Knew a Woman by Theodore Roethke: Theodore

¶ … Knew a Woman by Theodore Roethke:

Theodore Roethke was, above all, a great American poet -- planted solidly in the tradition of Emerson, Thoreau, and Whitman. Indeed, much like Thoreau, Roethke seemed to have an ability, perhaps gleaned from his intense love of nature, that allowed his poetry to communicate in a way that few poets ever imagine.

Born in Saginaw, Michigan, in 1908, as a child, Roethke was prone to spending large amounts of time in the family greenhouse. It is from this time, some theorize, that the poet would absorb much of the imagery that would influence him in his verse (Poets.org). A rather lackluster student, he attended the University of Michigan as well as Harvard. Although he was not a relatively prolific writer by any means (his first book, Open House, published in 1941, took ten years to complete), the work he did produce was very well received. In fact his collection, The Waking garnered him the Pulitzer Prize in 1954 (Poets.org). Additionally, although he was first and foremost a poet, he was also a teacher, and he worked at colleges and universities from Vermont to Washington State (where he died in 1963).

Of his collected poetry, Roethke's "I Knew a Woman," is one of the most discussed -- due, perhaps, to its striking sexual imagery. However, there is more to this poem than first meets the eye.

The poem begins with a stanza marked by an interesting and playful use of repetition. He writes, "When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them:/Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:/The shapes a bright container can contain!"

The very words, playful and coy, signal the reader that there will be more here than what is on the surface. He seems to say, "Wake up!" This is especially true in his "shapes a bright container can contain," a line that both, points to the woman, "lovely in her bones," as well as, perhaps, the poem, itself, capable of many shapes and shades.

As the poem continues, "Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,/Or English poets who grew up on Greek/(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)," both lines seem to set up a "cheeky" (pun, intended) tone, while hinting at the Greek "strophe, antistrophe, and epode," embedded in the English words, "...Turn, and Counter-turn, and Stand" (Blessing). Here, the Greek choral device in this line serves to refer to the woman as "the muse" instructing the writer in the art of the poem (here, the Pindaric ode (Shubinski)).

As the poem continues, "I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand; / She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,/Coming behind her for her pretty sake/(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)," he continues to entertain with his dual meanings -- here, clearly the sexual, "Coming behind her...what prodigious mowing did we make." Additionally, however, the reader notes that the writing theme continues as well. In a sense, the reader sees Roethke, "nibbling," coaxing out the secrets of good writing from the muse...secrets that she drops from the swinging arcs of her sickle, while he is left to struggle in their collection. At the same time, through the stanza's witty sexuality, Roethke also perhaps points to the "poet's" true enjoyment of the form, even in spite of its difficulty -- for, even as he labors as the "rake," he comes behind her "for her pretty sake."

As the author continues, "Love likes a gander, and adores a goose: Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize," Roethke is again using language in a sexualized way -- especially in relation to "her full lips." However, again, in reference to the art of writing poetry, he could be referring to himself as a male -- "a gander." Perhaps here, he notes his struggle as a man with a typical "man's mind" in a world where the female is closer to the muse, and perhaps, blessed with a natural ease with which she might pluck an "errant note," producing a poetry the male poet cannot approach. After all, as "She played it quick, she played it light and loose;/My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees," could the "she," not be the muse/female, making a light and easy show of the art? Could she not, in effect, be dazzling Roethke with her fertile yield?

Indeed, the final stanza seems to support this interpretation, for here the reader sees the ease and dexterity of the "muse," the "woman," or the "ideal poet," whose "...several parts could keep a pure repose,/Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose/(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.) Again, on one level, there is a sensual humor (perhaps one of the "essences" of poetry), while on the other, Roethke describes the nimble dexterity of his elusive ambitions. In essence, "she," the woman, and the perfect poet of his imagination and striving, can, through her awesome skill, move to create a poetry that itself "moves," almost in a ripple of creation. Indeed, it is a ripple of creation that continues, "Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay."

Finally, the author begins to conclude, "I'm martyr to a motion not my own;/What's freedom for? To know eternity./I swear she cast a shadow white as stone." Here, the theme of the author's struggle to truly "shine" as a poet (as opposed to a sham), seems to be summed up with his concession that he is not "a natural," the "motion" is not his "own." Instead, he uses his life, his "freedom" in order to know eternity, a place where the true ability of his striving glows with a brightness that is as impossible to behold as a white stone, glowing in the sun. Yet he concludes, "But who would count eternity in days?/These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:/(I measure time by how the body sways.)" -- meaning that, despite the difficulty, and even his sense of "martyrdom" to his obsession, he does not tire from striving. On the contrary, he measures his life only by his progress toward his goal, calculated "by how the body sways."