Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

mary shelley's stepsister

Every generation tends to think it lives in more freewheeling, liberated times than its ancestors, but after reading about Mary Shelley (née Godwin) and her stepsister Claire Clairmont and their exciting lives it's clear that the Romantics put the free in free love. Mary was the strongest character in Gideon Defoe's latest Pirates! romp, the comic novel The Pirates! In an Adventure with the Romantics, which featured Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and his bride-to-be Mary Godwin. As funny as the pirates were, I decided I'd like to learn a bit more about Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley, and that quickly led me to her stepsister, Claire Clairmont.


Miniature portrait on ivory of Mary Shelley, based on a death mask, by Reginald Easton, ca. 1851–93. Oxford, Bodleian Libraries

I know what most people do about Mary Shelley. She began writing one of the most famous gothic novels, Frankenstein, on a dare while vacationing in Switzerland with Byron and Shelley. But how did she get there? The answer was Claire Clairmont, who was also at the Geneva house party. Claire's mother and Mary's father, had married in 1801, when both girls were three. Mary's father, author and philosopher William Godwin, was an inspiration to many free thinkers, and one of them, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, started spending a lot of time at the Godwin's home (the girls were 16 by this time.) Claire, who was a strong believer in free love, helped and encouraged Mary in her romance with the married Shelley. Shelley abandoned his pregnant wife Harriet and young daughter and ran off with Mary in 1814. Claire also ran away with them, and the trio traveled together throughout Europe.

In 1816 Claire began an affair with the poet Lord Byron. Byron quickly lost interest, but Claire pursued, some might say stalked, him to Switzerland, dragging along Shelley and Mary, ostensibly to introduce Shelley to Byron. When Claire and her party arrived at the Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva, where Byron was staying with his personal physician, John William Polidori, the reluctant lover soon realized she was pregnant with his child. He was not happy. [Clara Allegra Byron was born in 1817 and Byron, although not fond of Claire, took custody of his illegitimate daughter and raised her in Italy. Tragically she died of a fever at the age of five.]

Claire Clairmont
The Geneva summer of 1816 was wet and dreary, and the five people amused themselves by discussing philosophy and reading ghost stories. Byron suggested they each write their own supernatural tale. After a dream, Mary began to write her now-famous story:
"'How I, then a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?' ... I busied myself to think of a story, — a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror—one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. ... I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion." — from the introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein.
To add even more drama to the unconventional ménage, were Claire and Shelley involved? In 1817 Shelley wrote "To Constantia, Singing," to Claire. Throughout his years with Mary, Shelley formed relationships with other women. One of the most notable was Jane Williams, who he wrote many poems to. But he was also consistently rumored to have been more than close to Claire, and may have fathered a child with her in 1818, while they were all living in Naples, Italy. The novelist Henry James based his novella The Aspern Papers on Claire and her niece, fictionalizing how the pair closely guarded possessions they had of Shelley's. It certainly appears that her friendship with the poet was closer than just a sister-in-law, as he named her a major benefactor in his will.

Mary gave birth to four children by Shelley; the first three died young. The first, a daughter, was born prematurely in 1815 and died just a few days later. Mary was despondent and had to not only cope with her tragic loss but with Shelley's joy at the recent (legitimate) birth of his son Charles by his wife Harriet. The teenager was soon pregnant again and gave birth to a son, William, in January of 1816. Harriet was found drowned, on December 10 of that year, an apparent suicide. After his wife's suicide, Shelley was advised to marry Mary, or he might lose custody of his two children by Harriet. Shelley and Mary married in December 30, just twenty days after Harriet was pronounced dead. Not the most fairy tale-like conditions for a marriage for these Romantics.

Throughout all of this familial drama Mary was revising Frankenstein. The Shelley's continued their nomadic life, traveling from England to various cities in Italy, and Mary's novel was finally published, anonymously, in January of 1818. Shelley was at first assumed to be the author. How did Mary feel about that? 1818 and 1819 were sad times for the couple, as their two children both died, Clara in September 1818, and William in June 1819. Mary gave birth in November of that year to Percy Florence Shelley, their only surviving child. She became pregnant one more time, in 1822, but miscarried.  The next month Shelley drowned in a boating accident, along with his companions Edward Williams and their boat boy Charles Vivian. Their bodies were found washed up on the coast of Viareggio.

