Ode on Melancholy by John Keats
After the Death of Orpheus by Ursula le Guin
John Henry Crosses the Threshhold by Shamiya Bashir
Medusa by Louise Bogan
Maenads by Ursula le Guin
Ode to the Little "r"by Aracelis Girmay
Judith provided the 4 poems after the Keats. Her comments: Herewith attached my choices, all by modern women poets—to sort of sharpen the contrasts, as it were. I have attached them in order I prefer, with the unusual John Henry poem deliberately hammering his way between the older more traditional subjects.
There are of course innumerable possible other choices—...
What a wonderful discussion today! Thank you Judith for culling a variety of modern treatments of Greek Myths! Recommended reading that came up: Circe by Madeline Miller https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35959740-circe (thank you David) and many references to Robert Graves… Judith particularly recommends Darien, Leda, Lament for Pasiphae, The Song of Blodeuwed, the startling, superb Penthesileia… And Dowson’s mournful Villanelle of Acheron…and the final sonnet in the Fatal Interview sequence by Millay. (Gorgeous, but lacks the edge of the contemporary ones!! And the veiled mystery of Bogan’s.)
We started the discussion with the Keats, as a follow-up from poems that “Praise the mutilated world”.
When David read the second stanza, he did not pause at the end of the line, but carried through to allow the meaning to flow, emphasized the word, “glut”. Melancholy is mistress, holds the keys, and will always have the final word. The Ode, is praise for melancholy because it befriends
beauty, joy, pleasure— all of these fleeting states. We are wedded to change… so don’t try to forget, stamp out with drugs, or pray with a rosary of poisonous berries…we cannot escape mortality… so find joy in what is not shrouded … feel the juice of life… yes… you will find melancholy in the best of what life offers that brings us joy because it cannot last forever.
For the poems on retelling myths, the joy, as Judith quoted from Kipling, lies in the 960 ways to tell a story— all of them right. Myths are subjects for exploration, not answers!
After the Death of Orpheusby Ursula le Guin. How can Orpheus, who made rocks cry from the beauty of his music, find the beginning of music after death? Conundrum! You can’t call the afterlife “hell” but rather going to the underground, the basis from where all life starts. What is unsatisfying abot limbo, is that there is no satisfaction for ones desires. “I’d rather be a slave in the living than king of underworld… “ the
descent into silence embraces a yin/yang. “There is nothing to be said.//
Under the weightless boat
the waters of shadow ran silent
towards the beginning of all music.
We puzzled over that… how music coming out of silence is like a blank canvas…
I did read the Barbara Hamby, and everyone roared! I had feared the sarcasm a little over the top— but in spite of the “noir”, it certainly worked. away. Look at the language of the final lines:
“As if they would. A more ratty shiftless bunch
of creatures would be hard to rustle up. My bad luck,
they wanted to be king. I'd thought of giving them a lunch
of strychnine. Then you showed up, a geriatric Huck
Finn. So be my guest, finish them off. Then I mean
to poison you. O Ithaka is mine. I am queen.”
Everyone loved the propellers in Ode to the Little "r"by Aracelis Girmay
We spoke of immigration…. the imagination and beauty that allows survival
John Henry Crosses the Threshholdby Shamiya Bashir: not a conventional sonnet, but, Judith calls it one.
the word Threshold is loaded… threshold of safety, rescuing slaves…of new life, but also of death…
Medusa by Louise Bogan: Judith chose this poem because although there are lots of Medusa she found this one interesting and vague. Bogan was first female Poet Laureate…and her biography compelling. We discussed who the I is in the poem? It is not Medusa speaking… (We spoke of the general mythology behind the gorgons, and story of Perseus…) We didn’t think it was Perseus… but for sure, you get the transition from movement to the stillness of death.
Maenads by Ursula le Guin: Ah… those Bacchic debauches! Here, it feels to be a poem in two parts: the young, and the older middle-aged women protecting the younger ones— perhaps selves they had been…
I also had not included Salomé,by Carol Ann Duffy: Judith read it. Duffy is not Poet Laureate of England for no reason.
In the mirror, I saw my eyes glitter.
I flung back the sticky red sheets.
and there, like I said—and ain't life a bitch—
was his head on a platter.
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