Edgar Lee Masters wrote forty books in his lifetime, but none equaled the success of his first: Spoon River Anthology, published in 1915. The book is a collection of 244 epitaphs written in blank verse, each spoken by a dearly departed citizen of a small Illinois farming town. The tales of sorrow, anger, mistreatment, ignorance and pride (to name a few) of the dejected souls lying forever beneath their revealing headstones became one of the most popular works of fiction in the 20th century.
Those of you who have read it understand what I am talking about. Anyone who hasn't yet had the pleasure of delving into the complex society of the former residents of Spoon River are missing out on a true gem of literature. Think of the last time you had a chance to take part in something extraordinary, something risky, something teeming with fearful unknowns. Did you summon up the courage to do it? Read what this character's response was:
George Gray
I HAVE studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
There are many stories to be told in the graveyard by the Spoon River. Some are stories of triumph, but many are of despair. That was the genius of Masters - he wrote the first truly honest account of the raging savagery of life in a town where everyone knows your name. For another example click below, and pleasant dreams to all.
Ollie McGee
HAVE you seen walking through the village
A man with downcast eyes and haggard face?
That is my husband who, by secret cruelty
Never to be told, robbed me of my youth and my beauty;
Till at last, wrinkled and with yellow teeth,
And with broken pride and shameful humility,
I sank into the grave.
But what think you gnaws at my husband's heart?
The face of what I was, the face of what he made me!
These are driving him to the place where I lie.
In death, therefore, I am avenged.
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Those are excellent poems. Sock-em-in-the-gut real. I've never read Spoon River Anthology and now I'm eager to do so.
Thanks.
I've loved The Spoon River Anthology since college, when I appeared in a staging of it. We all did multiple roles. I had Elsa Wertman, Mrs. Kessler, and Mrs. Meyers, among others. My favorite was Petit the Poet though. He always resonated with me, and still does years later.
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick,
Tick, tick, tick, like mites in a quarrel --
Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens --
But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.
Triolets, villanelles rondels, rondeaus,
Ballades by the score with the same old thought:
The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished;
And what is love but a rose that fades?
Life all around me here in the villiage:
Tragedy, comedy, valor and truth,
Courage, constancy, heroism, failure --
All in the loom, and oh what patterns!
Woodlands, meadows, streams and rivers --
Blind to all of it all my life long.
Triolets, villanelles rondels, rondeaus,
Seeds in a dry pod, tick, tick, tick,
Tick, tick, tick, what little iambics,
While Homer and Whitman roared in the pines.
Thank you so much for introducing this book to me. I have no idea why I haven't read it before and am now immersed.