Subject: Cottage Street Date: Wed, 3 Nov 1999 00:32:15 -0400 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Sender: owner-88v@dept.english.upenn.edu Precedence: bulk Just some opening thoughts-- The speaker of the poem, Wilbur himself, in his comfortable, cushy existence, is confronted by an ardent and radical new poet, who seems to be the voice of the future, and feels a mixture of jealousy, condescension, anger, paternalism, impotence and sadness. His world is pure milquetoast. Mother-in-law, oddly referred to by both her names, living forever (like the phoenix) is serving tea to her visitors. It's a tiny small world with few choices, few colors, even the red of the tea tray is only suggested by "Canton." Tiny choices: the tea, weak or strong? milk or lemon? each taking civilized turns to express his/her choice; all very polite--the visit is long but they stay to do their share in cheering up poor Mrs. Plath and her strange, slumped daughter. There is marked contrast between the frightened Plaths and the confident Wilburs. The title is old fashioned (place, year...like the beginning of a letter from John Adams to wife Abigail..."Philadelphia, 1776...Dear Abigail:") and reflects the quaintness and complacency. He speaks almost smugly of "his office": the responsibility of his position, his duty, his cross to bear, he must exemplify happiness (why *exemplify* it? isn't he authentically happy?). Only *half* ashamed, he cannot bring himself to bless (approve of, praise, endorse) Plath. He feels like a self-appointed lifeguard who didn't see her drowning (didn't want to?) and now she (as in a Stevie Smith poem) has washed ashore, dead, and it's his problem to solve, the body having been "swept up to *his* shallows." I think he admires (is jealous of?) her vision and artistry, feels impotent in the little chat where the (support) group mildly "recommends" life to her as if recommending the newest Steven King novel, Wilbur all the time feeling that it's his artistic voice that may be drowning, while Plath's is surfacing. And pleasant mother-in-law shall live and die gracefully, genteely, while Plath will be "condemned" to live a life just long enough to fulfill her talent in poems he thinks are "free and helpless and unjust." How ambivalent, but what great praise finally. Though more talented that Salieri was, Wilbur seems to feel he's facing Mozart and doesn't know how to handle it. alberto