After Shelley died, the stepsisters separated. Mary returned to England, while Claire continued an itinerant existence in Europe. She either lived with family or worked as a governess, in such diverse places as Vienna, Russia, Dresden, Pisa, and Paris. She eventually settled in an expatriate colony with her niece Paulina in Florence and died at the age of 80 in 1879, outliving Shelley, Byron, and Mary. Claire, although neither a poet nor a novelist, of all of the Romantics, seems to have embraced its lifestyle most fully. But she was no stranger to writing. I am currently trying to track down a copy of The Clairmont correspondence letters of Claire Clairmont, Charles Clairmont, and Fanny Imlay Godwin. I'm looking forward to reading her impressions of Shelley, Byron and Mary and their romantic lives.
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Tuesday, March 15, 2011

travels, friendships, love affairs, poetry

Article first published as Book Review: Elizabeth Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters (Library of America), edited by Lloyd Schwartz on Blogcritics.



Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters is a book to delve into again and again and be reminded and surprised by the wonderful writing of multi-award winning poet Elizabeth Bishop, who was Poet Laureate of the United States (1949 to 1950), won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry (1956, for Poems - North & South) and a National Book Award (1970, The Complete Poems).

Bishop’s father died when she was just eight month's old. By age five her mother entered a mental hospital, never to see or live with her daughter again. Bishop was shuttled back and forth between her maternal an paternal grandparents until settling in with her aunt Florence Bishop, her father's sister. As the title states, Bishop's poems, prose, letters, and much more are a all included here — translations, reviews of other poets' work, short stories. Her chronological biography reads as interestingly as her poetry, detailing the incidents, travels, friendships and love affairs that made up her life and can be glimpsed in echoes through her poetry. Bishop's long-term relationships were with women, but she didn't make either them the subject of her work. She is interested in in people, but not self-revelation. Even her most "intimate" work is only generally erotic.

From "Vague Poem (Vaguely Love Poem)"

Just now, when I saw you naked again,
I thought the same words: rose-rock, rock-rose …
Rose, trying, working, to show itself,
forming, folding over,
unimaginable connections, unseen, shining edges.
Rose-rock, unformed, flesh beginning, crystal by crystal,
clear pink breasts and darker, crystalline nipples,
rose-rock, rose-quartz, roses, roses, roses,
exacting roses from the body,
and the even darker, accurate, rose of sex—

She lived an itinerant life. Bishop came from a wealthy family, so she could afford to travel, and she did, often. Even though he made her home in Brazil for fifteen years, she used that home as a base to travel from, never seeming to stay in one place for too long. She also lived for many years in writers' haven Key West. Bishop was an alcoholic. So many writers from her generation became alcoholics that it's hard not to wonder if the true results of Prohibition were to grain-alcohol poison everyone. Because people certainly didn't stop drinking, they drank home-distiller versions of liquor that were probably many times more potent than what we drink now. And they were drinking mostly alcohol, not a recreational Chardonnay.


Whatever poem you're reading, wherever it is set, whether Newfoundland, New York, Florida, or Paris, you feel that Bishop really "gets" where she is. She has a gift for describing the place, the moment.

From "A Miracle for Breakfast"

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds — along with the sun

Her letters are interesting, a slightly different voice from her poetry, but still always describing her surroundings. A letter to mentor Marianne Moore describes a visit to her aunt's farm in such detail — how she had to walk out to the road in the early morning dark and use a flashlight to flag down the only bus to New York City — you feel you are there with her, out on the cold dirt road in the dark, wondering if she'll be able to hail the bus and make it back to the city.


From "Letter to N.Y."

