The Turn of the Screw (Theatre in the Black 2019)

The Turn of the Screw was one of the first tales by Henry James I read. Unlike Daisy Miller (which I found to be subpar, and which turned my wife off of Henry James completely), James’ atmospheric and influential ghost story caught my imagination. Later writers, such as Shirley Jackson, would cite The Turn of the Screw as a significant influence in their own writing. In particular, the ambiguity as to whether the apparitions are real, or if they are all in the head of the protagonist, has inspired practically a whole genre. 

You can read my thoughts on The Turn of the Screw (and other novellas and short stories) here.  

Bakersfield is blessed with a vibrant local arts scene. In the last few years in particular, there have been a number of outstanding theater productions by several different groups. The newest group is Theatre in the Black, which focuses on darker works, typically with very small casts, and unusual venues. 

This particular version of The Turn of the Screw was Jeffrey Hatcher’s adaptation for a cast of two. The unnamed protagonist, a young governess, was performed by Caroline Fox. All of the other roles were handled by Bryan Maddern. These included the narrator (brother of the governess), the aristocratic uncle who hires her, the housekeeper, and the young boy. 

The script itself is fairly stripped down, but Theatre in the Black took it a few steps further toward minimalism. The performance was at The Guild House, a historic home transformed into a restaurant and event location. (I have played a few weddings there back in the day.) It certainly looks the part of the old mansion, although it is more Edwardian than Victorian. The larger room, essentially a living room, was used as the location. Roughly 25 chairs set at tables held the audience, and a small area in front of an elegant fireplace served as the stage. The only lighting was the candles and dim lights at the tables and on the walls and so on. One could consider it just a bit brighter than candlelight. There were no special effects. Not even sound effects. There were no costume changes. Everything was done by voice and body language. The apparitions were manifested only in the way the actors reacted to them. 

The play adheres pretty faithfully to the story. Like the original, key details are doled out slowly and incompletely. There are a few minor differences. (The one that came to mind is that the daughter eventually speaks in the original, but not in the play - because she exists only in the mind - no actor portrays her.) James never truly finished the narrative, but instead left it at a tragic point. We never do find out what happened to the other characters, and things are never actually explained. Which is exactly what James intended. 

One difference that was particularly noticeable was in the interpretation of the governess’ actions as connected with her repressed sexuality. This is nothing new, of course. I think it was in the 1930s that this theory was first set forth. The thing of it is, James’ writing is, if anything, about as unsexual as possible. Thinking back on the books of his I have read, it is kind of notable, actually, how he can write so well about emotional entanglement, and yet seem so sexless. There is some evidence that James himself was asexual. He never appears to have had a romantic relationship, although he was quite social and had friends. So, when I read The Turn of the Screw, I didn’t really see it as sexual - although romantic was at least possible. On the other hand, there is an argument to be made in favor of the sexual connection. In Hatcher’s version, the ties to sexuality are obvious - and they work pretty well. 

This was a thoroughly enjoyable production. Both actors were outstanding and compelling. The timing was spot on throughout. The setting enhanced the experience, and everything felt intimate. 

 Caroline Fox and Bryan Maddern

TitB publicity photo

I should also mention the “opening act.” Immediately prior to the play, Rikk Cheshire, performing as Edgar Alan Poe, read “The Raven.” I am always in favor of hearing poetry performed aloud - there is too little of that in our all too prosaic world. Cheshire captured the cadence, and brought the poem to life. I particularly appreciated the fairly deadpan “Nevermore.” In my view, Poe intended that the single word contrast with the increasingly fevered and desperate agony of the grieving man. 

This was my first time seeing a Theatre in Black production, but I think I may have to see some more. The production was of excellent quality, with a strong focus on artistic values. 

Antigone by Sophokles (Anne Carson translation - CSUB 2019)

I was homeschooled from 2nd grade on, but for my last three years, I used video courses for my subjects. Although the coursework had some flaws, coming from Fundie publisher A-Beka, in general, the teachers were pretty good. I have a particular fondness for Mr. Collins, who taught 10th and 12th grade English. A crusty old guy, he was quietly subversive, going outside Fundie orthodoxy in his teaching (in a subtle way - that’s presumably how he kept his job) and really inspiring a love of literature. I have no idea if he is still living, but in any event, kudos to him for part of my good education.

