From today’s Washington Post obituary for Adrienne Rich:
Rich published more than a dozen volumes of poetry and five collections of nonfiction. She won a National Book Award for her collection of poems â€œDiving into the Wreckâ€ in 1974. In 2004, she won the National Book Critics Circle Award in Poetry for her collection â€œThe School Among the Ruins.â€
She had first gained national prominence with her third poetry collection, â€œSnapshots of a Daughter-in-Law,â€ in 1963. Citing the title poem, University of Maryland professor Rudd Fleming wrote in The Washington Post that she â€œproves poetically how hard it is to be a woman â€” a member of the second sex.â€
She and her husband had three sons before she left him in 1970, just as the womenâ€™s movement was exploding on the national scene. She used her experiences as a mother to write â€œOf Woman Born,â€ her ground-breaking feminist critique of pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood, published in 1976.
When I think of Rich’s work, the first poems that come to mind are ones that have been included in anthologies that I have used in first year literature classes, like this one:
Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers
Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.
Aunt Jennifer’s finger fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.
When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.
Just two weeks ago, one of my classes had a lengthy discussion of this poem, which retains a certain immediacy even though it’s more than 50 years old:
Living in Sin
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman’s tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night’s cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own—
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.