The Armenian Genocide continued: Siamanto’s “The Dance”

The poet Siamanto

I hope you all read my post about the Armenian Genocide earlier today (if not, click here!). Now I would like to share my favorite poem about the genocide, written by Siamanto (Atom Yarjanian) who was murdered by the Turks in 1915. Note: If you are easily disturbed, I would advise you to not read this poem, as it discusses the genocide quite graphically. You have been warned!

“The Dance”

And as her tears drowned in her blue eyes,
On a field of ash where Armenian life was still dying,
This is what the witness of our horror, the German woman narrated:

“This story which I tell you and which cannot be told,
I saw with my cruel human eyes,
From the window of my safe house which looked on hell,
Crushing my teeth from my terrible rage…
With my cruelly human eyes I saw .
It was in Garden city, which was turned to a pile of ashes.
The corpses were piled high to the top of the trees,
And from the waters, from the fountains, from the streams, from the roads,
The rebellious murmur of your blood…
Still speaks now its vengeance into my ears…

O, don’t be shocked when I tell you this story which cannot be told…
Let men understand the crime of man against man,
Under the sun of two days, on the road to the cemetery
The evil of man against man,
Let all the hearts of the world know…
That morning in death’s shadow was a Sunday,
The first and helpless Sunday which rose over the corpses,
When inside my room, from evening to dawn,
Bending over the agony of a girl slashed with a sword,
I was wetting her death with my tears…
Suddenly from afar a black, beastly mob
Brutally whipping the twenty brides who were with them,
Stood in a vineyard singing songs of debauchery.

Leaving the poor dying girl on her mattress,
I approached the balcony of my window which looked on hell…
In the vineyard the black mob became a forest.
A savage roared to the brides: “You must dance,
You must dance when our drum sounds.”
And the whips started wildly cracking on the bodies
Of the Armenian women who were missing death…
Twenty brides, hand in hand, started their round dance…
The tears flowed from their eyes like wounds,
Ah, how much I envied my wounded neighbor,
Because I heard, that with a peaceful moan,
Cursing the universe, the poor beautiful Armenian girl,
To her young dove spirit gave wings toward the stars…
In vain I moved my fists against the mob.
“You must dance”, roared the furious crowd,
“You must dance until your death, lustfully and lasciviously,
Our eyes are thirsty for your movements and your death…”

The twenty beautiful brides fell to the ground exhausted…

“Stand up”, they shrieked, waving their naked swords like snakes…
Then someone brought to the mob a barrel of oil…
O, human justice, let me spit at your forehead…!
They anointed the twenty brides hastily with that liquid…

“You must dance”, they roared, “here is a perfume for you which even Arabia does not have…”
Then they ignited the naked bodies of the brides with a torch,
And the charcoaled corpses rolled from dance to death…

In my terror I closed the shutters of my window like a storm,

And approaching my lonely dead girl I asked:
“How can I dig my eyes out, how can I dig them out, tell me…?”

I love this poem, because it is one of the few first-hand accounts of the genocide, and although it is extremely sad and tragic, it’s evidence of the horrors of the massacres. Again, I urge you to research this historical event and share what you learn with those around you. I have many viewers from all over the world, and we owe it to ourselves to spread this knowledge and promote global recognition.

You can make a difference!

Masterpiece Monday: Transcendentalist Poetry

Walden. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yesterday was Earth Day, and I thought I would celebrate by discussing the most famous literary movement regarding nature: Transcendentalism. It’s basically a philosophy of the mid-19th century that asserts that humans have a special, inherently good relationship with nature, and that the spiritual world rises above, or transcends, the mortal one. Transcendentalists believed in a simple, minimalist life of self-reliance and independence.

The two most famous Transcendental poets were Ralph Waldo Emerson  (1803-1882) and Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862). These well-educated friends were both abolitionists: Emerson believed in the divinity of all things, while Thoreau became known for his naturalist journals and simple living on Walden Pond. Thoreau was more radical than Emerson, given that he practiced civil disobedience by refusing to pay taxes (he even spent a night in jail for his evasion).