In that 10th grade class, we studied World Literature, starting with Gilgamesh, but I particularly remember enjoying our study of Antigone. While it appears that most of my peers (and my own kids) get Oedipus Rex, we skipped that one. I wonder if it was because of all the sex in Oedipus, or if the writer of the curriculum just liked Antigone better. Whatever the case, Mr. Collins made sure we knew the backstory before we read the play. (As I said, a bit subversive.) Whatever the reason, though, I was moved by Antigone, and was thrilled when our local university announced that they would be doing it this fall. 

***SPOILERS FOLLOW***

Antigone’s story is both of its time, and timeless. In the aftermath of Oedipus’ death, his sons Eteokles and Polynikes quarrel over the throne. After initially agreeing to alternate years, Eteokles clings to power. Polynikes raises an army and attacks. Both brothers die in the ensuing battle, and Oedipus’ brother Kreon takes the throne. Kreon decides that Polynices’ actions are treason to the city of Thebes, and forbids the burial of his body. I admit some ignorance of Greek thought, but at least to our modern minds (and perhaps to the minds of the Athenian audience the play was directed at) it seems a bit unfair to consider the deal-breaker the good guy, and the other brother the bad guy. 

In any event, Antigone, who is the sister of the two brothers, is horrified at the decree, and takes action - a scandalous thing for a woman to do in that era. She buries her brother, and mourns his death. She then defies Kreon to his face, asserting that Divine Law (as she believes it) to be superior to his human law. Kreon is furious, and orders her shut up alive in a tomb, to die of thirst and starvation. Kreon’s son, Haimon, who is in love with Antigone, please with his father to be reasonable, citing (in addition to personal and moral reasons) the fact that the citizens of Thebes are horrified by his action. This leads to a tremendous fight between the two.

After a soothsayer prophesies doom to Kreon, he has a change of heart, and goes to release her. It is too late, however, as she has hung herself. The damage doesn’t stop there: Haimon, caught between his love for Antigone and his duty to his father, also commits suicide. In despair over the loss of her son, Kreon’s wife, Eurydike, kills herself, leaving Kreon alone - and he goes mad. 

While the specifics of the story may seem a bit outdated - we don’t have kings or primogeniture in 21st Century America - the themes resonate. Both Antigone and Kreon have valid points. Antigone is certainly right that Kreon’s law is unfair and cruel. She is also right, in theory, that sometimes a higher law supersedes a lower law. Whether one considers it a divine decree, or a moral principle, it can and should justify civil disobedience. On the other hand, Kreon is right that if everyone did what they saw fit, rather than followed the law of the land, anarchy would result. After all, humans find agreeing about what the gods want to be an impossible task. 

As the Thebeans and the soothsayer point out, however, the best way is neither anarchy nor cruelty. Laws should be just, and if they are not, they should be changed. Admitting one’s error isn’t weakness (as Kreon insists), but an actual strength. Kreon realizes this too late, and is destroyed by the consequences of his stubbornness. 

Antigone is stubborn too, of course. She knows she will likely die as the result of honoring her brother’s body. But at least Antigone has solid reasons for her actions. She sees through the arbitrary assignment of fault, and insists that morality requires respect for the mortal remains of both of her brothers. She believes the gods require that corpses be treated with respect, and not left for the animals to gnaw. While we may not believe in Zeus and the rest, we moderns generally agree that even the bodies of executed murderers deserve a decent burial. 

There is something awe-inspiring about Antigone. In a highly patriarchal world, she has the huevos to take on the most powerful man in her world. She never flinches, she never blanches, she never cries. She just takes her badass self right up to Kreon’s grill and kicks his butt with her rhetoric. 

This particular production is worth mentioning for several reasons. First, CSUB used the new(ish) Anne Carson translation as the basis for the production. This version is not an attempt at word-for-word translation, but as much a re-imagining of the play. The speeches are much shorter. The total length is just over an hour. There are anachronistic allusions to Hegel and Beckett, as well as modernity in general. But there are also some darn fine lines, and Carson’s experience as a poet makes the play much more, well, poetic, than the usual prose translation. It isn’t rhymed or metered verse, but a modern, free-verse poetry that feels thoroughly unlike prose. 

