Erotic Poetry, Love & Passion • Three Books Added

Reviewed and added the following books to Erotic Poetry, Love & Passion • A review of Poets & Anthologies:

  • Haiku for Lovers edited by Manu Bazzano
  • Erotic Haiku by Rod Willmot & authors
  • Cold Moon: The Erotic Haiku of Gabriel Rosenstock

You will find them appended to the larger review linked above.

The Animal Tales! • The Fourteenth of Several Fables

14. Better Idle
A Fable That Follows: One Part Genius

Fox C ~ Fox Gets the Goose (Block Print)All day, the farmer muttered to himself: “If not this then that, not that then this.” Maybe the fox had the right idea: easier to steal chickens than raise them. “Ol’ Jack Smith took a few unwarranted shots at me!” Then he said to himself: “Jack owes me some chickens for that! Aye!” The farmer went that night and stole four of Jack Smith’s chickens. The next morning he slept late and so didn’t notice when Smith’s wife came for advice as to how foil a fox.

When the farmer returned the next night, he soon heard Jack Smith’s wife at the door of the coop. He leapt onto the nearest shelf. “Well, well, well,” she said, “you all look like chickens but I see that one has lost his feathers. Are you ill?” The wife took the chicken by his nose, squeezed until he opened his mouth and poured some castor oil down his throat. “That will help!” she said. Once she left, the wretched farmer staggered out of the chicken coop, coughing and choking. “Such a racket!” said Jack Smith’s wife and she came out of the farmhouse.

When she saw the fat old chicken doubled over in front of the coop, she took a rug beater from the laundry line. “Can’t stand up straight?” she asked. “You need to improve your circulation!” Then she whacked him on the behind with the rug beater. Off he ran, and old Jack Smith’s wife followed him as far as the barnyard fence. “Now you’ll lay a good egg or two!” she called after him. The next morning the farmer sat uncomfortably on the porch. “Will you be hatching any new plans, husband?” his wife asked sweetly.

“Humph!” he answered irritably. “Better idle than ill-employed.”

In Memory of My Dear Grandchild: A Guest Post by Janice Miller Potter

  • This essay was written by Janice Miller Potter and accompanies my own review of her book, Meanwell. Enjoy.

Anne Bradstreet in Winter
By Janice Miller Potter

Deep into a New England winter, I am constantly alert to possible shortages of food and water, wood and oil, batteries and blankets. Over my mouselike housewivery, the cosmic diminishment of sunlight and of time itself Works of Anne Bradstreetpresides relentlessly, impersonally. The specter of death trespasses through the snowy woods behind my house; and in acknowledgment I pause briefly in my tracks. There is nothing I can do about it.

In moods like this, I reach for my blue-covered volume of Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672). I find a comfort, or at least a compatriot, in our first housewife-poet. In her best poems, I discover, again and again, an unpretentious woman dealing honestly with the harsh realities of her life and faith. This meditative woman, who had no time during the day for writing, let alone dreaming, was intimate with the brutal shortness of life that winter reenacts, in the human mind, like an elegy.

Elegy informs Bradstreet’s poems because death was a constant specter in seventeenth-century New England. As she personally witnessed, many children failed to survive childhood, due to the effects of disease, famine, cold, fire, primitive medicine, and the many accidents that lurk in a wilderness. Childbirth, both desired and feared by Bradstreet who gave birth eight times, claimed a shocking number of lives with the deaths of mothers and infants. Add to these calamities the regular threats of Indian attacks and Puritan witch-purges. At best, a long life in the New England colonies must have seemed the inexpicable grace of God. (Bradstreet’s “dear and loving husband,” Simon, survived her by twenty-five years and remarried.)

Enduring cold comforts in life and a view of death as Salvation for God’s elect, I’ve wondered: could these Puritans have been inured to the deaths of so many children, or even personally welcomed death?

My reading of Anne Bradstreet’s poems suggests that, to this loving Puritan woman, life was a precious, personal gift of God. Moreover, it was a gift that she had very grave difficulty in relinquishing to the Giver. As a good Puritan, she was bound to consider death the channel to Salvation, or eternal bliss. Particularly in closing, her poems repeatedly obligate her to this vision of bliss. But at the same time, her language glistens with very human puritan_mother_childtears. One senses a cloaked perception of unfairness on the part of an “Indian-giver” Creator. Certainly Anne Bradstreet was not inured to the many deaths in her beloved family. One senses that she never got used to writing elegies.

