Mezzo Cammin Sonnet Analysis Essay

Critical Response to Longfellow's "Mezzo Cammin"

Elizabeth Hale
Department of English
Brandeis University
USA
ehale@binah.cc.brandeis.edu

Deep South v.1 n.1 (February, 1995)


Copyright (c) 1995 by Elizabeth Hale, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the New Zealand Copyright Act 1962. It may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that the journal is notified. This consent does not extend to other kinds of copying, such as copying for general distribution, for advertising or promotional purposes, for creating new collective works, or for resale. For such uses, written permission of the author and the notification of the journal are required. Write to Deep South, Department of English, University of Otago, P. O. Box 56, Dunedin, New Zealand.

Odell Shepard, in the Literary History of the United States calls Longfellow's "Mezzo Cammin": "A really fine sonnet . . . in which [Longfellow] surveyed his past accomplishment with characteristic modesty and manly candor."[1]

I want to take issue with Shepard's assessment on two fronts, for although his reaction is valid enough, it does no more than scratch the surface of the poem. For a start, I do not think that "Mezzo Cammin" is a "really fine sonnet". I find it effective in that it portrays deep emotion in a clear manner, but I also think there are contradictions within the poem, in terms of style and language, that prevent it from being a great poem.

The second part of Shepard's statement that I find problematic is that in which he states that "Longfellow surveyed his past accomplishment with modesty". I do not feel that modesty is the right term at all. To me, "Mezzo Cammin" is a poem written from a sense of despair, loneliness and self-doubt occasioned by the death of his first wife, and his difficulty successfully wooing his future second wife.[2] A deeply personal poem, Longfellow never released "Mezzo Cammin" for publication; it was published posthumously by his brother, as was "The Cross of Snow", which was written long after his second wife's death.

"Mezzo Cammin" is written in the Petrarchan sonnet form. An octave, rhyming abbaabba, is followed by a sestet, which rhymes cdcdcd. The Petrarchan sonnet form traditionally lends itself well to a setting out of problem in the octave, with a resolution taken up in the sestet. Longfellow, however, does not find a solution in the course of the sonnet, and the sestet is thus part of a crescendoing movement of angst that moves through the whole poem.

The language of the poem is also problematic to me. Longfellow starts with a crystal clear statement of the problem he is facing:

Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me, and have not fulfilled
The aspiration of my youth (ll. 1-3)

The mostly monosyllabic words of these lines have a simplicity that state the problem uncompromisingly--there are no flights of poetic fancy, and the emotion is laid bare. The quatrain could as easily be written as a prose sentence, with no loss of sense; the enjambement creates a pleasing tension between poem and prose.

The last line of the first quatrain does, however, cause me some difficulty: "to build/ Some tower of song with lofty parapet" (ll. 3-4). Longfellow mocks his youthful ambitions by using precisely the poetic language of youthful ambition, and calls up the trope of the poet as builder of a monument that will outlast the rest of human endeavour. This jars a little with the quiet language that initially drew me in and allowed me to sympathise strongly with the poet. However, Longfellow is positing a rejection of poetic language,[3] by juxtaposing the self-consciously artificial language of the poet's youth, with the true language of introspection in the first lines of the poem.

At the same time, however, Longfellow is reminding himself that he has nothing so grandiose to reject. He has not built a "tower of song", and it is this that troubles him deeply. He uses the poetic language to indicate that the ambition still resides, and that he still considers himself a poet.

There follows a quatrain of self-justification, in which Longfellow outlines why he has not achieved what he thinks he is capable of accomplishing. He starts with a triplet of anti-reasons:

Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled (ll. 5-6)

These anti-reasons increase in intensity, from the non-emotiveness of indolence, to the joys of pleasure, to the intensity of uncontrollable passion. Line 6 also has an onomatopoeic rustling quality that speeds up the line, with its repeated "st" and "ss" sounds. This leads to an effective contrast with the next line, whose pace is slower, and less self-consciously poetic, in that it comes after a group of polysyllabic latinate abstractions ("indolence", "pleasure", and "passions"), with the Anglo Saxon "sorrow", and the monosyllabic "care".