There are two things that I particularly loved about Carson’s version. First, by updating not just the language, but the way of talking about ideas, she made a play that my kids (even my youngest) could follow without difficulty. Second, the update brings out facets of the drama that might have gone unnoticed, such as the misogyny of Kreon, and his opportunistic lust for power. Both of these were not important to the ancient Greeks, but they strike modern audiences as crucial elements of the tragedy. Sophokles probably intended that we be horrified by Antigone stepping out of her lane, even if she is right. But we can understand her actions not just as “woman is so stricken by disrespect of the gods that she has to act like a man” but as “part of Kreon’s problem is that he thinks he knows better than women.” 

On that note, I must commend Avery Gibson for her outstanding performance in the title role. She commanded the stage whenever she was on it, and brought a simmering fury that could be felt to the last row. I hadn’t seen her in anything before, although she was in a BC production of Into the Woods that the rest of my family saw a few years back. I’d love to see her in other roles. I should mention my favorite line from the play, which is spoken by Antigone about the horror of an unburied body: “sweet sorrymeat for the little lusts of birds.”

Kreon was portrayed by Brian Purcell, who has been in a bunch of local plays and musicals, most recently Crazy For You at Stars. His natural style is kind of a “boy-next-door gee shucks” sort of thing, so this role was something entirely different. I liked the way the character evolved from the seemingly reasonable and calm statesman to the increasingly angry, unpredictable, and paranoid madman. His Kreon was a bit more likeable than average, although it was a bit more difficult to see the calculating politician. The result was that Kreon seems less drunk on power and more a misguided “play by the rules” sort, obsessed with a black and white worldview, in which there are too few shades of grey. 

Other notable performances in smaller parts were Alexandria Dennis as the hapless and humorous Messenger, Amanda Duke as the jaded soothsayer, and Alberto Pelayo as Haimon. 

The use of the Chorus was creative. The members wore masks, and commented both individually and in groups, throwing the poetry around the stage, and deadpanning some great lines. I really enjoyed the way it was done - it made the chorus seem like its own work of art, and not just there to comment and carry the action forward. 

Finally, the set was amazing. It combined a desert wasteland with a decaying Southern mansion. Both the conception of the design and the many hours that must have gone into construction were impressive. 

CSUB has done some intriguing things with drama lately, from the gender-flipped The Importance of Being Earnest to the intimate Eccentricities of a Nightingale. Bakersfield has a thriving arts community, and the future looks bright with so many talented and well-coached young actors coming up through the ranks.  

 

The wonderful set. Bootleg picture by Peter Wonderly.

 Kreon (Brian Purcell), Antigone (Avery Gibson), and Messenger (Alexandria Dennis)

CSUB publicity photo

 Antigone (Avery Gibson), Ismene (Maya Blackstone), and Chorus.

CSUB publicity photo

***

Note on spellings:

I am using the spellings CSUB used for the play, which I believe were also used by Carson. In substituting “k” for the traditional “c,” the correct pronunciation is more obvious. 

The Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Source of book: I own this. 

I picked this book up used from the library - a random find that cost next to nothing. I will confess that I hadn’t read anything by Edna St. Vincent Millay since my high school days, and I didn’t remember that much about the experience. In retrospect, I think it is likely that I was given one of her “safe” poems, one that tends to get picked by literature courses, rather than her more dangerous and radical ones.

In any event, I was immediately taken by this collection - it is fantastic. It was one of the more pleasant surprises in this year’s reading. I am a great lover of sonnets anyway. The form itself speaks to me (and indeed, my pathetic attempts at poetry during high school were often in sonnet form), and hers are some of the best I have read. 