As a young woman, soon to give birth, Bradstreet had written “Before the Birth of One of Her Children,” an elegiac poem in which she recognizes the strong chance that she may not survive the ordeal. Even so, her deepest concern is for the future welfare of her small children. She clings to the beauty of earthly life, through them and their future lives. As an older woman, crippled and in physical pain, she was plunged into a series of elegies, for her beloved daughter-in-law Mercy and for several grandchildren, during the catastrophic year of 1669. The most anguished of these elegies is for her own toddler-namesake:

In Memory of My Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet Who Deceased June 20, 1669, Being Three Years and Seven Months Old

With troubled heart and trembling hand I write,
The heavens have changed to sorrow my delight.
How oft with disappointment have I met,
When I on fading things my hopes have set.
Experience might ‘fore this have made me wise,
To value things according to their price.
Was ever stable joy yet found below?
Or perfect bliss without mixture of woe?
I knew she was but as a withering flower,
That’s here today, perhaps gone in an hour;
Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,
Or like a shadow turning as it was.
More fool then I to look on that was lent
As if mine own, when thus impermanent.
Farewell dear child, thou ne’er shall come to me,
But yet a little while, and I shall go to thee;
Mean time my throbbing heart’s cheered up with this:
Thou with thy Saviour art in endless bliss.

In our day, little Anne would have been nursery school age, nearly a kindergärtner, when she died. Late in 2012, just before Christmas, I attended a musical program at the elementary school in Shoreham, Vermont. When the kindergarteners filed in to sing their carefully rehearsed piece, beaming and waving to their parents, my heart melted. They were chubby little stubs, merry and mischievous, believing in Santa Claus and singing about flying reindeer. A few days later, twenty such little children were shot down by a madman with an assault weapon in Newtown, Connecticut. Buds, dashed in a twinkling. Why? Winter clutched the heart of a nation.

Although the month was June, Anne Bradstreet must have felt winter in her soul when she began this poem for her namesake, her small “delight”: “With troubled heart and trembling hand I write.” She quickly identifies the cause of her trouble; the “heavens” are responsible for changing her delight to sorrow. God has predestined the child’s death; and He has known all along what Bradstreet, with her fragile human vision, could not foresee. To us, if not to Bradstreet, there seems more than a little cruelty in this premeditation.

As she cannot directly challenge God, Bradstreet levels a series of bitterly ironic accusations at herself in the body of the poem: “How oft with disappointment have I met”; “Experience might ‘fore this have made me wise”; “I knew she was but as a withering flower”; “More fool then I to look on that was lent / As if mine own.” Winter, according to Northrop Frye in The Anatomy of Criticism, is the season of irony. Even so, how like us Bradstreet is in her response to disaster. How often have we all said in retrospect that we should have known, that we should have been prepared for some event? We all know about death; ironically, we rarely expect it. In her hand-wringing misery, Bradstreet shows how cruelly God has battered her heart. We are drawn into her loss, empathizing and siding with this doting grandmother who in no way deserves this blow.

Death's Head © Sorsillo

Bradstreet’s self-accusations are interspersed equally with allusions to the slippery temporal world that God has created. It is a world of “fading things,” where humans bank their dearest hopes. It is a place where no “stable joy” is possible, where there exists no “perfect bliss without mixture of woe.” For me, Bradstreet’s most poignant recognition occurs in lines 9-12:

I knew she was but as a withering flower,
That’s here today, perhaps gone in an hour;
Like as a bubble, or the brittle glass,
Or like a shadow turning as it was.

One easily imagines the child’s laughter, an overheard joy followed by stunning silence. Bradstreet makes a statement of “fact”: God has created a flower that withers, a bubble that vanishes in air, a glass that shatters, a shadow that returns into its own immateriality. But the statement implicitly questions. Why? What is the meaning of this wondrous Creation if the goal is simply to be deconstruction, or destruction? Ultimately the appalling impermanence of God’s earthly creatures, especially of those who love one another (mirroring God’s love?), moves Bradstreet, ironically, to reject her own perception of impermanence, or final loss. She bids little Anne farewell, but only until her own death reunites her with the child in an eternal life.

Considering the overt pain and the implicit anger in this poem, the final couplet seems too tame a conclusion, but perhaps only to us in the twenty-first century. Perhaps Bradstreet’s conclusion betrays her consciousness of the Puritan censors at her shoulder. Still, one cannot imagine her really wishing to say otherwise. In spite of disappointment, anger, or even doubt, she would not cross the line into heresy. And so, she declares rather blithely that “Mean time my throbbing heart’s cheered up with this: / Thou with thy Saviour art in endless bliss.”

