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Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950) har længe været anset som en vigtig tyvende århundrede figur i den genre af poesi. Her er et udvalg af 12 digte af Edna St. Vincent Millay fra nogle af hendes tidligere samlinger.
Edna fordybede sig i store litteraturværker fra en tidlig alder. Hun læste Shakespeare, Keats, Longfello., Shelley og Worords .orth., I en alder af seksten samlet hun et dusin digte i en kopibog og præsenterede dem for sin mor som “poetiske værker af Vincent Millay.”
i 1912, opmuntret af sin mor, Edna, derefter 19, sendte sit digt, “Renascence” til det lyriske år, et magasin, der afholdt en årlig digtkonkurrence og offentliggjorde vindende poster. Selvom hun ikke vandt, digtet fik hende stor opmærksomhed og lancerede sin forfatterkarriere.,
De digte, der indgår i denne oversigt:
- Værtshus
- Sorg
- Asken af Liv
- Første Fig
- Ebbe
- Sang af en Anden April
- Hvad Læber Mine Læber Kyssede
- Afgang
- Forlovelse
- Klagesangen Uden Musik
- Kærlighed er Ikke Alle
- Ballade Harpe-Weaver
Et Par Figner fra Tidsler (1921), Millay første store samling, udforsket den kvindelige seksualitet, blandt andre temaer. Anden April (også 1921) handlede om hjertesorg, natur og død.,
i 1923 vandt Ednas fjerde bind af digte, Harpe-Væverens ballade, Pulit .er-prisen for poesi. Hun var den første kvinde til at vinde en Pulit .er, og kun den anden person til at modtage prisen for poesi.
Edna opnåede status som superstjernestatus, noget der var — og stadig er — sjældent for en digter. Gennem 1920 ‘ erne reciterede hun til entusiastiske, udsolgte skarer under sine mange læseture i ind-og udland., Holly Peppe, hendes litterære eksekutor, indkapslet Millay:
“For den desillusionerede efterkrigstidens unge, der betragtede hende som deres talsmand for kvinders rettigheder og ligestilling, Millay repræsenteret den oprørske ånd, af deres generation.
Faktisk, selvom hun stillede traditionelle poetiske former som tekster og sonetter, hun frimodigt vendt konventionelle kønsroller i poesi, der sætter den kvindelige kæreste i stedet for hannen bejler, og sæt en ny, chokerende præcedens ved at anerkende kvindelige seksualitet som en levedygtig litterært emne.,”
måske brændte hun sit lys i begge ender, som beskrevet i et af hendes mest berømte digte, “First Fig” (som er inkluderet i dette indlæg) — da hun ikke levede længe forbi Halvtredsårsalderen.
Mere om poesi Edna St. Vincent Millay
- Amerikanske Digte(snesevis af poster)
- Edna St. Vincent Millay ‘ s Poesi, Har Været Overskygget af Hendes Personlige Liv — Lad os Ændre Det
- Poesi Foundation
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læs mere om Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Tavern
I'll keep a little tavern
Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
May set them down and rest.
There shall be plates a-plenty,
And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
Who happen up the hill.
There sound will sleep the traveller,
And dream his journey's end,
But I will rouse at midnight
The falling fire to tend.
Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—
But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
A long time ago.
. . . . . . . . . .
Sorrow
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,—
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.
People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.
. . . . . . . . . .
Ashes of Life
Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
Eat I must, and sleep I will, — and would that night were here!
But ah! — to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
Would that it were day again! — with twilight near!
Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do;
This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through, —
There's little use in anything as far as I can see.
Love has gone and left me, — and the neighbors knock and borrow,
And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse, —
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
There's this little street and this little house.
. . . . . . . . . .
Renascence by Edna St. Vincent Millay
. . . . . . . . . . .,86420″>
Hvad Læber Mine Læber Kyssede
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
. . . . . . . . . .
Afgang
It's little I care what path I take,
And where it leads it's little I care,
But out of this house, lest my heart break,
I must go, and off somewhere!
It's little I know what's in my heart,
What's in my mind it's little I know,
But there's that in me must up and start,
And it's little I care where my feet go!
I wish I could walk for a day and a night,
And find me at dawn in a desolate place,
With never the rut of a road in sight,
Or the roof of a house, or the eyes of a face.
I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,
And drop me, never to stir again,
On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,
And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.
But dump or dock, where the path I take
Brings up, it's little enough I care,
And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,
Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.
"Is something the matter, dear," she said,
"That you sit at your work so silently?"
"No, mother, no—'twas a knot in my thread.
There goes the kettle—I'll make the tea."
. . . . . . . . . .
Forlovelse
Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad,
And love me if you like!
I hardly hear the door shut
Or the knocker strike.
Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts,
And wed me if you will!
I'd make a man a good wife,
Sensible and still.
And why should I be cold, my lad,
And why should you repine,
Because I love a dark head
That never will be mine?
I might as well be easing you
As lie alone in bed
And waste the night in wanting
A cruel dark head!
You might as well be calling yours
What never will be his,
And one of us be happy;
There's few enough as is.
. . . . . . . . . .
Klagesangen Uden Musik
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
. . . . . . . . . .
Kærlighed er Ikke Alle
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
. . . . . . . . . .
The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver
"Son,” said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"You’ve need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.
"There’s nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with
Nor thread to take stitches.
"There’s nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman’s head
Nobody will buy,”
And she began to cry.
That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son,” she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother’s blood crawl,—
"Little skinny shoulder-blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you’ll get a jacket from
God above knows.
"It’s lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy’s in the ground,
And can’t see the way I let
His son go around!”
And she made a queer sound.
That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I’d not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.
I couldn’t go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.
"Son,” said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I’ll chafe your little bones
While you take a nap.”
And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor,
A-rock-rock-rocking
To a mother-goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For half an hour’s time!
But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?
Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.
A wind with a wolf’s head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat on the floor.
All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn’t break,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity’s sake.
The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.
And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.
I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn’t tell where,
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman’s head
Leaned against her shoulder.
Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.
Many bright threads,
From where I couldn’t see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Rapidly,
And gold threads whistling
Through my mother’s hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.
She wove a child’s jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.
She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She’s made it for a king’s son,”
I said, "and not for me.”
But I knew it was for me.
She wove a pair of breeches
Quicker than that!
She wove a pair of boots
And a little cocked hat.
She wove a pair of mittens,
She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.
She sang as she worked,
And the harp-strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke.
And when I awoke,—
There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder
Looking nineteen
And not a day older,
A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp-strings
Frozen dead.
And piled up beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king’s son,
Just my size.
Kategorier: Poesi
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Min favorit af hendes er “tid ikke bringe lindring: alt hvad du har løjet,” =, hver gang jeg læser det jeg ender i tårer – sikke en vidunderlig digter.,
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Mine så godt.
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hun var godt før sin tid, men balladen af harpe væveren, bragte tårer til Mine øjne. Så sandt, i det tidlige Amerika, men også i dag!!! Hun blev sjældent nævnt, da jeg gik i skole, at opgradere 1958. Jeg savnede de dejlige charmerende historier. Vil nyde dem nu. Tak. Så hendes historie i Pittsburgh Post_ga .ette, denne søndag Pg. D-7. Pittsburgh PA
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Tak så meget for at skrive dette – Jeg vil altid elske og elske Vincent!,
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Tak, Nancy — jeg ville ønske, at hun blev mere læst og diskuteret end hun er. Absolut stadig en ikonisk figur, og så langt forud for hendes tid.
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