Laurel

The story of Daphne is especially fruitful for these poems. So far, in the random sampling pulled from my brain and onto the blogpage, a number refer to the story: the Marvell and the Pound specifically, and Crane more generally.

It's unsurprising that it should recur, I guess. The story is, after all, erotic and disturbing and a embodies a pretty enduring metaphor about poetry (and poets).

For those of you who mighta forgot, the story goes something like this:

Apollo falls in love with Daphne, who wants nothing to do with him, prefering her virginity to his charms. He pursues her, and when he has nearly captured her, the poor girl prays to lose her beauty, her form, in order to escape Apollo's intended rape.

Her prayer is granted, and her skin silvers over with bark, her hair rustles with leaves, her arms grow to branches, and her "swift feet" fix to the ground as root.

Witnessing this, Apollo kisses the laurel tree and says that although he can no longer have her as a bride, he will honor the laurel and always wear a laurel wreath around his lyre.

You don't have to be Dr. Freud to raise the eyebrows at that one!

That's the thing with writing, isn't it? We'd always rather get what we want (sex), but if we can't we'll settle for transforming the loss and desire into poetry, no matter the cost to the rest of those involved.

Anyway, here's some poems about Daphne.

William Drumond's Daphne

Now Daphnès armes did grow
In slender Branches, and her braided haire
Which like gold waues did flow
In leauie Twigs was stretched in the aire;
The grace of either foot
Transform'd was to a root,
A tender Barke enwrapes her Bodye faire.
Hee who did cause her ill
Sor-wailing stood, and from his blubb'red eyne
Did showres of teares vpon the rine distill
Which watred thus did bude and turne more greene.
O deep Dispaire! o Hart-appalling Griefe!
When that doth woe encrease should bring reliefe.

And here's another one from H.D., called If You Will Let Me Sing

If you will let me sing,
That God will be
gracious to each of us,
who found his own wild Daphne
in a tree,
who set
on desolate plinth,
image
of Hyacinth.