become a writer, defying not only Old Testament prescript, but the bounds of traditional femininity. Although publicly silent, she was devastated—not certain she would ever write again.
Although Ciardi’s moral condemnation was absurd, his assessment of Anne’s poetry was, in a sense, right. Her poems were “imprisoned” in conventional verse and rhyme, bound, for the most part, in couplets and quatrains, giving the appearance of careless cliché. But buried inside the restraint of form were the anger and rebellion that had made
Gift from the Sea
possible. Encoded in her poems is the pain of her self-denial and her false quest for salvation through her marriage to Charles.
Published in volume form in the aftermath of her success, the poems gave the impression of spontaneous combustion, which belied the slow burn of their thirty years. Because they were arranged according to theme rather than chronology, the progressive sophistication of her work was not apparent. And Ciardi, eager to fit his theory to fact, neglected to read huge chunks of her book, concentrating in brutal detail on its weaknesses. While the great melodies of the Western canon—Shakespeare, Donne, Johnson, Rossetti, Dickinson, and Rilke—filtered through her lines, Anne’s poems read more like conversations with her mother—attempts to analyze, challenge, and transcend the Victorian womanhood for which she stood. Her poems banter with her mother’s, defying their precepts, embellishing their common truths, and imbuing Christian virtue, Greek myth, and biblical parable with raw psychological energy. Anne scrambles her mother’s rigid quatrains and perfect sonnets, as if breaking her verse were an act of rebellion. Like Anne’s travel books, bound by form, slouching toward art, her poemsare meant to depict her emotions while protecting the integrity of her relationships.
The centerpiece of the collection is “The Unicorn,” 19 in which Anne’s voice becomes lucid in its determination. Virtue is not externally imposed; it is not a rigid standard of measure. Virtue is a personal choice through which one barters freedom for responsibility. The poem reflects Anne’s tension between duty and desire as much as it does her struggle to find a personal verse form. It finds completion when her emotion is spent. It is a confirmation of her message to women in
Gift from the Sea:
find the knowledge that will nourish and liberate your creativity within the bounds of marriage and convention.
But in her poem “The Stone,” 20 written during her breakdown and psychoanalysis, she exposes the pain of the struggle. In perfect couplets, Anne questions the value of everything—virtue, love, God, even the power of words—in explaining her pain. She tries to release herself from suffering, but a stone clogs “the stream” through which light, faith, and happiness flow. Here the Unicorn cannot transcend, and virtue is meaningless in a faithless world. Anne is not a saint after all. Life is uncertain, and the only “solvent” for the stone is love, yet she cannot find it, even in herself. The source of her suffering is faceless and inhuman; the only resolution is to embrace its darkness. It is from this paradox that her poetry rises. Though the rhyme itself may not be new, it serves to convey her personal rebellion. The Victorian symbol turns back on itself, presenting her with the possibility of survival.
It is not whim that names the collection
The Unicorn
. Anne wants to be seen as a virginal martyr who transcends her moral frailties through creativity and virtue. Resigned to her prison, she is reconciled to her role. The only power she has is her writing, and now, Ciardi had voiced her deep fears of blasphemy against a vindictive God.
Anne was shocked and humiliated by Ciardi’s criticism. 21 Charles was rarely home, and without his presence or the rhythms of domesticity, the insights
of Gift from the Sea
seemed esoteric and untrue. Anne was hurt and
Although Ciardi’s moral condemnation was absurd, his assessment of Anne’s poetry was, in a sense, right. Her poems were “imprisoned” in conventional verse and rhyme, bound, for the most part, in couplets and quatrains, giving the appearance of careless cliché. But buried inside the restraint of form were the anger and rebellion that had made
Gift from the Sea
possible. Encoded in her poems is the pain of her self-denial and her false quest for salvation through her marriage to Charles.
Published in volume form in the aftermath of her success, the poems gave the impression of spontaneous combustion, which belied the slow burn of their thirty years. Because they were arranged according to theme rather than chronology, the progressive sophistication of her work was not apparent. And Ciardi, eager to fit his theory to fact, neglected to read huge chunks of her book, concentrating in brutal detail on its weaknesses. While the great melodies of the Western canon—Shakespeare, Donne, Johnson, Rossetti, Dickinson, and Rilke—filtered through her lines, Anne’s poems read more like conversations with her mother—attempts to analyze, challenge, and transcend the Victorian womanhood for which she stood. Her poems banter with her mother’s, defying their precepts, embellishing their common truths, and imbuing Christian virtue, Greek myth, and biblical parable with raw psychological energy. Anne scrambles her mother’s rigid quatrains and perfect sonnets, as if breaking her verse were an act of rebellion. Like Anne’s travel books, bound by form, slouching toward art, her poemsare meant to depict her emotions while protecting the integrity of her relationships.
The centerpiece of the collection is “The Unicorn,” 19 in which Anne’s voice becomes lucid in its determination. Virtue is not externally imposed; it is not a rigid standard of measure. Virtue is a personal choice through which one barters freedom for responsibility. The poem reflects Anne’s tension between duty and desire as much as it does her struggle to find a personal verse form. It finds completion when her emotion is spent. It is a confirmation of her message to women in
Gift from the Sea:
find the knowledge that will nourish and liberate your creativity within the bounds of marriage and convention.
But in her poem “The Stone,” 20 written during her breakdown and psychoanalysis, she exposes the pain of the struggle. In perfect couplets, Anne questions the value of everything—virtue, love, God, even the power of words—in explaining her pain. She tries to release herself from suffering, but a stone clogs “the stream” through which light, faith, and happiness flow. Here the Unicorn cannot transcend, and virtue is meaningless in a faithless world. Anne is not a saint after all. Life is uncertain, and the only “solvent” for the stone is love, yet she cannot find it, even in herself. The source of her suffering is faceless and inhuman; the only resolution is to embrace its darkness. It is from this paradox that her poetry rises. Though the rhyme itself may not be new, it serves to convey her personal rebellion. The Victorian symbol turns back on itself, presenting her with the possibility of survival.
It is not whim that names the collection
The Unicorn
. Anne wants to be seen as a virginal martyr who transcends her moral frailties through creativity and virtue. Resigned to her prison, she is reconciled to her role. The only power she has is her writing, and now, Ciardi had voiced her deep fears of blasphemy against a vindictive God.
Anne was shocked and humiliated by Ciardi’s criticism. 21 Charles was rarely home, and without his presence or the rhythms of domesticity, the insights
of Gift from the Sea
seemed esoteric and untrue. Anne was hurt and
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