The last line of the quatrain indicates that Longfellow's hope of future accomplishment is not yet dead ("Kept me from what I may accomplish yet" (l. 8)), and the alliteration of hard "c" continuing from line seven to line eight has added effect, in that it underscores the poet's bitterness, a bitterness caused by conflicting reasons (his sorrow at his wife's death is valid, but so also is his bitterness at being prevented from writing adequate poetry):

But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet (ll. 7-8)

The hope comes filtering back into the poem in the eighth line ("Kept me from what I may accomplish yet"), indicating a potential rise in the poet's state of mind. But the sestet immediately undercuts this hopefulness by returning us to the issue in hand, the fact that Longfellow is approaching middle age ("half of my life is gone"), and pushes the consequences of this further. For if one is at the middle stage of one's life, then one is also entering a time in which one is closer to death than to birth.

The sestet, then, jerks us back from the potential happiness of the future, in that Longfellow has something he "may accomplish yet", with its "Though". "Though" introduces the sestet and its insistence on the poet as being backward looking and being terrified by death which is further up the hill that he must climb.

In the sestet Longfellow denies himself and the reader the solace that the sonnet form sets us up to expect, by using the sestet's opening lines to turn us, not towards a comforting reflection and resolution of the problem of the octave, but further back into the despair that he feels. The imagery of the poet climbing up the hill of life, towards death at the top of that hill is reminiscent of the image of building in line four. However, it is not a modification of that image, nor is it intended to be; rather, the image of the poet climbing the hill of life is a step back into the realm of poetic language that line four inhabits.

The sestet jars somewhat because of its use of "poetic" language: we are moved abruptly from simple plain language of the emotions to an unconvincing extended image of the past:

Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,-
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights (ll. 9-12)

The image seems strained to me; I think it works against the simplicity of the preceding octave, and it is as if Longfellow is uncomfortable revealing his emotions in plain language, so turns with relief to a metaphor.

The metaphor of the Past as a city is new to me: Longfellow works it quite skillfully--depicting it in muffled terms. It is seen at twilight (thus Longfellow picks up again the imagery of aging that appears elsewhere in the poem), and it is seen dimly. It is also heard dimly--the bells are "soft". However, Longfellow does not push the image far enough--he makes the reader work too hard. What is the significance of Longfellow looking down on the past? Is it because he cannot return? Does he want to return? Is the past starting to die for him, and is that what motivates the poem for him? Or is the problem that the past is calling him back and he cannot progress?

Progression does not seem to be an option for Longfellow, for, even if he does want to progress, the future is not known to him, and all that he is certain of is death. In the final lines of the poem the imagery suddenly becomes even harsher:

And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights (ll. 13-14)

"Autumnal" picks up on the imagery of aging once more; Longfellow is entering his declining years. However, the word "blast" jars with the volume of the rest of the poem. Even at its loudest "tower of song with lofty parapet" (l. 4) the rest of the sonnet never really reaches higher than mezzoforte. The final two lines of the sonnet are fortissimo, and this, coupled with the final line, a crashingly iambic alexandrine (the only alexandrine in the sonnet) sealing off the poem in uncompromising terms, has a hysterical quality that sits oddly with the more contemplative opening lines.

Despite the problems I had with this sonnet, I chose to analyse it because it did speak to me. Although I share little of Longfellow's attributes (I am not male, middle-aged, or mourning the death of a truelove or lost ambition (yet)), I felt that he expressed his situation with pathos and poignancy in such a way as to draw me into the poem. The most powerful lines in the poem (the simplest lines) have a directness and frankness ("manly candor", if you will) that is appealing and very touching. Although Longfellow loses me in the lines of death imagery, by unexpectedly introducing them into the final lines, he has drawn me in enough in the first lines of the poem to keep me with him to the end.


NOTES

    Robert E. Spiller et al., eds., Literary History of the United States, 4th ed. (New York: Macmillan, 1974), p. 592. [Back]
    Mary Storer Potter, Longfellow's first wife, died of complications following a miscarriage in Europe in 1835, Longfellow was devastated and flung himself into his poetic work. He also flung himself into a seven year courtship of Frances Appleton, whom he eventually married in 1843, the year following his writing of "Mezzo Cammin". Frances Appleton was a reader with highly developed critical faculties, and told Longfellow exactly what she thought of his poetry. Cecil B. Williams suggests that there was a kind of contract between them that Longfellow must convince Frances Appleton of his worth, both as a person and as a poet: "Her criticisms of Longfellow's publications suggest that Fanny would have considered a first-rate author an eligible suitor but was still uncovinced that Longfellow was one" Cecil B. Williams: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1964), p. 78. [Back]
    When I say "poetic language": I mean language that is highly wrought and literary, as opposed to simple and plain language. [Back]