 Edna St. Vincent Millay was a fascinating character. Living and writing mostly during the first half of the 20th Century, she refused to adhere to convention. She was raised by a divorced mother, whose poverty was in contrast to her dedication to introducing her daughters to classic literature. All three daughters were infamous at school for speaking their minds. Edna herself insisted in being called by her middle name: Vincent. Her teacher refused, calling her by random female names starting with V. (The name comes from the St. Vincent hospital, where Millay’s uncle was saved from death at one point.) 

Millay was openly bisexual, documenting relationships with women from her teens. Many of her poems are about love between women, which caused some scandal during her lifetime. (Although, to be fair, times were less puritanical in the 1920s than they would become later.) Millay would eventually marry in her 30s, after a number of love affairs with both men and women, having refused multiple offers of marriage, gotten pregnant, and had an abortion. The marriage was explicitly an open relationship, with both spouses continuing to have affairs with others. Her husband (like her) was strongly feminist, and fully supported her work. In fact, he took primary responsibility for domestic duties. 

In 1936, she was flung from an automobile in a freak accident, and suffered significant nerve and spinal damage. In constant pain for the rest of her life, she became addicted to morphine and alcohol, which contributed to her death at age 58. 

Even more tragic than that, however, was the tale of her career. She had previously been opposed to war, but, seeing the dangers of Fascism long before most of her fellow artists, she strongly advocated in favor of the United States entering World War II. This led to her essentially being blacklisted in artistic circles, effectively ending her career. At the same time, pro-Fascist poets such as Ezra Pound continued to receive accolades. 

Millay wrote about 160 sonnets, about the same as Shakespeare. They are not all related in the same way, but there are definitely themes that flow through most of them. There are three sonnet sets, both of which are haunting and moving. The first is Sonnets from an Ungrafted Tree, which tells, over the course of 17 poems, the story of a wife caring for her dying husband who she separated from years ago. The second is The Harp Weaver, a tale of a mother who freezes to death creating a lavish wardrobe for her child. It is not difficult to see in both of these a reflection of Millay’s mother, whose life was harshly circumscribed by her failed marriage to a worthless man, and her need to sacrifice herself to keep her children fed. The third collection is Fatal Interview, believed to have been written about a long term relationship of hers which had ended. It is a devastating look at love, loss, and the ravages of time and age. 

Although there are a few exceptions, these themes tend to run through the other sonnets as well. Millay’s musings on the nature of love, desire, sex, loss, grief, pain, and endings are just amazing, really. I had not realized that these poems existed, but this book is now one of my favorites. 

Here are a few that stood out - although I could have listed most of them here. This one is from her first collection, Renascence, written in her late teens. 

THOU art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,     

Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair     

Than small white single poppies,—I can bear 

Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though 

From left to right, not knowing where to go,        

I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there     

Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear 

So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.   

Like him who day by day unto his draught     

Of delicate poison adds him one drop more        

Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, 

Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed     

Each hour more deeply than the hour before, 

I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.

This illustrates one of her skills: taking a mushy love-sentiment, and somehow turning it a wee bit poisonous. There is a sting in this and other poems. Like this one. 

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,

And drag me at your chariot till I die,—

Oh, heavy prince! O, panderer of hearts!—

Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie

Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,

Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,

Who still am free, unto no querulous care

A fool, and in no temple worshiper!

I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire,

Lifted my face into its puny rain,

Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire

As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,

Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)

A bit of reverse psychology there, and yet so much angst. 

This next one is definitely a favorite. Having been raised in a subculture pounded into us the ideas that Marriage is Miserable Hard Work™, Commitment™, Keep Your Vows Even If Abused™ and the rest of the idolatry of marriage and family, I have been drawn very much to the counter-idea: that a good relationship shouldn’t feel like martyrdom, and that one should actually be happy to be around one’s beloved. 

OH, THINK not I am faithful to a vow!

Faithless am I save to love's self alone.

Were you not lovely I would leave you now:

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,

And water ever to my wildest thirst,

I would desert you–think not but I would!–

And seek another as I sought you first.

But you are mobile as the veering air,

And all your charms more changeful than the tide,

Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:

I have but to continue at your side.

So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,

I am most faithless when I most am true.  

Elizabeth Barrett Browning also captured some of this in her sonnets (also favorites of mine - I’m a hopeless romantic). Here is another one with delightful ambiguity about love:

Loving you less than life, a little less

Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall

Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess

I cannot swear I love you not at all.

