The Poetry of Louise Bogan*
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,1 .Hemorable American Poet THE POETRY OF LOUISE BOGAN* By THEODORE ROETHKE wo of the charges most frequently she writes out of the severest lyrical tradi·· leveled against poetry by women are tion in English. Her real spiritual ancestors T lack of range-in subject matter, in are Campion, Jonson, the anonymous Eliz emotional tone-and lack of a sense of hu abethan song writers. The word order is mor. And one could, in individual instances usually direct, the plunge straight into the among writers of real talent, add other subject, the music rich and subtle (she has esthetic and moral shortcomings: the spin one of the best ears of our time), and the ning-out; the embroidering of trivial subject invariably given its due and no themes; a concern with the mere surfaces more. As a result, her poems, even the less of life-that special province of the femi consequential, have a finality, a comprehen nine talent in prose-hiding from the real siveness, the sense of being all of a piece, agonies of the spirit; refusing to face up to that we demand from the short poem at its what existence is; lyric or religious postur best. ing; running between the boudoir and the altar, stamping a tiny foot against God; or HE BODY of her complete poetic work is lapsing into a sententiousness that implies T not great, but the "range," both emo the author has re-invented integrity; car tional and geographical, is much wider than rying on excessively about Fate, about might be expected from a lyric poet. There time; lamenting the lot of the woman; ca is the brilliant (and exact) imagery of her terwauling; writing the same poem about New England childhood; there is also the fifty times, and so on. highly formal world of Swift's Ireland; the But Louise Bogan is something else. rich and baroque background of Italy called True, a very few of her earliest poems bear up in the evocative «Italian Morning." the mark of fashion, but for the most part And, of course, her beloved Austria. Her best lyrics, unlike so much American work, have the sense of a civilization behind them THEODORE ROETHKE, one of our own alumni (A.B. '29, A.M. '36) and a distinguished poet with five pub -and this without the deliberate piling up lished \'olumes of verse to his credit, was the 1960 Hop of exotic details, or the taking over of a spe wood L~cturer and g:t\'e the accompanying estimate of cial, say Grecian, vocabulary. Louise Bogan's poetry. ~ow Professor of English at the University of Washington, Mr. Ro~thke has also taught Invariably these effects are produced at Lafayette College, Pennsylvania State University, and with great economy, with the exact sense of Bennington College. Recognition of his standing as a diction that is one of the special marks of poet has corne to him in the form of the Tietjens prize, the Levinson prize, the Pulitzer prize, and an award her style. Even out of context, their power, from the American Academy of ;\rts and Letters. He is a I believe, is evident. Thus, in "Hypocrite member of the ;l;ational Institute of Arts and Letters, Swift," a curious tour de force which in kls twice held Guggenheim fellowships, and in 1955 was Fulbright lecturer in Italy. corporates many actual phrases from Swift's :'>!iss Bogan's publishecs, Xoonday Press, of ~ew York, Journal to Stella, there suddenly occurs the have graciously permitted us to make copious quota st:mza: tions from her works. "Copyright, 1960, by the Regents of The Cni"ersit¥ On 'val!s at court, long gilded mirrors gaze. of :'>'1 ichi;pn. The parquet shines; outside the snow hIls deep. (3 THE QC.\!ZTERLY REVIEW Ve nliS, the \1lIses stare a!Jo\·e the m:\Ze. IllS is only one, :lnd by no means the Now sleep. T best, of :\li~s Bogan's poems on time, For one terrifying instant we are within on change, all the cessation of timc. E\'Cll in Swift's mind, in cighteenth-century Irc her earliest work, ~he seems to be seeking a hnd, :;haring the glitter, the horror and moment when things are caught, fixed, fro glory of his madness. zen, seen, for an instant, under the eye of Again, from the poem, "1 talian l\10rn- eternity. THEODORE ROETHKE jng," the lines: A vcry early piecc, "Decoration," printed The big magnolia, like a hand, in her first book, BoLly of This Death, but Repeats our flesh. (0 bred to love, not in the Collected, is, 1 believe, a begin Gathered to silence I) In a hnd ning, a groping toward this central theme: Thus garnished, there is time enough .