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Rhina P. Espaillat
by Leslie Monsour


hina Espaillat (Eh-spy-yacht) is a gracefully intimate writer who, strongly influenced by 17th century poetry--the sonnet in particular--and the formal traditions of her bilingual background, applies a striking command of versification and metaphor to topics of everyday life. Her personal subjects characteristically embrace universal themes. She sizes up life's truths and uncertainties with nimble, womanly, often comic perceptions that are consistently sensual and humane. Observes poet Robert B. Shaw,
Hers is a voice of experience, but it is neither jaded nor pedantic. She speaks not from some cramped corner but from somewhere close to the center of life. In speaking of her focus on the everyday, one must make a distinction: this is not diary poetry, as practiced by compulsively prolific poets in the manner of Williams or Ammons. It is less egotistical, more meditative. . . . Her most memorable pieces are triumphs of good nature.[1]

Since 1992, Espaillat has published six books of poetry and scores of translations, winning a number of national and international awards and honors in both areas. Her versions of Robert Frost's poems in Spanish, of which to date she has completed forty, including "The Death of the Hired Man," are highly successful, preserving Frost's measures and rhyme schemes and reproducing his quintessentially American sound with an equally idiosyncratic Spanish. In addition, Espaillat has translated her own Spanish writings into English and vice versa, including poems, autobiographical essays, and a collection of short stories. She has also rendered English versions of over 150 poems by some four dozen Spanish, Latin American, and Portuguese poets, including St. John of the Cross, Federico García Lorca, Luis Vaz de Camões, and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, with the latter's elements of chiasmus and paradox particularly well-suited to Espaillat's limber bilingualism and flair for irony. For its profound political and socio-cultural significance and as a bridge of communication between the two linguistic communities she inhabits, translation plays an especially vital role in Espaillat's body of work.

She was born in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, in 1932, when the capital city was named Ciudad Trujillo after the country's infamous dictator. The only child of Carlos Manuel Homero Espaillat, a minor diplomat, and Dulce María Batista, a dressmaker, Espaillat's upbringing in the lush, tropical setting of Hispaniola was a unique blend of the rustic, the exotic, and the conceptual. At an early age, her propensity for wordplay was enriched and encouraged by her paternal grandmother, Apolonia Brache Ramirez, who, recognizing the five year-old's incipient talent, recorded in handwriting her granddaughter's first orally composed verses. Through her grandmother, the young poet was also exposed to the influences of music, song, and art. In her grandmother's living room, Espaillat enjoyed an entertainment dating from antiquity, known as Melopoeia, in which poetry is recited to a background of musical interpretation. In ancient Greece, a lyre would have provided the musical accompaniment. In Spanish cultures, the poetry is recited to the instrumentations of classical guitar, as was the practice in the home of Apolonia Brache Ramirez. Her son, Espaillat's father, was a passionate poetry reciter himself, who went by his middle name, Homero. Of these combined early influences, Espaillat writes, ". . . The formal music of classic Spanish poetry my father loved followed me into English and draws me, to this day, to poems that are patterned and rich and playful."[2]

Events occurring during this period in Espaillat's childhood led to a two-year immersion in the artistic world of her paternal grandmother, when the evils of power, corruption, and brutality made a drastic intrusion into the lives of her family.

Espaillat was five years-old in 1937 when she and her mother, who was pregnant at the time, were accompanying her father and his uncle, Rafael Brache, on a diplomatic mission to Washington, D.C. When news came of the border massacre of thousands of impoverished Haitians by Trujillo's army, Brache, Espaillat's great uncle, wrote a courageous letter denouncing the dictator for the mass slaughter. For speaking out against Trujillo, Brache was punished with exile. The families were granted political asylum, and Espaillat's father, who had been working as secretary to the delegation, prepared his family for a move to New York City in search of work and a place to live. Espaillat's mother, meanwhile, had miscarried--probably as a result of stress and anxiety--the child who would have been the young poet's brother.