To celebrate the environmentalism surrounding Earth Day, I’ll share poem excerpts about nature from each writer.

Excerpt from “Song of Nature” by Emerson

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew. 

“Nature” by Thoreau

O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only – be it near to you!

For I’d rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city’s year forlorn. 

Notice how both poets create that powerful connection between the earthly world and the heavenly realm. They recognize their inferiority in this grand universe, and their words are humble. Sometimes it’s nice to read their poetry to get back to basics and appreciate the wonder of nature.

Of course, don’t think I forgot about Shakespeare’s (alleged) birthday (and deathday)! If the Bard were alive today, he would be 448! I’ll most likely write a more comprehensive tribute in the near future, but for now I’ll leave you with a parody of Hamlet by the Sassy Gay Friend!

And there’s more what that came from! Check out the clips of Romeo and Juliet, Othello, Macbeth, and Henry VIII!

Masterpiece Monday: Poems about Racism

So I have a team presentation in my Media Ethics class tomorrow, and it’s about the ethical issues surrounding a radio talk show host who holds very bigoted views, but also makes the station a ton of money. My partner and I essentially take Voltaire’s position of “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” Even though we do not respect the Don Imuses and Rush Limbaughs of the world for their hate speech, they still have the freedom of speech.

However, that does not make their comments moral whatsoever. I chose to look at three famous poems that deal with the personal effects of racism. Note: the first poem listed does use a racial slur, but since I don’t advocate artistic censorship, I will include it in its original form. Please understand that I do not mean to offend, but only to preserve the poet’s intent.

“Incident” by Countee Cullen (1925)

Once riding in old Baltimore,   
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,   
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.”

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That’s all that I remember.

“We Wear the Mask” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1896)

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
       We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
       We wear the mask!

“I, Too, Sing America” by Langston Hughes (1926)

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

I, too, am America.

These three African-American men highlight how racism has affected their lives. Cullen never forgot an instance of discrimination as a child, Dunbar reflects on the emotional struggle African-Americans experience with white society, and Hughes remains optimistic for racial equality.

While the content revolves around the same issue, the poems’ forms differ greatly. Cullen creates a childlike sing-song effect by rhyming every other line. This rhyme scheme enhances the speaker’s youth. Dunbar writes in couplets but repeats the line “We wear the mask” to stress how hiding their true feelings is a constant battle. Lastly, Hughes’s free-form poem emphasizes short, powerful phrases instead of a rhyming structure.

I think that all these poems are beautiful in their own way, and I believe that all high school students should experience them like I did at that age. Too many of my students are under the impression that racism does not exist anymore, that it’s only a thing that we study when discussing the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement.

Although I am grateful that equality has increased legally and socially over time, I am disturbed by this promotion of ‘color-blindness.’ We should celebrate, not ignore, our racial differences, because race is an essential factor to who we are and how we perceive reality.

Right now,  everyone is infuriated over the death of Trayvon Martin (rightfully so, in my opinion), and while I won’t digress into a political debate, I’d like to ask: What do you think these poets would say about this controversial tragedy? How far have we really come since their era?

It saddens me that these events still occur in the 21st century, but we are also capable of inciting sociopolitical change. Going back to the reason I wrote this post, if you find that a media professional (whether he’s on TV, radio, or an internet blog) is spouting off racist opinions, do your part and refute. If enough people post their comments and write their political representatives about fighting racism, then slowly that change will happen.

And when it comes to promoting racial equality, it’s better late than never.

Masterpiece Monday: Poems about Spring

Photo by The Fresno Bee

Tomorrow’s the official first day of spring, and even though we had a hailstorm during the weekend, the weather should be warming up this week. I thought I would share with you some of my favorite poems about this wonderful season, because if there’s anything poets love talking about, it’s nature!