Cheered up! In Bradstreet time, the phrase probably didn’t ring so hollowly as it does now. She uses the phrase in other poems as well. To me, it sounds like a mother’s chirp to a child who is squalling over a scraped knee. Cheer up. Stop bawling. It will get better. However, Bradstreet’s reference to her still “throbbing heart” implies that her feelings are in conflict with the platitudinous prescription. At the end of the poem, her “throbbing heart” correlates with the emotions of her “troubled heart” at the outset. Through the irrational conundrums of life, death, and faith, Bradstreet’s mind has moved full circle. In this case, her reasoning cannot supply a satisfactory answer to the question—why? The shortness of little Anne’s earthly life continues to pain her.

Anne Bradstreet is loved as a poet because she genuinely loved others: her parents, her husband, her eight children—those “eight birds hatched in one nest”—her grandchildren, her young daughter-in-law. With her time Puritan familyrunning out, she loved her children enough to write a death-bed letter, “To My Dear Children.” The letter is a confession of the difficulty she has had in keeping her religious faith. Her confession of doubt is startling. She writes: “I have often been perplexed that I have not found that constant joy in my pilgrimage and refreshing which I supposed most of the servants of God have.”

Written in a state of weakness and pain, her letter describes her past mental torment, predicated on a conflict that she has felt between God’s willingness to love her and her own ability to receive that love: “Yea, oft have I thought were I in hell itself and could there find the love of God toward me, it would be a heaven. And could I have been in heaven without the love of God, it would have been a hell to me, for in truth it is the absence and presence of God that makes heaven or hell.” Her words are reminiscent of Milton’s summation of the tortured mind in Book I of Paradise Lost: “The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.”

Bradstreet’s letter to her children continues: “Many times hath Satan troubled me concerning the verity of the Scriptures, many times by atheism how I could know whether there was a God.” To the end, it troubles her that she has never seen any miracles to confirm God’s existence. She seems temporarily to have forgotten the miracle of birth and survival. Certainly God had not intervened to save her three-year-old granddaughter from untimely death. Finally, Bradstreet concludes that it is reason—not faith—that has confirmed her belief in God: “That there is a God my reason would soon tell me by the wondrous works that I see, the vast frame of the heaven and puritan mother & childthe earth, the order of all things, night and day, summer and winter, spring and autumn, the daily providing for this great household upon the earth, the preserving and directing of all to its proper end.” Her mind has made a heaven of what could easily be perceived as a hell.

Now, in this wintry season, the rhythmic passages of time resemble the progress of Anne Bradstreet’s “throbbing heart.” They guide us through both painful and blissful events, both life and death, in our “great household.” For some, including myself, the seasons provide evidence of the miracle of creation. For Anne Bradstreet, harsh winter was a prelude to spring, in more ways than one.

January 21, 2013

The Poetry of Janice Potter

A Review of Meanwell

MeanwellBack in June I reviewed an Anthology of Vermont poets. Here’s one of the reasons I liked the anthology:

“[It is replete with]…the kinds of poems I like best: the poetry of the concrete, tactile, and sensual, poems joyfully aware (as I wrote at the outset) of season and place.”

I followed that up with a sampling of poetry by Janice Potter. About two weeks ago, Potter, a Vermont poet, sent me her recently published book “Meanwell” and asked if I would review it. In exchange, I asked if she would write up one of Anne Bradstreet’s poems. So you’re in for a treat. After the review, you can read what Potter wrote about Bradstreet’s poem, In Memory of My Dear Grandchild Anne Bradstreet Who Deceased June 20, 1669, Being Three Years and Seven Months Old.

Potter’s book, published in 2012, is called Meanwell and it’s like no other contemporary poetry I’ve read, though it’s not the first of its kind. The poems offer us a first-person narrative in the voice of Anne Bradstreet’s servant, Meanwell. Anne Bradstreet was the first woman to have her poetry published in (what was to become) the United States.

There are other contemporary books of poetry written as first-person narratives. The two that immediately come to mind are by our present Poet Laureate, Natasha Trethewey, Native Guard and Bellocq’s Ophelia. The former is written in the voice of a slave and the latter a New Orleans prostitute. They first came to my attention via a review by William Logan in roles in puritan societyhis book Our Savage Art: Poetry and the Civil Tongue. I couldn’t be any less impressed by Trethewey unless I were William Logan. My problem with Trethewey is the prosaic dullness of her language,  imagery and technique – utterly predictable stuff. Logan reads for content and pillories Tretheway on that count too. I mention it because Trethewey’s failings provide an instructive contrast to Potter’s successes. Here are two pertinent passages from Logan’s review of Native Guard:

There were literate slaves, all too few, and perhaps none among the lowly soldiers serving at the sandy, fly-ridden prison near Fort Massachusetts. (The major of the regiment, however, a slave-owning Creole, spoke five languages and was the highest-ranking officer in the Union Army.) To create a voice rendered mute by history, Trethewey has sometimes borrowed from a white colonel’s memoir to make do. Putting the words of an educated white into the mouth of a freed slave isn’t so bad; but, when Trethewey is forced to choose between the pretty and the profane, the pretty wins every time. She’s an aesthete in wolf’s clothing. (pp. 193-194)

A paragraph later Logan will write of Trethewey’s other book Bellocq’s Ophelia:

Trethewey wears her past like a diamond brooch. She writes of her parents with no fury or sympathy or even regret, just the blank courtesy of a barista at Starbucks. You read the tales of prostitution and slavery without feeling a thing — the slaves might as well be dressed by Edith Head, with a score by Max Steiner swelling gloriously over a Technicolor sunset.