The story continues in Espaillat's own words, as related through a recent correspondence, "My mother was very frail and depressed, certain that she would die without seeing her mother again, and that they would encounter difficult conditions in New York City with a five-year-old child to look after. She did an amazing thing: She took me back to the Dominican Republic, left me with my paternal grandmother, where she knew I would be cared for and safe, visited her mother and siblings to say goodbye, and collected her sewing machine and returned to the U.S.A. within weeks, without having attracted official attention. She was right about the rough conditions they would encounter in New York City, which was still in the grip of the Great Depression. But, two years later, when I was seven, in the spring of 1939, they sent for me, having found steady jobs and an apartment, and having saved enough for my passage on the steamship, Leif Erikson. I traveled with a friend of the family to whom my aunt Rhina entrusted me, and who listed me as her little niece. My mother never did see her mother again, as my father never saw his."

Though only seven when she was thrust into the English-speaking world, Espaillat remained highly fluent and literate in her native Spanish, thanks to the fiercely enforced Spanish-only zone her father kept inside the walls of their small walk-up flat in mid-town Manhattan. Homero Espaillat, determined to prevent the adulterations of "Spanglish," was adamant that the two languages, English and Spanish, remain separate, in order to preserve the integrity of both cultures and uphold his pride in the literature of his own people.

In a bilingual essay entitled, "A Recollection and Perhaps a Tribute,"[3] Espaillat writes that her father was "troubled by my love for English, my desire as a child. . . to be like the others, those who already knew and spoke this rich, electric language with its heavy beat and its flavor of violence. My father was grateful to this country, to which he owed his life: it had given us shelter and protection when he found himself here as a political exile. . . . He followed American politics with devotion, but never became a citizen, and on discovering he had cancer insisted on returning to his home town, to die among memories of his childhood and be buried where his ancestors rested."

If Spanish was her "father tongue," then her "mother tongue" was English, as Espaillat relates in the same essay: "My mother, on the other hand, perhaps because she was younger than [my father], perhaps because her memories of her native country were less sweet, threw herself with wholehearted enthusiasm into the life of her adopted country. She fell in love with English. . . . She let me speak to her in English--a luxury undreamed of in my father's presence--and discovered by herself. . . the treasures in store for her in the public library and night school."[4]

Espaillat's career as a published poet began as a fifteen year-old student at the Julia Richman School in Manhattan in 1947, when her poems, submitted on her behalf by an attentive English teacher, were accepted for publication in The Ladies' Home Journal. She went on to major in English literature at Hunter College, graduating in 1953, one year after marrying the sculptor, Alfred Moskowitz, who, at the time, was an Industrial Arts teacher in the New York City school system.

Following the births of their first two sons in 1954 and 1957, Espaillat dedicated her time and energy to raising her children. In 1964 she returned to university and obtained a master's degree in education, whereupon she embarked on a career as an English teacher at Jamaica High School in Queens. Shortly thereafter, in 1968, when her sons were eleven and fourteen, a sixteen year-old student in Espaillat's sophomore English class was welcomed into the family, first as a foster child and, ultimately, as their third son.

Espaillat took early retirement from teaching in 1980 and vigorously resumed her career in poetry, producing and publishing a formidable burst of poems and translations, participating in workshops offered by the Poetry Society of America, and helping to form, in her neighborhood of Queens, the group known as the Fresh Meadow Poets. In 1992, at age sixty, Espaillat published her first full-length collection, Lapsing to Grace.

By this time, Espaillat and her husband, also in retirement from public school teaching, had been living in Newburyport, Massachusetts for two years. It wasn't long before the Newburyport Art Association had new activities added to its agenda with Espaillat's introduction of a yearly poetry contest to benefit the organization, and poetry readings using the NAA gallery as a venue. She also lost no time co-founding the group known as the Powow River Poets, which, for nearly two decades, with Espaillat as a driving force, has nurtured and promoted the work of many of New England's finest contemporary poets and hosted readings by visiting poets from all over the country. The Powow River Anthology, edited by Alfred Nicol, was published in 2006. In its introduction, X.J. Kennedy writes:

. . . Rhina P. Espaillat. . . has long been (may she forgive some rudely mixed metaphors) a sparkplug of the group, a kind of bardic queen bee or aesthetic den-mother, a teacher by vocation and by nature and, as many of her fellow poets will attest, a gen- erous friend. . . . The PRP didn't exist before her time, nor had the Newburyport Arts Association made much noise until she, a former New York City teacher, and her husband, sculptor Al- fred Moskowitz, came to town in 1990.

