This column is about one of the finest American poets of the 20th Century, Richard Wilbur (1921-2017). Though not among the household names of poets like Robert Frost and more recently Billy Collins, his works are widely respected in the poetry world. As one critic put it, “Wilbur’s poems matter because they keep the English language alive.” Among many honors, Wilbur twice won the Pulitzer Prize and also served as Poet Laureate of the United States.
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Born in New York, Wilbur went to Amherst College and then served as a soldier in World War Two, in the midst of which he was inspired by reading the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe while in a foxhole at Monte Cassino.
Back from the war, Wilbur began graduate studies at Harvard on the G.I. Bill, rising to become an assistant professor. He later held academic positions at Wesleyan University and Smith College.
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Wilbur was a words-smith extraordinaire, and I have a special fondness for his writing. At a time when lesser poets were beating the drum for free-form modernism, he was quietly perfecting the formal approach with its intricate rhymes and traditional structures. All this served up with wit and elegance.
This piece is titled “A Late Aubade,” a love poem set in the late morning as noon is approaching.
You could be sitting now in a carrel
Turning some liver-spotted page,
Or rising in an elevator-cage
Toward Ladies’ Apparel.
You could be planting a raucous bed
Of salvia, in rubber gloves,
Or lunching through a screed of someone’s loves
With pitying head.
Or making some unhappy setter
Heel, or listening to a bleak
Lecture on Schoenberg’s serial technique.
Isn’t this better?
Think of all the time you are not
Wasting, and would not care to waste,
Such things, thank God, not being to your taste.
Think what a lot
Of time, by woman’s reckoning,
You’ve saved, and so may spend on this,
You who had rather lie in bed and kiss
Than anything.
It’s almost noon, you say? If so,
Time flies, and I need not rehearse
The rosebuds-theme of centuries of verse.
If you must go,
Wait for a while, then slip downstairs
And bring us up some chilled white wine,
And some blue cheese, and crackers, and some fine
Ruddy-skinned pears.
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And here is Wilbur’s affirmation of life and nature, describing a warm spell in the midst of winter. It’s called “Winter Spring”
A script of trees before the hill
Spells cold, with laden serifs; all the walls
Are battlemented still;
But winter spring is winnowing the air
Of chill, and crawls
Wet-sparkling on the gutters;
Everywhere
Walls wince, and there’s the steal of waters.
Now all this proud royaume
Is Veniced. Through the drift’s mined dome
One sees the rowdy rusted grass,
And we’re amazed as windows stricken bright.
This too-soon spring will pass
Perhaps tonight,
And doubtless it is dangerous to love
This somersault of seasons;
But I am weary of
The winter way of loving things for reasons.
And one more Wilbur poem, this with an artful device, saving the philosophic payoff for the final line. He called this “A Measuring Worm.”
This yellow striped green
Caterpillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,
Constantly (for lack
Of a full set of legs) keeps
Humping up his back.
It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant
To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,
And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.
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Richard Wilbur was a master translator, especially from the French. His poetic versions were equal to and sometimes greater than the originals. Here from a famous French poem by François Villon is Wilbur’s stylish translation.
O tell me where, in lands or seas,
Flora, that Roman belle, has strayed,
Thais, or Archipiades,
Who put each other in the shade,
Or Echo who by bank and glade
Gave back the crying of the hound,
And whose sheer beauty could not fade.
But where shall last year’s snow be found?
Where too is learned Héloïse,
For whom shorn Abélard was made
A tonsured monk upon his knees?
Such tribute his devotion paid.
And where’s that queen who, having played
With Buridan, had him bagged and bound
To swim the Seine thus ill-arrayed?
But where shall last year’s snow be found?
Queen Blanche the fair, whose voice could please
As does a siren’s serenade,
Great Bertha, Beatrice, Alice—these,
And Arembourg whom Maine obeyed,
And Joan whom Burgundy betrayed
And England burned, and Heaven crowned:
Where are they, Mary, Sovereign Maid?
But where shall last year’s snow be found?
Not next week, Prince, nor next decade,
Ask me these questions I propound.
I shall but say again, dismayed,
Ah, where shall last year’s snow be found?
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When Leonard Bernstein decided to write an opera based on Voltaire’s “Candide,” he quite naturally turned to Richard Wilbur, master translator and lyricist.Together they created a colorful score capped by a now-famous aria, a coloratura tour-de-force for the character of Cunegonde. Here are the lyrics, absent an array of high soprano Ah’s and Ha-ha’s.
CUNEGONDE
Glitter and be gay,
That’s the part I play;
Here I am in Paris, France,
Forced to bend my soul
To a sordid role,
Victimized by bitter, bitter circumstance.
Alas for me! Had I remained
Beside my lady mother,
My virtue had remained unstained
Until my maiden hand was gained
By some Grand Duke or other.
Ah, ’twas not to be;
Harsh necessity
Brought me to this gilded cage.
Born to higher things,
Here I droop my wings,
Ah! Singing of a sorrow nothing can assuage.
And yet of course I rather like to revel,
I have no strong objection to champagne,
My wardrobe is expensive as the devil,
Perhaps it is ignoble to complain . . .
Enough, enough
Of being basely tearful!
I’ll show my noble stuff
By being bright and cheerful!
Pearls and ruby rings…
Ah, how can worldly things
Take the place of honor lost?
Can they compensate
For my fallen state,
Purchased as they were at such an awful cost?
Bracelets…lavalieres
Can they dry my tears?
Can they blind my eyes to shame?
Can the brightest brooch
Shield me from reproach?
Can the purest diamond purify my name?
And yet of course these trinkets are endearing,
I’m oh, so glad my sapphire is a star,
I rather like a twenty-carat earring,
If I’m not pure, at least my jewels are!
Enough! Enough!
I’ll take their diamond necklace
And show my noble stuff
By being gay and reckless!
Observe how bravely I conceal
The dreadful, dreadful shame I feel.
Ha ha ha ha!
Performances of this aria helped establish the careers of Barbara Cook and Kristin Chenoweth.
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An upcoming column will be devoted to Children’s Poetry, and Richard Wilbur will be with us again. He ranks with Edward Lear and Robert Louis Stevenson as a wonderful poet for kids. Just a sample:
You don’t confuse a cake of soap
With other sorts of cake I hope.
Were you to eat a helping of
Camay, or Ivory, or Dove,
I think you’d have digestive troubles
Caused by a stomach full of bubbles.
How horrible! But the reverse
Confusion might be even worse.
Be careful, if you please: I’d rather
Not see you bathe in mocha lather,
Or watch as you shampoo your head
With angel food or gingerbread.
Indeed!
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VIDEO. Our Video celebrates a very special occasion, Leonard Bernstein’s 70th birthday celebration at Tanglewood in 1988. Maybe some of you were there. As a tribute, Seiji Ozawa led the Boston Symphony and chorus in the soaring closing of Bernstein’s “Candide.” The soloists were Jerry Hadley and Dawn Upshaw. Here are the words by Richard Wilbur.
CANDIDE
You’ve been a fool
And so have I,
But come and be my wife.
And let us try,
Before we die,
To make some sense of life.
We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow…
And make our garden grow.
CUNEGONDE
I thought the world
Was sugar cake
For so our master said.
But, now I’ll teach
My hands to bake
Our loaf of daily bread.
CANDIDE AND CUNEGONDE
We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow…
And make our garden grow.
CANDIDE, CUNEGONDE, AND ENSEMBLE
Let dreamers dream
What worlds they please
Those Edens can’t be found.
The sweetest flowers,
The fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.
We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!
CLICK ON THIS LINK FOR VIDEO: URBANITY AND HUMANITY