Potter’s Meanwell is not the obsequious narrator one might expect. Potter’s narrator doesn’t pay anne-hutchinsontribute to Bradstreet. The poet, rather, is just another blurry shadow moving through the icy dogma of American puritanism and the leanness of its cruel and unforgiving winters. The Puritans were an intolerant and narrow-minded bunch (who would soon, and venally, shut down the greatest theatrical flowering since classical Greece). The English were all too happy to send the savages to the New World (and we still haven’t recovered). Meanwell’s attachment to Bradstreet is portrayed as a fact of her station (and nothing more). Meanwell never really expresses any affection for Bradstreet and is jealous of the poet’s privilege (inasmuch as a Puritan woman could be privileged) and her protective familial bonds.

…but whether my mother was a book or not
I have no knowledge
other than that I was always without parent…

and then, in the close of the same poem:

…and I did marvel on this well-beloved child
whose dear mother Dorothy
wrapped her with her cherished book in arms

while my vexed eyes one blue and one brown
did cloud with desire
to seize her soft nest once sickness was done

Meanwell’s narrative will not be like the “blank courtesy of a barista at Starbucks”. In fact, by the end of the book, one really wonders whether there’s any affection at all.

…odd cloaked as a muse she tends her wilderness
mansion filled with English chests and tables
and ancestral portraits and eight-hundred books
all of an Englishness I am meant to polish well
and preserve for those whose kind benevolence
allows me to grow old in service to this house

and I do polish and scrub here for twenty years
as she grows to love her nest feathered with things
that make her heart glad her husband her children
her writings on stashes of paper her vast hearth
her great baskets of carded sheep’s wool that catch
the house afire when a servant drops a lit candle.

To this reader, at least, it’s hard not to read Meanwell’s commentary on Bradstreet, her Englishness, her “things”, and her “kind benevolence”, as dripping with bitterness and contempt. Which servant was it, I wonder, who (accidentally?) dripped the lit candle in the basket of carded wool? Was it Meanwell? Whether or not that was Potter’s intention, I’m left wondering whether this poem, A Servant Drops a Lit Candle, was Meanwell’s Iago-like confession. She will later say:

[I am] bound to serve it
this dread-hell she [Bradstreet] suffered when on earthy

am I bound to serve what I hate

While only just before, in the same poem, saying:

weary weary that a man must look upon
servants doing what once was
the work of his wife in her constancy
and afterwards sleep alone

who will serve him and obey him
down to the smallest kiss of his most
unspeakable manly part…

How are we to read this? Is it pity, compassion, contempt, gloating? And how are we to read the sexual content of Meanwell’s observation. Earlier in the book, Meanwell acknowledges the memory and pleasure of a former lover’s body “covering mine”. She can “watch a seaman’s firm buttocks rise on the mizzen” and doesn’t miss it when a seaman catches a skimpy maid “coarse-handed by the arse”. The way I read these lines is that she imagines taking Anne Bradstreet’s place. She imagines kissing “his most unspeakable manly part”, that is, symbolically submitting to the master of the life-style she has and continues to covet (or thinks she does). Perhaps the notion is fleeting, but I think it’s revealing. To deny the desire for a thing is to admit the thing’s desirability. We don’t talk about things that we don’t notice.

And this is the curious and most enjoyable facet of this book. None of the characters are likable and, in truth, (and from a twenty-first century perspective) none of them probably were likable. Even Anne Hutchinson, who was tried for loudly condemning a vindictive Puritan patriarchy, comes off as gratuitously combative when she states in Potter’s words: “it came to me by direct revelation”. Here is what Hutchinson, according to sources at the time, actually said:

“You have no power over my body, neither can you do me any harm—for I am in the hands of the eternal Jehovah, my Saviour, I am at his appointment, the bounds of my habitation are cast in heaven, no further do I esteem of any mortal man than creatures in his hand, I fear none but the great Jehovah, which hath foretold me of these things, and I do verily believe that he will deliver me out of our hands. Therefore take heed how you proceed against me—for I know that, for this you go about to do to me, God will ruin you and your posterity and this whole state”

This sounds like a woman in the throes of a self-destructive delirium (and Hutchinson had good reason to be delirious given the hell she was put through). Meanwell idolizes Hutchinson (rather than Bradstreet) but is too cowed and has too much to lose to cheer Hutchinson on.

