Yes it connects with grasy and hay, but I do not see how it fits in with the overall theme of the Poem.
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Yes it connects with grasy and hay, but I do not see how it fits in with the overall theme of the Poem.
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
.....I find these lines to be the center of this poem. Behind all the allure and beauty of Roethke's subject is this sense of time, or its instantanteity. Like all martyrs, at least of the religious type, his own mind set has predestined him.
I think this poem sort of fits with the earlier tradition of English verse, particularly in reference to Marlowe and Raleighs splendid reply. The question of Time, which is so rooted in Renaissance work, as Petrach has mentioned, is here turned completely upside down, in a sort of jazzy carpe diem poem, that is in a sense about the qualities of time, but completely ignores them. Roethke seems to be saying, to me at least, that all the fretting about death and age killing love is silly, as he already is (was) a slave to another more powerful thing - the woman, a stronger force.
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
I found this line to be currious, as not completely certain of what was implied here and how this symbology fits into the rest of the poem and the other ideas which were expressed within.
It would seem to me to reinforce the idea that he... the poet... is the one who is seduced... as she mows him down. Of course it all fits in with his professed (and surely exaggerated) innocence. He almost seems to proclaim that with such a woman he never had a chance.:blush:
Yes I can kind of see how that would work.
JBI... I agree that there is something of what you suggest to be found especially in the closing stanza:
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
"Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay..." Let time come and go as it will, he is indeed blinded by... enthralled with a greater force. In some ways I am also reminded of some of Yeat's later poems... the older poet forgetting all in the face of love and sensuality... or actually finding "an eternity in an hour"... spent with the woman who has so bewitched him.
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
.....I find these lines to be the center of this poem. Behind all the allure and beauty of Roethke's subject is this sense of time, or its instantanteity. Like all martyrs, at least of the religious type, his own mind set has predestined him.
Quasi... Yes, I love this final stanza. There is this play back and forth:
"Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay"... he starts to muse upon the passage of time... but rather suggests that he is content to let the world and time slide on past.
"I'm martyr to a motion not my own"... Again I sense a double meaning: he, like all of us, is martyr to the passage of time which is not his to control... but he is also martyr to this woman... ah! the motion of those hips!! A conquest of reason by passion... like the tale of Phyllis and Aristotle.
"What's freedom for? To know eternity." So proclaims the poet's reason... but once again her charms complete bedazzle and distract him: "I swear she cast a shadow white as stone."
"But who would count eternity in days?"... And so he confronts the question of "eternity" and suggests that perhaps eternity is not measured in time... that perhaps it is indeed, to be found in an hour... spent with the woman who so bewitches him.
"These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)" ... And has SHE not become his purpose or reason and his only means of counting the passing minutes?
This thread has given me not so much of a new appreciation for Roethke, since there never was much to begin with, but a true appreciation of his poetry and almost every poem in this collection requires multiple readings.
Anyone else notice about 3/4 through the volume of his Collected Works he seems to shift away from free-verse, to a more consistent use of evenly lengthened lines, and traditional forms. What are you're thoughts on that?
Yes, I was noticing many subtle (and some not so subtle) changes in style. He reminds me of Wallace Stevens in the sense that as Roethke matured (aged?), his poetry became more distant with far less concern for readers without literary backgrounds. He is known to have T.S. Eliot as a model and he gravitated toward that "ideal" consciously and subconsciously.
Though I know most have moved on to the last stanaza, I thought this one was worth mentioning before we wrap up this discussion.Quote:
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
I really liked this play upon the old addage "What is good for the goose is good for the gander"Quote:
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose
I loved this allusion to music, and I thought it touched back to the first stanza when it spoke of her and the birds, as well I think passion and music can often be tied in together.Quote:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
At first this struck me as a bit odd, "flowing" is not a typical word used to talk about knees, it seems to refelect back to the begining "she moved in more way than one"Quote:
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees
Was not sure what to make of the "mobile nose"Quote:
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
I've been in and out of this thread regularly, what a way to enjoy a poet! Thanks Quasimodo for inviting me but I have not read much of Roethke. I ordered a copy of Collected Poems right away and it arrived today all the way from somewhere in America. So, I'll jump in the middle here. I have not read all the posts in this thread but can see that a very intelligent discussion is going on here and we (now I can say 'we') are making good progress. I don't know why but this poet reminds me of Wallace Stevens a good deal.
I Knew a Woman: I think this is a 'memory poem' as the title suggests. Its main concern is memory through time, the consciousness of memory, the consciousness itself. In this context the key lines are:
This is the kaleidescope of memory. The 'bright container' is that which gives shape, the consciousness, the person's own being casting shadow and reflecting, transforming reality of the subject. The whole universe is at work here, the birds, the sights, the music, the sounds and all these forces are turning the 'bright container' constantly. Then there is the poet himself, his desire, his love, his infatuation as it grows over the years bridging time and space. The woman is being transformed under pressures from all directions. Human consciousness is never free and memory is even more unreliable as it bears the whole burden of the time elapsed and the things that happened over the elapsed period exert their pressure on the subject.Quote:
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Sorry, time for the school run but does this make sense? During my fleeting visits to this thread I have noticed this theme running through other poems as well, his theme of shadows (Plato's cave), reflections and lights. What do you folks think?
StLukes, I got from the last line, that he body takes the form of a metronome/clock, to which he becomes slave. The image then would fit with his other time comments, and make for quite the double entendre, as the first meaning would seem to be of his captivation, whereas the second would allude to his imprisonment to her bidding, and her overbearing control.Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
Allow me to steal your interpretation and dove-tail it with my understanding of this poem. Memory is the mechanism that keeps a consciousness afloat or alive. 'In my end is my beginning' as Eliot would quote Mary, Queen of Scots. The woman is a memory, transformed by and transforming consciousness:Quote:
Originally Posted by JBI
(saves me from going back to my book and JBI's post again and again!)Quote:
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
Time destroys all, but why martyr? Why not just dead or decayed or consumed or deceased, why martyr. What is the cause that the martyr was defending or trying to uphold?
Eternity can be found in the working of one memory, Blake's grain of sand. Time (history) is made up of memories, a chain of memories and a close examination of only one memory can reveal the whole structure of history. It is invisible, individual memory that creates individual and ultimately group/collective-consciousness (history) is invisible. It moves without a shadow (white shadow is an invisible shadow) and works secretly but this is the 'moving mover'. We are made up of memories and memories are made up by us, by the world. We inhabit a world and a history that reflects nothing but ourselves. Time is memory, not days, hours or years. Time is what happens in time. But what happens in time is not pure but is transformed by many different forces while it keeps on transforming everything else. This is a curious idea but what we see is nothing but ourselves. The reality is nothing but consciousness and self is the most powerful part of the consciousness, the major ingredient so to speak. The image of rake (gleaner) following the scythe (the reaper, time) also point to the relationship between time and the memory. After time is passed, all we are left with is memories which are adulterated by external elements as well as emotions. Thus remembrance is never unadulterated and what is time (history) but remembrance?
Welcome back to Kafka's Crow and your observations. "During my fleeting visits to this thread I have noticed this theme running through other poems as well, his theme of shadows (Plato's cave), reflections and lights. What do you folks think?" I think Roethke grew up in and around greenhouses, the source of this imagery?