“Loveliest of Trees” by A.E. Housman (1896)

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Excerpt from “Two Tramps in Mud Time” by Robert Frost (1936)

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.

Excerpt from Atalanta in Calydon by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1865)

For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

These three men best describe all the emotions behind spring. Housman discusses how essential it is to enjoy life since it is so short. Frost comments on the crazy, unpredictable weather during the spring months. Finally, Swinburne asserts that spring is a time of rebirth, starting over and leaving behind the despair of winter.

I haven’t meant anybody that despises spring, because who doesn’t love snow melting and flowers blooming? Even if you’re a fan of skiiing and sledding, just as much joy can be found in swimming and surfing. Allergies aside, I for one cannot wait to swap my coats and scarves for shorts and bikinis. I’ve got some fabulous vacations lined up, so the sooner this chill thaws, the better!

What do you think of these poems? Any other poems about spring that you’d like to share? How are you going to celebrate the season?

Masterpiece Monday: Jonathan Swift

Swift at the Deanery of St. Patrick's...how fitting! (Image via Wikipedia)

Well, tomorrow is Doomsday for me, since I will be taking the first part of my comprehensive exam. I already told you last week to beware the Ides of March–the day of the last part of my exam, no less!–but another important day is coming soon: St. Patrick’s Day!

I thought I would celebrate the Irish holiday early for Masterpiece Monday by discussing my favorite Irish writer, Jonathan Swift (1667-1745). Swift is most famous for Gulliver’s Travels and “A Modest Proposal,” but his family lineage is also famous: he’s related to John Dryden and William Shakespeare himself!

I read “A Modest Proposal” in high school–which should be mandatory, by the way, because it is a delightfully witty yet serious satire on the British avoidance of Irish overpopulation and poverty. However, I wanted to talk today about a hilarious poem he wrote, called “The Lady’s Dressing Room.”

Published in 1732, the poem is about a man named Strephon who sneaks into his lover Celia’s dressing room while she’s away, only to find it completely filthy and gross. As he finds sweaty towels and dirty combs, he realizes that Celia is not the goddess he thought she was. He even compares opening her smelly cabinet to unleashing Pandora’s Box.

Swift got a lot of criticism for his vulgar descriptions, which you can read for yourself here. But the best stanza is when Strephon has to accept that Celia is just a normal, flawed human being like the rest of us:

Thus finishing his grand Survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous Fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

Naturally, this poem offended women because it placed them in the unfair position of either perfect angel or disgusting vermin, rather than represent them fairly and accurately. One such woman, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, wrote an equally raunchy poem in response, called “The Reasons that Induced Dr. S. to write a poem called ‘The Lady’s Dressing Room,’” which can be read in full here.

In her poem, Montagu explains that Swift wrote “The Lady’s Dressing Room” after a sexually disappointing affair with a prostitute. Because he feels cheated, he exclaims:

“I’ll so describe your dressing room
The very Irish shall not come.”
She answered short, “I’m glad you’ll write.
You’ll furnish paper when I shite.”

Most stand-up comics can’t make jokes like these! So if you enjoy literary wit and Irish jokes, celebrate St. Paddy’s Day by reading these two outrageous poems. I’ll be busy studying my butt off, so you probably won’t hear from me the rest of the week, but let me know what you think of them!

Masterpiece Monday: “One Art”

Image via Amazon

Well, I spent a good portion of this morning desperately searching for the case to my new Skullcandy earbuds. I flipped over couch cushions, opened all my desk drawers, found popcorn kernels and a pencil, but to no avail. Finally, when I thought that I was way too young to be going senile, I checked the pockets of the coat I had worn yesterday. Victory!