Hutchinson and her family, a number of her children included, were to be brutally murdered by the Siwanoy of New Netherland (in and around present day Bronx and New York City). Her children, including the youngest, were scalped and beheaded, then incinerated in their own house. The Siwanoy chief, Wampage, had forewarned the settlers. Whether because she felt a false sense of security or because of the same courage (or stubbornness) that characterized her dealings with the Puritan ministers, she foolishly stayed behind. To commemorate his courage and bravery in slaughtering an exhausted middle-aged woman and her children, the Siwanoy chief adopted Anne’s name, becoming known as Ann Hoeck alias Wampage.

Hutchinson.massacre

The various ministers, who had excommunicated Hutchinson, also “celebrated” Hutchinson’s murder by treating it as a sign that God agreed with them and had undoubtedly lent a divine hand to the gruesome and just slaughter of Hutchinson and her children.

Not Faithful But True

Bradstreet was born, 1612, when Elizabethan poetry and theater were at the pinnacle of their glory. At the hands of Shakespeare, Jonson, and the deceased Marlowe, blank verse had matched and exceeded the accomplishments of the classical Greek and Roman poets. John Donne was inspiring a whole generation of metaphysical poets. Though somewhat more constrained in subject matter, women were also among the poets being celebrated, admired and published — Mary Sidney being the foremost example, though there were others (see the comment section in my post on Bradstreet). For all that, Bradstreet’s verse doesn’t inherit the brilliance of the times. Her Iambic Pentameter is as conservative as her religion, stuck in the 1590’s, and she never tries the sonnet or imitates the brilliant lyrics of Donne.

Bradstreet’s only mention of a near English contemporary is in her poem: An Elegy Upon That Honorable and Renowned Knight Sir Philip Sidney, Who Was Untimely Slain at the Siege of Zutphen, Anno 1586. She references Arcadia, a prose work, but also describes him as “the brave refiner of our British tongue…” This makes me think that Bradstreet must have been familiar with Sidney’s poetry (and some of it very erotic). Bradstreet writes that “[Sidney in his] wiser days condemned his [own] witty works”; but that many “infatuate fools” were caught in the “gin” [the snare] of “his rhetoric”. In the most revealing moment of all, she writes that, nevertheless, “a world of wealth within that rubbish [lies]”: “learning, valour and morality,/Justice, friendship, and kind hospitality, /Yea, and divinity within his book…”

Bradstreet reveals that she was exposed to the erotic wit of the Elizabethan era, but also reveals her own tastes and what she values. She was a Puritan, first and foremost, by choice.  How much was Bradstreet exposed to during the early 1600’s? Donne was circulating his poetry privately and among his peers. It’s possible but unlikely that Bradstreet’s father (let alone Anne) would have been in that circle of readers. Most of his poetry, on top of that, was considered erotic. Donne would die in 1631, a year after Bradstreet arrived in America. Neither Shakespeare nor Jonson’s plays were published in Folio form. It’s highly unlikely that Bradstreet’s Puritan family would have attended the theaters (which the Puritans would later shut down in a fit of self-righteous probity). It’s also very unlikely that her family would have read any of Shakespeare’s published works, like Venus & Adonis or the sonnets, which were considered erotica by just about everyone. Marlowe, likewise, translated Ovid’s erotica. The theater was considered the den of iniquity. What did that leave? Pious and dull verses by pinch-lipped religious men and, especially, women. Women were encouraged to translate or write pious verse. As Christina Rosetti would demonstrate a couple hundred years later, some women need no encouragement to dip their quills in the venomous ink of self-righteous rectitude. It wasn’t all men making them do this. There was also Du Bartas, who Bradstreet read and eulogized, the French poet and Hugeonot famed for his religious epic poetry (which had been translated into English).

The older verse of the 80’s and 90’s along with translated religious verse (always more conservative) is probably what Bradstreet read and used as a model. It’s a miracle that she later wrote the kinds of poems she did. They start out bland and pious, but at some point she seems to have drained that cup. She begins to write about her life, her husband and her children.

