Reviews for American Poets Project Millay: Selected Poems

The average rating for American Poets Project Millay: Selected Poems based on 2 reviews is 4.5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2010-05-21 00:00:00 Daniel Evans Shame led me to read this book of poetry. Here is how it went. Last November I read a blog post by Dave Cullen in which he pointed out the disparity between male and female authors receiving recognition. The column stuck with me. Fast-forward to last month as I mulled over what present to get my niece for her high school graduation. I bought her a new hardbound collegiate dictionary. But I also wanted to get her a work of prose or poetry to try out, something of proven literary merit. My initial impulse, no lie, was to give her a copy of Childhood's End by the late Sci-fi master Arthur C. Clarke. I didn't feel shame about that. It's an excellent and thought-provoking novel I hope my niece does read sometime. But I realized I ought to do better than just toss her one of my "favs." I also felt a strong impulse that I should get her something by a female author. And that's when the shame hit. Though I have read many books by women, I couldn't think of any works off the top of my head that would make good graduation gifts. The guilt began to flow when I realized that had my niece been a nephew, I could have easily listed a bevy of titles fit for any high school graduate to sample. Moreover, as the proud recipient of an English degree, I ought to be able list several female authors whose works are ideal for soon-to-be college freshman. Then I remembered seeing the name Edna St. Vincent Millay on a friend's Goodreads Profile. So I grabbed one of Millay's collections off the shelf at Borders Bookstore, read a couple poems in the store, and quickly bought the book. If it ended up not being appropriate for my niece, at least I would improve my own reading list. In Millay's writing, I found poems about nature, companionship, assertiveness, and even wanderlust. I especially loved one passage where Millay said in effect that she wasn't satisfied with roses--either as a romantic gift or a subject for poetry. She prized more the vitality of real human interaction. At some point, I stopped reading to see if my niece might like Millay, and just enjoyed the poetry for myself. My goal in giving my niece this collection was not to make her a Millay fan. If she becomes one, bonus! As a liberal arts junky I would also be tickled if she writes me this summer and says, "Uncle Jake, I did not enjoy Ms. Millay's poetry for the following reasons…" I just wanted to extend her a sincere invitation to explore great literature as an avenue of personal development. And as she purchases books for school, most often written by men, I felt it important to make sure she starts out with a book on her shelf written by a great woman who succeeded on her own merits. Most of the authors I read are men, and I make no apology for that. I like being a man and reading about the male experience. Not long ago I sat in a buddy's backyard and relished listening to him read masterfully the first paragraph of Moby Dick , a manly story indeed! But the strength in that work can be found in equal measure in the works of many female authors past and present. I thank Mr. Cullen and Ms. Millay for reminding me of that. But I also thank my niece.

Review # 2 was written on 2015-05-29 00:00:00 Matthew Proffitt "The best of Millay's virtuoso sonnets and short lyrics in a selection that spans her entire career." (from the back cover) Indeed, the American Poets Project selection of Millay's poetry includes the best of Renascence and Other Poems (such as "Afternoon on a Hill"), A Few Figs from Thistles (such as "First Fig"), Second April (such as "Alms"), The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems (such as "Autumn Chant"), The Buck in the Snow (such as "To Inez Milholland"), The King's Henchman , Wine from These Grapes (such as "The Solid Sprite Who Stands Alone"), Conversation at Midnight , Huntsman, What Quarry? (such as "Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!"), Make Bright the Arrows (such as "Make bright the arrows"), The Murder of Lidice ("They marched them out to the public square"), and Mine the Harvest (such as "For Warmth Alone, for Shelter Only")... I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. - Afternoon on a Hill (from Renascence and Other Poems) My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - It gives a lovely light! - First Fig (from A Few Figs from Thistles) There was a time I stood and watched The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; I loved the beggar that I fed, I cared for what he had to say, I stood and watched him out of sight; Today I reach around the door And set a bowl upon the step; My heart is what it was before, But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, - and the birds May take or leave them, as they will. - Alms (from Second April) Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came. - Autumn Chant (from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems) Upon this marble busy that is not I Lay the tound, 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 not 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. - To Inez Milholland (from The Buck in the Snow) Who lie among my tears and rust, And all because a mortal brain That loved to think, is clogged with dust, And will not think again. - The Solid Sprite Who Stands Alone (from Wine from These Grapes) "Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst For a mouthful of - not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in - peace. And while the eyes of the past condemn, The eyes of the present narrow into assignation. And . . . worst . . . The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them. - "Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!" (from Huntsman, What Quarry?) Make bright the arrows, Gather the shields: Conquest narrows The peaceful fields. Stock well the quiver With arrows bright: The bowmen feared Need never fight. Make bright the arrows, O peaceful and wise! Gather the shields Against surprise. - "Make bright the arrows" (from Make Bright the Arrows) They marches them out to the public square, Two hundred men in a row; And every step of the distance there, Each stone in the road, each man did know, And every alley and doorway where As a carefree boy, not long ago, With boys of his age he would hide and run And shout, in the days when everyone Was safe, and free, and school was out . . . Not very long ago . . . And he felt on his face the soft June air, And thought, "This cannot be so!" - "They marched them out to the public square" (from The Murder of Lidice) For warmth alone, for shelter only From the cold anger of the eyeless wind, That knows my whereabouts, and mainly To be at your door when I go down Is abroad at all tonight in town, I left my phrase in air, and sinned, Laying my head against your arm A moment, and as suddenly Withdrawing it, and sitting there, Warmed a little but far from warm, And the wind still waiting at the foot of the stair, And much harm done, and the phrase in the air. - For Warmth Alone, for Shelter Only (from Mine the Harvest) The selection also includes the complete texts of Aria da Capo and Fatal Interview , along with Millay's translations of Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil ... COLUMBINE: Pierrot, a macaroon,'I cannot live without a macaroon! PIERROT: My only love, You are so intense! . . . Is it Tuesday, Columbine?' I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. COLUMBINE: It is Wednesday, If you must know. . . . Is this my artichoke Or yours? PIERROT: Ah, Columbine, as if it mattered! Wednesday. . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? . . . - Aria da Capo 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 winged helmet and my winged heal. 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. - Fatal Interview, I All this was long ago, but I do not forget One small white house, between the city and the farms; The Venus, the Pomona, - I remember yet How in the leaves they hid their chipping plaster charms; And the majestic sun at evening, setting late, Behind the pane that broke and scattered his bright rays, How like an open eye he seemed to contemplate Our long and silent dinners with a curious gaze: The while his golden beams, like tapers burning there, Made splendid the serge curtains and the simple fare. - A Memory (from Charles Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil)