[Richard Wakefield]

The current Atlantic Monthly has a longish review of two new biographies of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The reviewer (a woman I've never heard of until now) does a fine job of giving a clear sense of the two books. Even more important, to my mind, she gives an eloquent defense of Millay's poetry, which has pretty much fallen out of favor among the high brows except when she's cited as an example of unabashed female sexuality; that is, she's usually praised, if she's praised at all, not for her poetry but for her sociological or political signifance. (Of course, an awful lot of what passes for literary criticism is really merely the use of literature to bolster claims about society or politics.)
Millay has already been acknowledged in some of these forums as a fine poet. It's good to see her praised in those terms to a wider audience.
If anyone knows of the essay's appearance on line I'd appreciate their posting a link.
RPW

[RCL]

Richard, coincidentally there's a similar review in my most recent Harper's by Cristina Nehring. She convinced me--to read Millay and not the books reviewed.

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Ralph

[Richard Wakefield]

Hold the presses! It is indeed in the current Harper's, not the Atlantic. Sorry if I sent anyone scurrying in the wrong direction. And thanks for so gently setting me right.
RPW

[epigone]

I have seen a lot of reviews of these books. Here's the link to one from the New York Review of Books:
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/arti...ticle_id=15182

I think the New York Times has reviewed these books at least once.

[Carl Sundell]

I am delighted to see Millay getting her due once again. I never could understand how she went into neglect unless it was from envy of her towering talent. She wrote at least two dozen sonnets that beat anything in the English language. When I introduce young people to poetry I have them start with this:

TO JESUS ON HIS BIRTHDAY
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

For this your mother sweated in the cold,
For this you bled upon the bitter tree:
A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold;
A paper wreath; a day at home for me.
The merry bells ring out, the people kneel;
up goes the man of God before the crowd;
With voice of honey and with eyes of steel
He drones your humble gospel to the proud.
Nobody listens. Less than the wind that blows
Are all the words to us you died to save.
O Prince of Peace! O Sharon's dewy Rose!
How mute you lie within your vaulted grave.
The stone the angel rolled away with tears
Is back upon your mouth these thousand years.


After which the library shelves are sometimes raided of her volumes in one hour. Pardon me for saying so, but I think she and Yeats are the standard bearers by which all great poetry must be measured.

[jasonhuff]

Millay has become one of my favorites. Oddly enough, I didn't really like her when I first read her, I guess about five years ago. But since then I've come across her poems everywhere, and I've found that I really like her work. I'm going to have to pick up her Collected Poems. Personally, from what I've read of the two, I much prefer Millay's poems over Dickinson's.

jason