So, with all that as a background, I was interested to see how Potter would “write” Meanwell. What would she imitate? Would she imitate the language, the verse forms of the era, Bradstreet? The questions are fraught with pitfalls. Should a modern poet avoid anachronistic verse and language, or dive into it, producing not only the voice of the period, but its literature? If so, to what degree? Should an illiterate servant be reciting her narrative in brilliant metaphysical rhymes and Shakespearean sonnets?  Logan’s issue with Trethewey, after all, isn’t that she put the words of a white slave owner into a slave, but that she did so with a bias for the pretty (rather than profane). Potter, I think, avoids that pitfall. Meanwell describes the facts of life, sickness and death with a brutal factuality map-picture-claes-van-visscherthat I found believable and true. In an era that had seen the plague, saw executed prisoners hang until they rotted from the rope, and the amputated hands and legs of traitors nailed to the walls of the Thames.

We, today, would have been horrified. In Meanwell’s world, that’s just the way it is. Get used to it. Get over it.

Heaving and setting with such force that the ocean might spill
from off God’s earth makes it a great wonder
to behold our sister ship the painted Jewel
for we need her midwife most urgently to disencumber
a good-wife retching under her bloody cloak on the shit-slick boards
where fearful ladies huddle under the hatches from the storm

though I mean well I cannot bear to look on her
small head where a twist of hen-scrapings might be her face
for she appears not a creature of a human nature
rather then entrails of an animal gouged alive from its earthly form
the shrieks swelling over its foul-smelling mire…

~ The Death of the Lewd Seaman Attends a Sea-Born Child

The quality of Potter’s poetry that impressed me in Birchsong, it’s concreteness of imagery — tangy, evocative and fresh — continues in Meanwell, and is the quality that saves her free verse from the generic dullness of her peers. I tried to discern whether any of her poems were in any sense formal — if there was any accentual,  syllabic or accentual-syllabic verse. If there was, I have missed it. There was no rhyme but for the occasional off-rhyme (so unpredictable and occasional as to feel accidental rather than deliberate). I confess a little disappointment in this regard, but only a little. It probably wouldn’t have been appropriate. Her poems do resemble, in their shape and rhetorical compactness, the flavor of 17th century verse.

As it is, Potter does dress her verse with the kind of extended metaphors and poetic personifications we’d fully expect from poets of the era:

Ruined as I am the sea makes no mind
as it leaps and licks higher by the moment
with the icy winds that hound us
like dogs baring long teeth at our bellies
and where is our God I wonder
who would seem to punish the revolt
of dour Puritan men against the prelates
with slanderous blows of the great water…

…as if a servant might possess a low power
to save souls from the monstrous jaws
of the watery beast that wing-spread doth
rise and bend over our whole company…

As the rough sea licks out bitten skin with salt tongue…

…and a great whale drifted along our side spouting water
as if it were God’s leviathan sleepily smoking his pipe at twilight…

Potter really seems to let her hair down when describing the animalistic gyrations of the ocean. I can’t help thinking she revels in the excuse to use the extended metaphors, auxiliary do forms, grammatical inversions, and personifications that contemporary poets, otherwise, wouldn’t dare use lest they sully their unassailable reputation for the boring. It’s in Potter’s use of language and imagery, rather than meter or rhyme, that she reminds us we’re in the 1600’s. That’s okay. I think it works and I think she manages the effect beautifully, not too much and not too little. Admittedly, it’s highly unlikely that a Jacobean servant would have narrated her life with such trenchant imagery or in such a poetic voice, but at some point one must grant that art’s job isn’t to be faithful but to be true.

Other than that, the reader will notice that poems aren’t punctuated. I’m not sure why Potter chose this affect, but I can theorize. One reason may be that she wanted to suggest Meanwell’s lack of education, that she’s not “booked”. Meanwell’s monologues plow from one thought to the next the way, perhaps, such an uneducated woman would speak. Another reason might be that Potter wants to make the reading a little more difficult, as if to suggest a different period of time and way of talking. Another is that Potter simply prefers to write that way. Some readers will be put off by this. I wasn’t.

When Meanwell is finally free to live her own life, the verse follows suite. The lines no longer imitate, in appearance, the blank verse or stanzas of the 1600’s, but the open and unstructured free verse of contemporary poetry.

Westward

In the back matter of the book, we’re told the following:

“Through Meanwell, the feelings of women, silecned during the midwife Anne Hutchinson’s fiery trial before the Puritan ministers, are finally acknowledged. In effect, the poems are about the making of an American rebel. Through her conflicted conscience, we witness Meanwell’s transformation from a powerless English waif to a mythic American who ultimately chooses wilderness over the civilization she has experienced.”