In your next letter I wish you'd say
where you are going and what you are doing;
how are the plays and after the plays
what other pleasures you're pursuing:

taking cabs in the middle of the night,
driving as if to save your soul
where the road gose round and round the park
and the meter glares like a moral owl,

...

and coming out of the brownstone house
to the gray sidewalk, the watered street,
one side of the buildings rises with the sun
like a glistening field of wheat.

The notes are a fascinating read as well, citing the numerous references in her poems. In "Letter to N.Y." for instance, which was written for her friend since teen years, Louise Crane, Crane Paper Company heiress, the reader learns that Bishop and Crane both traveled and lived together in New York, Paris and Key West for many years, adding another dimension to the opening line, "In your next letter I wish you'd say where you are going and what you are doing."

It is impossible to read Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters from cover to cover, as the vast nature of Bishop's work begs the reader to hop around in time and form, from a favorite poem to a letter she wrote about it, to the biographical notes to see what part of the world she was in at the time she wrote it. Bishop: Poems, Prose and Letters is definitely a bedside table book, that will be on hand, a great companion, for quite a long time.
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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

i stay to the shadows

i creep along the wall
maybe catching a cool breeze
or just trying to avoid the unrelenting glare
of the punishing sun

Saturday, April 17, 2010

duck ramp

Stuff is just pouring off the trees, being blown by the wind. I now know the taste of pollen—bitter, metallic. No ducks climb up the ramp. The fountain is off, the water still.





Friday, February 19, 2010

now we are six

by: A.A. Milne

When I was one,
I had just begun.
When I was two,
I was nearly new.
When I was three,
I was hardly me.
When I was four,
I was not much more.
When I was five,
I was just alive.
But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six
now and forever.

Happy birthday kiddo!

Sunday, December 27, 2009

king john was not a good man

The actual day may have passed, but I'm still on vacation until after the new year and trying to think of ways to prolong the season (that don't include shopping.) One of my favorite childhood poems by A.A. Milne has a Christmas theme. My mom used to read poems to my brother and me at bedtime from When We Were Very Young and Now We Are Six, which is where this delightful poem comes from. I loved these then and now can still recite a few lines from memory. I was probably first acquainted with Pooh here, too.

KING JOHN'S CHRISTMAS

King John was not a good man
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air-
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.



King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon . . .
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lot of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.



King John was not a good man,
Yet had his hopes and fears.
They'd given him no present now
For years and years and years.
But every year at Christmas,
While minstrels stood about,
Collecting tribute from the young
For all the songs they might have sung,
He stole away upstairs and hung
A hopeful stocking out.



King John was not a good man,
He lived his life aloof;
Alone he thought a message out
While climbing up the roof.
He wrote it down and propped it
Against the chimney stack:
"TO ALL AND SUNDRY-NEAR AND FAR-
F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR."
And signed it not "Johannes R."
But very humbly, "Jack."



I want some crackers,
And I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I don't mind oranges, I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife
That really cuts.
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"



King John was not a good man -
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
Descending by the spout.
And all that night he lay there,
Aprey to hopes and fears.
"I think that's him a-coming now."
(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)
"He'll bring one present, anyhow -
The first I've had for years."



"Forget about the crackers,
and forget about the candy;
I'm sure a box of chocolates
Would never come in handy;
I don't like oranges,
I don't want nuts,
And I HAVE got a pocket-knife
That almost cuts.
But, oh! Father Christmas,
if you love me at all,
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John was not a good man -
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
That Christmas had begun,
And people seized their stockings,
And opened them with glee,
And crackers, toys and games appeared,
And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly:
"As I feared,
Nothing again for me!"

"I did want crackers,
And I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates
Would come in handy;
I do love oranges,
I did want nuts.
I haven't got a pocket-knife -
Not one that cuts.
And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red, india-rubber ball!"

King John stood by the window,
And frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
All playing in the snow.
A while he stood there watching,
And envying them all...
When through the window big and red
There hurtled by his royal head,
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
An india-rubber ball!"

AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,
MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM
A BIG, RED,
INDIA-RUBBER
BALL!