"In the Seven Woods" (1904)
Between "The Wind Among the Reeds" (1899) and "The Green Helmet" (1910), W.B. Yeat's "In The Seven Woods" in 1904 represented a published output of 9 pages in 11 years.
I don't know how much you can tell about the life of a poet from his poems. I know that Yeats shuffled the order of the poems as they were written from the order in which they appear in "The Wind Among the Reeds," as though to obscure the elements of his biography he didn't want revealed. But when he doesn't write much, how much can we infer? How much can you make of the things that aren't being said?
There's the famous story of the critic who seizes upon the absence of any reference to King Lear's mother in the play.
"He never mentions her," the guy who's a Freudian observes in an ominous tone.
"So what?" you ask.
"Exactly," he replies, as if you've just slipped up and proved his point.
You roll your eyes.
With five kids, my mother made everything a production. Much bustle and packing, preparation and delegation of duties went into the smallest adventure, even when going no further than the picnic table my dad had built in the backyard, which is where he has caught her in this photograph, in a moment of repose, gazing away from us and out toward the woods at the back of the property, beyond the field and the cherry orchard.
Yes there was. Now you know why I love Chekhov.
In the woods a creek bent and splashed a shallow course toward the lake. Were we going swimming later? She made our clothes until we got old enough to want zippers in our pants. She drew the line at zippers. As far as she was concerned -- her words a warning of hard-won wisdom for mothers everywhere -- once boys want zippers in their pants, it is all downhill. It is a whole different ballgame after that.
My brother says he remembers a time when there wasn't enough to eat. When there weren't seconds and what she gave you was all you were going to get so you'd better not ask for more. I don't remember this, but I'm younger and maybe I wasn't around for the really lean years. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention.
I do remember her looking the way she does in this picture, though, when she thought we weren't paying attention, when we'd finished with the Teddy Bear Picnic and were probably already antsy or about to be, restless and ready for the next adventure, and maybe my brother was still hungry, I can't be sure. To me she doesn't look exactly sad here, just not very happy either. I wonder now about the things that weren't being said back then. I also wonder about how much you should or shouldn't read into a picture.
O Do Not Love Too Long is one of the poems Yeats published in 1904, one of those few he published in eleven years. It's tempting to think the poem is telling us why there weren't more poems during that time in his life. Was a broken heart involved?
"Sweetheart, do not love too long," it begins:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
But then I wonder, what if you're not a poet? How do you look when you've got a broken heart? What do you not say?
I don't know how much you can tell about the life of a poet from his poems. I know that Yeats shuffled the order of the poems as they were written from the order in which they appear in "The Wind Among the Reeds," as though to obscure the elements of his biography he didn't want revealed. But when he doesn't write much, how much can we infer? How much can you make of the things that aren't being said?
There's the famous story of the critic who seizes upon the absence of any reference to King Lear's mother in the play.
"He never mentions her," the guy who's a Freudian observes in an ominous tone.
"So what?" you ask.
"Exactly," he replies, as if you've just slipped up and proved his point.
You roll your eyes.
With five kids, my mother made everything a production. Much bustle and packing, preparation and delegation of duties went into the smallest adventure, even when going no further than the picnic table my dad had built in the backyard, which is where he has caught her in this photograph, in a moment of repose, gazing away from us and out toward the woods at the back of the property, beyond the field and the cherry orchard.
Yes there was. Now you know why I love Chekhov.
In the woods a creek bent and splashed a shallow course toward the lake. Were we going swimming later? She made our clothes until we got old enough to want zippers in our pants. She drew the line at zippers. As far as she was concerned -- her words a warning of hard-won wisdom for mothers everywhere -- once boys want zippers in their pants, it is all downhill. It is a whole different ballgame after that.
My brother says he remembers a time when there wasn't enough to eat. When there weren't seconds and what she gave you was all you were going to get so you'd better not ask for more. I don't remember this, but I'm younger and maybe I wasn't around for the really lean years. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention.
I do remember her looking the way she does in this picture, though, when she thought we weren't paying attention, when we'd finished with the Teddy Bear Picnic and were probably already antsy or about to be, restless and ready for the next adventure, and maybe my brother was still hungry, I can't be sure. To me she doesn't look exactly sad here, just not very happy either. I wonder now about the things that weren't being said back then. I also wonder about how much you should or shouldn't read into a picture.
O Do Not Love Too Long is one of the poems Yeats published in 1904, one of those few he published in eleven years. It's tempting to think the poem is telling us why there weren't more poems during that time in his life. Was a broken heart involved?
"Sweetheart, do not love too long," it begins:
I loved long and long,
And grew to be out of fashion
Like an old song.
But then I wonder, what if you're not a poet? How do you look when you've got a broken heart? What do you not say?
She's looking at her children and thinking - of all the mistakes I've made in my life, and all the ones I've yet to make, thank God I did five things right.
Reply to this
ooohhhhhh
what do you not say, indeed.
xxx
Reply to this
How extraordinarily lucky you are to claim the subject of this photograph as your mother. "Die Welt ist tief!...Tief ist ihr Weh!"
Reply to this
I don't remember this picture - where'd you get it? She does look pensive - one of her pensive looks. Could be, "did I turn on the oven for dinner?" - ya never know. Her graduation picture that looks thoughtful is cuz she had just sat in ink, and it was Gertrude's dress. It does give one pause...
B
Reply to this