For there is that about you in this light—

A yellow darkness, sinister of rain—

Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight

To dwell on you, and dwell on you again.

And I am made aware of many a week

I shall consume, remembering in what way

Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek

And what divine absurdities you say:

Till all the world, and I, and surely you,

Will know I love you, whether or not I do.

Less lighthearted is this one:

Once more into my arid days like dew,

Like wind from an oasis, or the sound

Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,

A treacherous messenger, the thought of you

Comes to destroy me; once more I renew

Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found

Long since to be but just one other mound

Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.

And once again, and wiser in no wise,

I chase your colored phantom on the air,

And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise

And stumble pitifully on to where,

Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,

Once more I clasp,—and there is nothing there.

Again, just a brilliant picture. Bitter and yet full of desire. 

This next one is another favorite. 

Let you not say of me when I am old,

In pretty worship of my withered hands

Forgetting who I am, and how the sands

Of such a life as mine run red and gold

Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold,

Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands

A curious superstition in these lands,

And by its leave some weightless tales are told.

In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;

I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;

Impious no less in ruin than in strength,

When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,

Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site

The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." 

A few layers to this one, to say the least. Millay challenges the idea that the elderly are sexless, or extra-righteous, or merely to be reverenced. She is still herself, passionate, impious, and the same as she ever was. 

I quote this next one because of an experience of my wife. This obnoxious racist dickhead who was the parent of a kid (poor guy) who was in band with one of my kids came up to her and said something nearly word for word as that said in this poem. (Do I even need to add that this guy is a huge Trump fan? Or that he was FINALLY banned from a local homeschool forum after repeated posts of neo-confederate and other vile propaganda?) 

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!

Give back my book and take my kiss instead.

Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,

“What a big book for such a little head!”

Come, I will show you now my newest hat,

And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!

Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.

I never again shall tell you what I think.

I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;

You will not catch me reading any more:

I shall be called a wife to pattern by;

And some day when you knock and push the door,

Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,

I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.

Dude was literally acting surprised my wife was reading a “big book.” He probably has no idea about the stuff that she read while still a kid. After this incident, when she withered him with a glare, we have taken to calling him “Tiny Books.” Because his books are probably like the “hands” of his political idol. I am also reminded of one of my favorite bits by James Thurber. 

I unfortunately cannot quote all of Fatal Interview, but highly recommend it as a poem cycle. Here is the opening sonnet:

What thing is this that, built of salt and lime

And such dry motes as in the sunbeam show,

Has power upon me that do daily climb

The dustless air?—for whom those peaks of snow

Whereup the lungs of man with borrowed breath

Go labouring to a doom I may not feel,

Are but a pearled and roseate plain beneath

My wingèd helmet and my wingèd heel.

What sweet emotions neither foe nor friend

Are these that clog my flight? what thing is this

That hastening headlong to a dusty end

Dare turn upon me these proud eyes of bliss?

Up, up, my feathers!—ere I lay you by

To journey barefoot with a mortal joy.

From there, the cycle veers from the ecstacy of love to the depths of despair to the resignation to the depredations of time. This one, from early in the series, is as good of a love poem as I have read. 

Not in a silver casket cool with pearls

Or rich with red corundum or with blue,

Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls

Have given their loves, I give my love to you;

Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring

Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain—

Semper fidelis, where a secret spring

Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:

Love in the open hand, no thing but that,

Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,

As one should bring you cowslips in a hat

Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,

I bring you, calling out as children do:

"Look what I have!—And these are all for you."

It just gets better every time I re-read it. And the form is perfect. The two ideas in the two quatrains, followed by the turn in line nine, and the last couplet so memorable and true. 

A later poem from the series take the theme carpe diem, but with the twist that what youth doesn’t use, age will twist into something ugly. Unfortunately, what came to mind with this one was the way that my parents’ generation has mostly grown unwise with age, giving in to “compromise and fear,” selling their souls to preserve a mythical past. 

Heart, have no pity on this house of bone:

Shake it with dancing, break it down with joy.

No man holds mortgage on it; it is your own;

To give, to sell at auction, to destroy.