-\ macaw preens upon :I branch outspread To pace the rooms where painted swags \\'ith j;:wtlry ot seed. He's ,leat :ind mute. o t fruit and flower in pride depend, The sky behind him splits like gorgeous fruit li~ht Stayed as we are not. .\nd claw-like Ie-a \·cs clutch till it has bled. The r:\\v dia~oJ1:d bounty at his wings The "garnishcd" and the "paintcd Scrapes ull the e,·c color too chafed. He he~lts s\\'ags" are triumphs of exactitude in lan .\ flattered tail out against gauzy heats; guage-suggest the elabor:1.te background He has the frustrate l,'ok of chcated kin([s. without recoursc to merely D2roque dicion. :\nJ :tIl the simple c\<cning pa:'5es by: - POETRY OF LOLTISE DOG.. \N IS :\ gillyflo\Ver spans its litt1t: height site «Decoration" in the first book, is a And lo\'ers with their mouths press out their grief. breakthrough to great poetry, the whole The binl bns wide his striped regality piece welling up from the unconscious, dic Prismatic, while ag:linst a sky hrcath-white tated as it were: ..\ crystal tree lets f:lll a crystal Ic:!f. This is a vulnerable poem, in spite of I h:ld come to the h'Juse, in :! cave of trees, certain felicities (the fine "and all the sim- Facing a sheer sky. LOUISE BOGAN pIe evening passes by," for instance). But Everything moved,-a hell hung ready to strike, the uncharitable might say hardly beyond Sun and reflection wheeled by. magazine verse. ;\nd even though 1\1 iss Bo gan disanns us with her title, the poem re \Vhen the bare eyes were before me "'\nd the hissing hair, mains 100 static, not very interesting syntac Held up at it window, scen through a door. tically, and the tlnalline plays upon one of The stiff hald eyes, the serpents on the forehead the cliches of the twenties: "A crystal tree Formed in the air. lets fall a crystal leaf." Still, the scene is looked at ste::dil},' and closely; the poem is This is a dead scene forever now. what it is. ?\othing will ever stir. The end will never brighten it more than this, ,'OTHER carly piece, «Statue and the ~or the Din hlur. X Rrds," is already a much betteJ' poem on essentially the same theme. However, The w:Her will always bll, and will not bll, the «:\'lcdusa," printed on the page oppo- A.nd the tipped bell make no sound, 16 The grJSS will always be growing for hay skill the hortatory tone, the command Deep on the ground. from which so much bogus poetry often re sults. And I shall stand here like a shadow Come, break with time, Under the great balanced day, You who were lorded My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in By a clock's chime the wind, So ill afforded. And does not drift away. If time is allayed Now, what does this poem mean?-in Be not afraid. final terms? It could be regarded, simply, as a poem of hallucination-a rare enough I shall break, if I will. thing-that maintains its hold on the Break, since you must. Time has its fill, reader from the very opening lines to the Sated with dust. end. But we are told some other things, Long the clock's hand with the repetitiousness of obsession: "I Burned like a brand. had come to the house, in a cave of trees": the house itself is in a cave, a womb within Take the rocks' speed a womb, as it were. But notice: ((facing a And Earth's heavy measure. sheer sky"-obviously the "scene" is being Let buried seed played against a backdrop of heaven, of Drain out time's pleasure, eternity, with everything moving yet not Take time's decrees. moving-"the bell hung ready to strike." Come, cruel ease. Then the terrifying moment: "the bare Notice the remarkable shift in rhythm in eyes," "the hissing hair," of the anima, the the last stanza, with the run-on lines that l'v1edusa, the man-in-the-woman, mother pick up the momentum of the poem. \Ve her mother, possibly-again "held up at a are caught up in the earth's whole move VJindaw," ((seen through a door": certainly ment; I am reminded, perhaps eccentri feminine symbols. And notice, "the stiff cally, of \Vordsworth's bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead No motion has she now, no force; formed in the air"-in erectus, in other She neither hears nor sees; words. Rolled round in earth's diurnal course The last three stanzas bring us the self 'Vith rocks, and stones, and trees. revelation, the terrible finality of the ulti In this instance, I feel one poem supports, mately traumatic experience.