In her life and in her poems, Espaillat's ties to her family, past and present, are profound and enduring. Family photographs are noticeably abundant as subjects in her work. The Spanish language also connects her to her childhood and her family, particularly, as mentioned earlier, to her father. Nowhere is this connection more poignantly illustrated than in "Bilingual/Bilingüe" (Where Horizons Go), a poem that has become a favorite among English and creative writing students of inner city schools and colleges, where young people from immigrant families are most likely to receive their education. It is one of Espaillat's most frequently anthologized works.

The poem deals with the conflict between a Spanish-speaking father who clings to his heritage, and a schoolgirl daughter who longs to fit in with her new social and cultural environment. The steadfast pride and dignity of the older generation is played against the curiosity and flexibility of the new generation, as the poem explores the complex emotional and intellectual interaction between the father who loves his native tongue and the daughter who wants to write in English. The need to preserve and the urge to change clash at first, then reconcile. In the end, the art of poetry wins out over authoritarianism. It is no wonder it resonates deeply with those who have come to the United States from Latin America, where poets have long been forces of social and political influence.

"Bilingual/Bilingüe" consists of nine heroic couplet stanzas, whose frequent enjambments work fluidly to downplay the end rhymes. Within each couplet, a Spanish phrase is parenthetically imbedded without disturbing the iambic pentameter integrity of the lines. The parentheses serve to keep the languages separate, as Espaillat's father tried so hard to do in real life for fear that language would come between him and his only child:

My father . . . liked them separate, one there,
one here (allá y aquí), as if aware

that words might cut in two his daughter's heart
(el corazón) and lock the alien part

to what he was--his memory, his name
(su nombre)--with a key he could not claim. (1-6)

In a short essay, entitled, "An Imaginary Dialogue," Espaillat invents a contemporary argument with her father when the subject of the need for a dictionary of "Spanglish" terms comes up. Espaillat points out the inevitability of mixing languages and the futility of trying to keep them separate. "Maybe it's natural for languages to allow themselves to be altered, to be rejuvenated, by adopting expressions from neighboring people," she says, while her father listens patiently. "Isn't that how all the great languages came to be, when the tribal tongues of local people let themselves be influenced by Greek, by Latin, by Anglo-Saxon. . . ?" We might add French to the list as we consider Chaucer and the origins of the heroic couplets Espaillat puts to use in the poem.

The essay is a prose extension of the poem. The real, remembered father of the poem is defensively authoritarian: "'English outside this door, Spanish inside,'/ he said, 'y basta.'" (7,8) We're moved by a father who guards the integrity of his daughter's linguistic inheritance with such impassioned certainty that they will drift apart if she learns to love English. She soon finds out, however, when she covertly disobeys her father's rules, that their linguistic bond isn't destroyed: ". . . late in bed,/ I hoarded secret syllables I read// until my tongue (mi lengua) learned to run/ where his stumbled. And still the heart was one." (11-14) This younger, anxiety-ridden father of the poem is not the older and wiser, imagined father of the essay, who converses thoughtfully with his grown up, poet/teacher daughter and makes a less emotional argument for keeping non-porous borders between the two languages : "Our young people will end up not learning to handle either language correctly or gracefully, if they keep mixing them. . . without respect either for the new one being offered to them or the old one that is their heritage."[5]

The troubled but loving bond between father and daughter in "Bilingual/Bilingüe" is strongly and complexly tied to language, and ultimately, to poetry. In the poem's final couplet, we come to the only Spanish phrase not separated by parentheses: "he stood outside mis versos, half in fear/ of words he loved but wanted not to hear." (17, 18) The art of verse, "mis versos," is their common ground, even if the father's admiration for his daughter's poems is mixed with an abiding sense of distrust and dismay that they are not in Spanish.

"Poems communicate through the senses. They are seductive." So Espaillat is quoted in "The Art of Memory," an article published in Mezzo Cammin, Vol. 2, Issue 1 (www.mezzocammin.com). With typical, playful wit, her remark is illustrated most literally in the sonnet, "She Resists, but Barely" (Her Place in These Designs), one of many poems on the subject of writing verse, and one of approximately 130 sonnets in Espaillat's six collections of poetry.

