As the Poet Hears and Sees

What do you see here?

Flowers?  Violas, to be specific.

Yes, but....
     anything else? 
















I ran across a poet recently -- well, didn't actually run into her because she died some years ago.  But she was quoted in a book (by an author that I'll talk more about at another time). 

The quoter is Ellen Gilchrist, and she was talking about how, over the years, she came to understand what was of real value to her.  Early in her life, when having to choose between nice clothes and works of art, the clothes often won.  But, with time and maturity, she thought differently and found herself living happily in a small house filled mostly with paintings and sculpture and photographs.  She never locked the door because "anybody that wanted to steal the things in that house would have been someone I wanted to meet."

She is musing over the fact that life will not give us everything we want, but perhaps it will give us some special things like, (and here she uses the words of the poet Elinor Wylie), "a very small purse, made of a mouse's hide.  Put it in your pocket and never look inside." 


For some reason, I just love the image of that small mouse purse--although I'm not sure exactly what she meant by it.  I looked up Elinor Wylie, but, of all her poems, I could not find one with that line.  I did, though, find the story of her life (1885-1928), which was not altogether happy.  She was from a well-to-do family and appreciated for her beauty and intellect, but she was never able to maintain a stable relationship.  


I see the small purse as something lovely but fanciful, not quite real.  You put it in your pocket to keep it safe and close, but it's best never to look at it too closely, for fear that you may find its existence to be only in your mind.


Her poem, A Proud Lady, must be somewhat autobiographical when she writes, 
     "You have taken the arrows and slings
      Which prick and bruise
      And fashioned them into wings
      For the heels of your shoes."


Another poem, Pretty Words, seems more light-hearted:
     "Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
      I love smooth words . . . .
      Which circle slowly with a silken swish . . . ."

    But there is still a pained undercurrent in the last stanza:
     ". . . .and honeyed words like bees,
      Gilded and sticky, with a little sting."


Somehow I think that Elinor Wylie would see more in the photo than just flowers.

And you will, too, if you sit back a little distance from the computer screen and let yourself concentrate on those two red and yellow figures.  What do you see?


Would you like to know more about Elinor Wylie and her poetry?  Click here