09 January 2008
A poem which has nothing to do with Lisa
Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.
Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
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1 comment:
This poem has nothing ostensibly to do with Lisa (Lee) - except that the TITLE cements her identity to it. This continues the dichotomy created throughout this Blog to dehumanize Lee by identifying the writer with "culture" and Lee with lack of culture. The suggestion is that this disparity makes her less of a person. Therefore, any act of violence against her (or anyone who may vaguely resemble her) is justified.
The sentimental sensibility of the Pre-Raphaelites is an appropriate diversion for the violence that seethes beneath the apparently placid surface of this poem.
I would suggest you begin a course in reading. Start with "Heart of Darkness" by Joseph Conrad. You might supplement is with a few stanzas by Eliot:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
JD
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