"She Resists, but Barely" conforms to the English system of three quatrains and a couplet, as do the majority of Espaillat's sonnets. In mock despair, directly addressing her seducer ("Look at the state of wild undress you've caught/ me in, Poem, lying about, with all/ the housework still untouched!" 1-3), the poet laments neglecting her domestic duties while giving in to verse, the licentious interloper: "I ought to sweep and wash; I ought to dust./ But you have stirred my dust, instead, and look/ how duty yields to my peculiar lust." (10-12) Here, and throughout her poetry, Espaillat integrates life and art with entertaining flair, never succumbing to the mildew of routine and "malady of the quotidian" that Stevens laments in "The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad." Wallace Stevens, in fact, experienced his own version of Espaillat's "peculiar lust" for writing poems as if it were an illicit affair, jotting in his journal entry for August 3, 1906, "Engaged at the office all day on a sonnet--Surreptitiously." With rompish formality, eroticizing the urge to write, Espaillat's sonnet describes a woman who abandons the chores of her "office" rather than resist the advances of her metaphorical lover, as if the pleasures of intellectual carousing were more uncommon and rewarding than the fleeting gratifications of a real physical encounter. Her mind is left unlocked, her thoughts invitingly unclothed on purpose, so that her ravisher, Poem, may "slip right in and find me." (6-7) The alternating rhymes culminating in the final couplet enhance the charm of poetic constraint, as, overcome by her urges, the poet succumbs to her tempter's "silky promise of some further bliss," (13) which sounds a great deal like the serpent luring Eve in the Garden of Eden. In the end, as in the aftermath of some squalid indulgence, the poet is left alone and half-naked, "with not a thing to cover me but this." (14) The sonnet is both forbidden fruit and fig leaf. The risk of doubt and shame is as inescapable and real in art as it is in erotic love.

Often, Espaillat will put the poem's irony in its title, as with the sonnet, "On the Impossibility of Translation" (Her Place in These Designs). Having executed the translations of scores of poems, Espaillat is well-versed in the "impossibility" of the task she has mastered, and a virtuoso at inventing its metaphors, which rely, characteristically, on the versatile complexities of the senses. The result is a rich combination of the sensual and the paradoxical:

Of course impossible, transmuting touch
and color into sound, sound into sign,
sign into sense again and back: too much
struggling after the names for flavor, line,
knowing they can't be found, no, not in one
language: in two? across the grain of speech?
Unthinkable! (1-7)

What seems at first to be unnatural and forced--"Easier to fold the sun into its syllable" (7-8)--is then characterized, in a play on words, as the instinctive, seductive interactions between lovers, who "each/ mute in one skin, can learn to speak in tongues,/ speak themselves whole." (8-10)

This sonnet, again of the Shakespearean variety, nevertheless makes a hidden Petrarchan volta at the eighth line, offering in the last six, an answer to the paradox it sets up. Ultimately, the "impossibility of translation" is as possible and inevitable as birdsong and rainfall: "you've heard/ fitful above the fields, the summer sung/ in high cascading turns of fluent Bird,/ and seen, in shallow pools in every town,/ how rain translates the sky and writes it down." (10-14) Espaillat treats the name for the parlance of birds as a proper noun. Instead of the language of a nation, however, it is a universal idiom fluent in the dialects of seasons. The act of translation is as impossible as the force of nature which allows rain to serve as both interpreter and scribe for the heavens. The one imperfect rhyme in the poem ("tongues" and "sung") suggests the essentially human, creative, and, therefore, flawed nature of language and the unavoidable imperfections that occur when it is translated.

For Espaillat, the art of translation is an essential act, defining all verbal communication. Translation is a synonym for using words. The spirit of inclusiveness that characterizes her work is articulated in the Afterword to Where Horizons Go, where Espaillat writes of translation as the common bond at the heart of all poetic expression: "Anybody who has ever gone hunting for that one right and elusive word knows what bilingualism feels like, even if he's never left his country or learned a word in any language but his own. There is a sense in which every poet is bilingual, and those of us who are overtly so are only living metaphors for the condition that applies to us all."

Bibliography

Espaillat, Rhina. Lapsing to Grace. Bennett & Kitchel. 1992.

---. Where Horizons Go. New Odyssey Press. 1998.