When you are blind to moonlight on the bed,

When you are deaf to gravel on the pane,

Shall quavering caution from this house instead

Cluck forth at summer mischief in the lane?

All that delightful youth forbears to spend

Molestful age inherits, and the ground

Will have us; therefore, while we're young, my friend—

The Latin's vulgar, but the advice is sound.

Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here

For age to invest in compromise and fear.

This next one is pretty dang dark. The relationship has begun to turn a bit, and the combination of doubt, ennui, and suspicion creep around the corner. 

Most wicked words!-forbear to speak them out.

Utter them not again; blaspheme no more

Against our love with maxims learned from Doubt:

Lest Death should get his foot inside the door.

We are surrounded by a hundred foes;

And he that at your bidding joins our feast,

I stake my heart upon it, is one of those,

Nor in their councils does he sit the least.

Hark not his whisper: he is Time’s ally,

Kinsman to Death, and leman of Despair:

Believe that I shall love you till I die;

Believe; and thrust him forth; and arm the stair;

And top the walls with spikes and splintered glass

That he pass gutted should again he pass.”

While not the bulk of the poems, there are a few which are about altogether different topics. One that I found particularly interesting is this one, written in honor of suffragist Inez Milholland. Who also happened to be Millay’s husband’s first wife - she died a few years prior to Millay’s relationship with her husband. 

Upon this marble bust that is not I

Lay the round, formal wreath that is not fame;

But in the forum of my silenced cry

Root ye the living tree whose sap is flame.

I, that was proud and valiant, am no more; ---

Save as a dream that wanders wide and late,

Save as a wind that rattles the stout door,

Troubling the ashes in the sheltered grate.

The stone will perish; I shall be twice dust.

Only my standard on a taken hill

Can cheat the mildew and the red-brown rust

And make immortal my adventurous will.

Even now the silk is tugging at the staff:

Take up the song; forget the epitaph.

That’s a seriously great epitaph. Milholland would die before realizing the dream of voting rights for women - a cause Millay also supported. 

This next poem is more about nature - both nature in the sense of the natural world, but also in the sense of human nature. And not a very nice part of that second nature either. 

Enormous moon, that rise behind these hills

Heavy and yellow in a sky unstarred

And pale, your girth by purple fillets barred

Of drifting cloud, that as the cool sky fills

With planets and the brighter stars, distills

To thinnest vapor and floats valley-ward, —

You flood with radiance all this cluttered yard,

The sagging fence, the chipping window sills!

 Grateful at heart as if for my delight

You rose, I watch you through a mist of tears,

Thinking how man, who gags upon despair,

Salting his hunger with the sweat of fright

Has fed on cold indifference all these years,

Calling it kindness, calling it God’s care.

Millay was concerned about the modern American - or perhaps Western - tendency toward social darwinism and of a “science” devoid of humanity or empathy. In our own times, we are still continuing to pay for this soulless vision of technology and raw capitalism. As Millay points out, we embrace data points without context, without wisdom, without kindness. It is power for power’s sake. 

Upon this age, that never speaks its mind,

This furtive age, this age endowed with power

To wake the moon with footsteps, fit an oar

Into the rowlocks of the wind, and find

What swims before his prow, what swirls behind ---

Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour,

Rains from the sky a meteoric shower

Of facts . . . they lie unquestioned, uncombined.

Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill

Is daily spun; but there exists no loom

To weave it into fabric; undefiled

Proceeds pure Science, and has her say; but still

Upon this world from the collective womb

Is spewed all day the red triumphant child. 

It’s a bit of a downer to end on, alas. Millay’s poems do seem to get darker over time, and it is easy enough to see why. This poem was published in a collection dated 1939, and there is no secret about the state of the world at that time. Fascism threatened to envelope at least Europe, and possibly the world. Although it would be anachronistic to read the horrors of nuclear war into this poem, it fits all too well. 

The collection as a whole is more thoughtful than exuberant, more focused on time and loss than on the ecstacy of love - although that is present as well. The poems stand up so well, though, because of this emotionally realistic approach to life and love. All is not well, and along with joy and love come loss and pain.