My own reading of Meanwell isn’t quite so pat, and that’s a good thing. There are no heroes in the book, least of all Meanwell, and that reminds me a little of Robert Frost and the characters in North of Boston. There’s a meanness and pettiness to Meanwell that makes her appealing and human. How could she be otherwise? In the poem Two Annes Have I served Half-Faithfully, Meanwell tells us something that Bradstreet Hutchinson has said.

once I heard her proclaim
that to be a woman was to be
blessed

that to be a woman was to possess mastery
of one’s own
body········one’s own
········mind

Jan, 25 2013 ~ Note: When I originally wrote the review, I incorrectly remembered that the above lines were spoken by Bradstreet. Potter sent me an E-Mail to correct me. She wrote:

“But I should point out one minor but intriguing misreading. I confess that I like your misreading because it opens a fascinating view down the road not taken. It is actually Anne Hutchinson who says (and did say in real life) that to be a woman is to be blessed. It’s part of her feminism, of course, and another reason why she so enraged the ministers. But–what if Bradstreet had said it? What a delicious irony!”

And that led me on a very interesting diversion. Did Bradstreet never once refer to her identity as a woman? So I got out my copy of Bradstreet’s writings and searched through them. The closest Bradstreet comes to referencing her own identity as any thing other than a Christian, first and foremost, or “soul”, is in her short prose autobiography To My Dear Children. She writes:

It pleased God to keep me a long time without a child, which was a great grief to me and cost me many prayers and tears before I obtained one, and after him gave me many more of whom I now take the care, that as I have brought you into the world. and with great pains, weakness, cares, and fears brought you to this, I now travail in birth again of you till Christ be formed in you. [The Works of Anne Bradstreet: Edited by Jaennine Hensley p. 241]

But for these brief words — “I now travail in birth again” — we might imagine a father writing this. That Bradstreet has so subsumed and suppressed (if that’s the right word) her own identity as anything other than a Christian whose identity exists only in reference to her husband and patriarchal faith, makes her contrast with Hutchinson all the more striking. It’s tempting to say that Bradstreet’s sensibility would be utterly foreign to a modern and secular woman. I’m not so sure. Meanwell, from this perspective, not only straddles two different paradigms of womanhood in her own day (with an ear to both and drawn to both worlds) but also, perhaps, speaks to modern women who, though now firmly in Hutchinson’s world, are nevertheless compelled, in some small way, by the perceived safety and certitude of a “traditional” woman’s role. Does a woman seek the solace and approval of children, family and faith, or does she risk independence, potential isolation and disapproval (excommunication). Anne Hutchinson’s isolation led to her murder and was understood by men( and probably women too) as a just warning to any woman desiring to reject the patriarchal roles assigned to her.

All that being said, I still wonder that Hutchinson’s words didn’t put it in Meanwell’s mind to burn a house down — she who had never possessed mastery of her own body — her fate.

Jan 27, 2013 Potter, via E-Mail, brought to my attention another passage in which Bradstreet briefly describes her position as a woman writing poetry:

“I like her poem, “Prologue,” for her musings on what she faces as a woman-writer.  I feel her taking a deep breath, and then diving into the wreck.  Especially pointed is part 5:

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
Who says my hand a needle better fits,
A poet’s pen all scorn I should thus wrong,
For such despite they cast on female wits:
If what I do prove well, it won’t advance,
They’ll say it’s stol’n, or else it was by chance.

Nevertheless, by the end of the poem, she bows once more to male superiority.   (I think she was politically astute.)  The only public acknowledgement of herself as poet that she claims to seek is a modest wreath of thyme or parsley, rather than the bay wreath, or laurels of famous men.  But she clearly wants some credit, and she wants it as a woman.”

The only observation I would add is that Bradstreet reveals some ambition, in addition to wanting credit. My own feeling is that she shows some awareness and pride in her own talent and is excited to write poetry. The passage also reveals the kind of thing she must have heard from men and women. Mainly, they didn’t believe women were capable of accomplished poetry, dismissed their efforts or accused them of plagiary or dumb luck. Elizabeth Cary, another female poet and contemporary of Anne Bradstreet, was most forcefully discouraged from poetry by her own mother (who didn’t approve of Elizabeth’s “devotion to books”. We can’t necessarily conclude that the “carping tongue/Who says my hand a needle better fits” was solely the tongue of men. Nevertheless, what the passage does tell us is the difficulties and discouragements Bradstreet must have confronted and how lucky she was to have had (what must have been) a supportive husband and children – something Meanwell sorely envied.

puritans

Meanwell desired the outward privileges, as she saw it, of Bradstreet’s world, but did she ever fully comprehend it? I think it’s only when Meanwell is finally freed from servitude, in my reading, that she reveals something like admiration and compassion for Bradstreet and only then begins her search for her own identity and meaning.

…what a fool I was
to believe········to believe
rhymes with Eve so what if those
ministers may be right

no I believe········with two Annes
it is blessed to be
woman

My feeling is that this book is a keeper and well worth reading. The poetry is some of the best around and Potter’s trenchant, concrete imagery is perfectly suited to evoking the hard and cruel landscape of the old world in the new. There are other moments and nice details I haven’t mentioned, but you will have to read the book. My advice is to buy this book and buy Bradstreet’s poetry with it. The two go together beautifully.