---. Landscapes with Women: Four American Poets. Ed., Gail White. Foreword by Richard Wilbur. Singular Speech Press. 1999.

---. Rehearsing Absence. The University of Evansville Press. 2001.

---. Mundo y palabra/ The World & the Word. Oyster River Press. 2001.

---. Rhina Espaillat: Greatest Hits 1942-2001. Pudding House Publications. 2003.

---. The Shadow I Dress In. David Robert Books. 2004.

---. The Story-teller's Hour. Scienter Press. 2004.

---. Playing at Stillness. Truman State University Press. 2005.

---. Agua de dos ríos. Poemas, prosa y traducciones: una colección bilingüe. (Water from Two Rivers. Poems, Prose and Translations: a Bilingual Collection). Editora Nacional. Santo Domingo, D.N., República Dominicana. 2006.

---. El olor de la memoria. (Cuentos)/The Scent of Memory. (Short Stories). Ediciones CEDIBIL. Santo Domingo, República Dominicana. 2007.

---. Her Place in These Designs. Truman State University Press. 2008.

Awards

Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, 2001 and 2003.

Sparrow Sonnet Prize, 1997.

Oberon annual award, 2003.

World Order of Narrative and Formalist Poets, several awards between 1984 and 2004.

Poetry Society of America, three annual prizes: 1986 and 1989 Gustav Davidson Prize, and 2000 Cecil Hemley Memorial Award.

New England Poetry Club, several prizes, including 2001 Der Hovanessian

Translation Prize, and 2006 May Sarton Award.

T.S. Eliot Prize, 1998: Where Horizons Go.

Richard Wilbur Award, 2001: Rehearsing Absence.

Stanzas Prize, David Robert Books, 2003: The Shadow I Dress In.

National Poetry Book Award, 2005: Playing at Stillness.

Robert Frost Foundation, "Tree at My Window" Award for Translation, 2004.

Dominican Republic's Ministry of Culture, Awards for Services to Dominican Culture and Education, 2004, 2006 and 2007.

Salem State University, Lifetime Achievement in the Arts Award, 2008.

Bilingual/Bilingüe

My father liked them separate, one there,
one here (allá y aquí), as if aware

that words might cut in two his daughter's heart
(el corazón) and lock the alien part

to what he was--his memory, his name
(su nombre)--with a key he could not claim.

"English outside this door, Spanish inside,"
he said, "y basta." But who can divide

the world, the word (mundo y palabra) from
any child? I knew how to be dumb

and stubborn (testaruda); late, in bed,
I hoarded secret syllables I read

until my tongue (mi lengua) learned to run
where his stumbled. And still the heart was one.

I like to think he knew that, even when,
proud (orgulloso) of his daughter's pen,

he stood outside mis versos, half in fear
of words he loved but wanted not to hear.

She Resists, but Barely

Look at the state of wild undress you've caught
me in, Poem, lying about, with all
the housework still untouched! God knows I've fought
you--but how hard? Or did I mean to fall,
and leave my thoughts unclothed, indolent out
of guile, my mind unlocked, so you could slip
right in and find me? That's what you're about,
I know: seduction, your insidious lip
pressed to my ear. I ought to sew and cook;
I ought to sweep and wash; I ought to dust.
But you have stirred my dust instead, and look
how duty yields to my peculiar lust,
your silky promise of some further bliss,
and not a thing to cover me but this.

On the Impossibility of Translation

Of course impossible, transmuting touch
and color into sound, sound into sign,
sign into sense again and back: too much
struggling after the names for flavor, line,
knowing they can't be found, no, not in one
language: in two? across the grain of speech?
Unthinkable! Easier to fold the sun
into its syllable. Yet lovers, each
mute in one skin, can learn to speak in tongues,
speak themselves whole, if only once; you've heard,
fitful above the fields, the summer sung
in high cascading turns of fluent Bird,
and seen, in shallow pools in every town,
how rain translates the sky and writes it down.

Notes

[1] Poetry. Vol. CLXXX, No. 6. September , 2002.

[2] Espaillat, Rhina. Where Horizons Go. Thomas Jefferson University Press. 1998 p. 69.

[3] Espaillat, Rhina. Agua de dos ríos. Editora Nacional. República Dominicana, 2006 p.80.

[4] Ibid. p.82.

[5] Agua de dos ríos, p. 106.

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