I know many people who are so well versed in Edna St. Vincent Millay that they can tell you exactly what year she wrote a poem, the volume in which it birthed to the public, all kinds of quirky personal and professional stories. I’m not one of them.
And yet in these years of Millay readings, events, birthday celebrations of the (dead, whatever that really means) poet, I show up to listen, to react, to absorb, often, it seems, to read. It’s been a journey that has given me much—although not in terms of “study.” More in terms of joy and energy, life.
Last year after I read, someone in Portland contacted me to ask whether I’d like some old volumes (so many books, too little space, the years shifting) and so I drove to Portland and picked up a box on a street corner in deep Covid times. I think of these as Millie’s books, as this new Millie in my life feeding me in remarkably surprising ways. I have eight slim well-worn volumes, published between 1920 and 1939—three plays and five of poems. The one published in 1920 came out when Harper & Brothers (initially J. J. Harper, but more brothers came on board—the J. and J. started the house in 1817 when they were only 20 and 22) was only in New York. Shortly afterwards London was added.
The theme of this year’s (virtual) birthday celebration is Millay in Maine/Maine in Millay (presented by the Farnsworth Art Museum in collaboration with the Millay House Rockland and hosted by Kathleen Ellis). It focuses on Vincent’s early years and her later time on Ragged Island in outer Casco Bay, which she and her husband bought in 1933 for $750. To hang out with us for the event on 2/19 at 1 p.m., register at the Farnsworth Art Museum HERE for the free link.
Lately I’ve loved reading letters aloud—how the human rises in the words. It’s a lost time, now that people shoot off e-mails and so much is social-media-ized, and lost. I also think that people write less thoughtfully and fully in their communications (likely they do everything less thoughtfully) and now that we know every private, personal, intimate word might be published or used—well, I, for one, say “No, people, not for me,” and stopped writing real letters long ago.
That being said, I love hearing Millay lifted from the page. She’s funny and smart and sparkly. Serious and hell-bent.
Just think: Born 1892 in Rockland, raised in nearby Camden by a single mother (divorced her husband when her daughter, the oldest of three girls, was 12; divorce was only .07% in U.S. and certainly not acceptable), Edna St. Vincent Millay went on—this wild and brilliant woman—to win a Pulitzer Prize in Poetry in 1923.
She was famous, successful, respected in her time—which wasn’t long. She died at 58 in 1950. But while she was here she made the most of it (reminder! reminder!): known for “riveting readings and performances, progressive political stances, frank portrayal of both hetero- and homosexuality.” (Poetry Foundation)
I am in awe and flummoxed by makers who made/make so much, get it out into the world, and also live wild and wonderful lives, traveling and entertaining, dining in Quito or Shanghai, clean the house, cook, explore meaningful relationships, make a living/pay the rent, experience deep love, pain and loss, shop, have families, be amas to their grandchildren, and, oh yes, now maintain a social media presence and a platform.
I will read a letter Millay wrote to her friend Gladys Niles, of Bangor, written in August 1912, the year “Renascence” opened the doors for her. She was 20.
Each of us is asked to read a poem of our own, and I think I will choose a short, older poem since we’re talking beginnings.
Be well… Show up… Find your way and your joy… Really live while you’re here!