I love finding poems that reflect my everyday life, and Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” does just that. I don’t usually feature modern writers, but Bishop has won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award for her poetry (1956 and 1970, respectively). Thus, I think this poem more than qualifies for Masterpiece Monday:

“One Art”

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

This poems has a casual tone, but it’s actually an adaptation of the classic villanelle (most famously seen in Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”). The poem records all the things that the speaker has lost–objects, cities, a lover–and although it seems like it does not affect her, she still remembers that she lost them. The repetition connotes a need to remind herself that loss, even though it may not be an “art” or may actually be “hard to master,” can become easier to live with time.

Lastly, her addition of “Write it!” seems to have two meanings, one that urges her to finish her thought and another that suggests that writing down her feelings makes it easier to cope with loss. I have to agree with that second meaning, because although blogging about my temporarily lost earphone case seems silly, expressing your emotions in writing has always been so therapeutic for me.

Whether you’re mad at yourself for losing your phone for the third time this week, or you’re experiencing the death of a loved one, I hope that Bishop’s poem brings you comfort. And if you’ve got any recommendations for future Masterpiece  Mondays, I’m all ears!

Masterpiece Monday: Poems About Winter

Image via Wikipedia

It’s the middle of December, which means the days are cold and dreary. As a fan of sun and surf, I absolutely loathe winter. It’s a season where plants die and animals hibernate, but I recognize it as necessary to appreciate all the rebirth that comes with spring.

So if the grey and gloomy skies are depressing you, here’s some exquisite poems about winter to cheer you up:

“Sonnet 97″ by William Shakespeare

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, 
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me 
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, 
And, thou away, the very birds are mute; 
   Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
   That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

This Shakespearean sonnet is one relatively easy to understand. The speaker misses his beloved and compares his absence away to winter. I love all the imagery of “freezings,” “dark days,” and “bareness,” because they’re simple yet beautiful metaphors for loneliness–something everyone can relate to this time of year.

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This poem is deceptively simple. I absolutely love its rhyme scheme, because the third line of each stanza is a prelude to the rhymes of the next stanza (here: queer, near, year; lake: shake, mistake, flake). The allusion to death is subtle, because the reader stops in the woods on “the darkest evening of the year.” He wants to rest in the “lovely, dark and deep” forest, but he “has promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep.” Of course, this poem has a literal level too, and it resonates with readers because we all have so much going on, so many things to achieve. We refuse to stop for long, because our obligations call us back to civilization.

“Spellbound” by Emily Bronte

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

This poem compares winter to death in a much more obvious way than Frost’s. The speaker can feel “the wild winds coldly blow,” but she refuses to let go of life. We’re not sure if this “tyrant spell” acts against her will, whether she actually wants to fall into the storm, but we admire her resilience nonetheless. When it seems like you’re fighting a losing battle, just remember: “nothing drear can move me;/I will not, cannot go.”

Let me know what you think of these snowy poems, and feel free to share your own favorites!

“Dover Bitch”

Anthony Hecht (Image via Wikipedia)

For Masterpiece Monday, I discussed Matthew Arnold’s poem “Dover Beach.” Today I want to post a witty modern response to that poem called “The Dover Bitch” (1967), written by Anthony Hecht:

So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, “Try to be true to me,
And I’ll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.”
Well now, I knew this girl. It’s true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
the notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As sort of a mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
and finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn’t judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She’s really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it’s a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come,
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d’Amour. 

This poem pokes fun at “Dover Beach,” by painting Arnold as a boring date. His lover is actually not interested in staring at the sea and lamenting society’s loss of faith with ancient Greek references; she just wants to have sex. The speaker in this poem also has a romantic relationship with this unnamed woman, but it’s strictly casual since they only see other about once a year, and their meetings always result in “a good time.”

Although the speaker uses sexist diction by referring to the woman as just a pretty girl who’s easily bought by wine and perfume, at least he considers her opinion, unlike the man in “Dover Beach,” who’s more interested in mourning the end of the world.

So if you’ve ever read poetry and thought, ‘What a pile of pompous whining,’ then you’ll enjoy “The Dover Bitch.”