Erotic Poetry, Love & Passion • Two Books Added

Reviewed and added the following books to Erotic Poetry, Love & Passion • A review of Poets & Anthologies:

  • Sanskrit Love Poetry translated by W.S. Merwin and J. Mousaieff Masson
  • The Complete Love Poems of May Swenson

You will find them appended to the larger review linked above.

Vermont Poetry Newsletter • January 10 2013

[The Vermont Poetry Newsletter is not produced by me but by Ron Lewis, by whose permission I post this. PLEASE NOTE: I have edited his newsletter so that links are provided rather than text. Please contact Ron Lewis if you would like to receive his Newsletter in full, have questions concerning its content, or if you have revisions or corrections.]


Vermont Poetry Newsletter

Your Poetry & Spoken Word Gateway
In The Green Mountain State

January 10, 2013 (Previous issue: Sept 23, 2012) –

In This Issue:

  1. About VPN
  2. Newsletter Editor/Publisher’s Note
  3. Writing Assignments/Suggestions/Exercises/Prompts
  4. Robert Frost’s Christmas Cards
  5. Vermont-Iraq Poetry Alliance
  6. Poetry at Farmer’s Markets
  7. Mind The Gap: On Reading American Poetry
  8. UVM’s The Painted Word Poetry Series
  9. Brigit Pegeen Kelly Poem: Dead Doe
  10. Broadside Contest, Deadline Feb 1st
  11. PoemCity 2013 Call for Submissions
  12. Forensic Evidence Re New Emily Dickinson Photo
  13. Yusef Komunyakaa Poem: Rock Me, Mercy
  14. The Poetry of Science
  15. Al Young’s Poem Says Goodbye to 2012
  16. Poetry Reading in WRJ
  17. Gary Margolis’ New Memoir
  18. Mushroom Mix-Up Taints Swedish Academy
  19. NH Poet Cleopatra Mathis Authors New Book of Poetry
  20. Los Angeles Names Its First Poet Laureate
  21. April Ossmann Receives VAC Creation Grant
  22. Vermont Reads 2013: Poetry 180
  23. Birchsong: Poetry Centered in Vermont
  24. Taking Root, Poem by Alice Wolf Gilborn
  25. Vermont State Poet Laureate Sydney Lea’s 2013 Calendar
  26. What to Make of It, Poems by Pamela Harrison
  27. DADA DATA, Poems by Jeff Bender
  28. SF Student Suspended Over CT Poem
  29. Commentary: The Clarifying Power of Poetry
  30. Drawn Into a Circle of Poetry Giants
  31. Rejection Letter to Gertrude Stein
  32. Massachusetts Poetry Festival
  33. New England Poetry Club
  34. What’s Going On Here? Can Anyone Tell Me?
  35. Great Poetry Links: Tom Hanks Reading Performance Poetry
  36. Poetry Quote – Robert Frost
  37. American Life in Poetry Poem
  38. US Poets Laureate List
  39. Vermont Poet Laureates
  40. US Poet Laureates From Vermont
  41. New Hampshire Poet Laureates
  42. US Poet Laureates From New Hampshire
  43. Contact Info for Editor/Publisher of VPN: Ron Lewis
  44. Vermont Literary Journals
  45. Vermont Literary Groups’ Anthologies
  46. Vermont Poetry Blogs
  47. State Poetry Society (PSOV)
  48. Year-Round Poetry Workshops in Vermont
  49. Other Poetry Workshops in Vermont
  50. Year-Round Poetry Writing Centers in Vermont
  51. Other Writing Groups in Vermont
  52. Poetry Event Calendar

1.) About the Vermont Poetry Newsletter Network

The Vermont Poetry Newsletter Network is made up of people of all backgrounds, ages and skills who appreciate the craft of poetry and want to promote it in the beautiful state of Vermont. The network consists of a free e-mail list, an eventual web site, workshops, open mics, poetry performances and other literary events. The network provides opportunities to meet local poets, talk about and enjoy poetry, and motivate and inspire yourself in whatever writing projects you are involved.

The mission of the Vermont Poetry Newsletter is to foster the poetry arts community in the Green Mountain State, home to more writers and poets per capita than any other state in the nation. Its goals are to serve as a resource for and about VT poets; to support the development of individual poets; and to encourage an audience for poetry in Vermont.

Dating from 2009, the Vermont Poetry Newsletters are being archived on a blog maintained by poet Patrick Gillespie at PoemShape. Continue reading