Aline
Murray, another forgotten poet, was born in 1888 in Norfolk, Va. Her father, Kenton
C. Murray, was editor of the Norfolk
Landmark newspaper and died when she was seven. Murray married Joyce Kilmer,
a poet remembered for one poem, in 1908. The couple had five children. The
second, Rose Kilburn Kilmer, was born in 1912, contracted polio shortly after
birth, and died in 1917. On July 30,
1918, at age thirty-one, Sgt. Joyce Kilmer was killed by a sniper’s bullet
during the Second Battle of Marne. He was
posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre and was buried in the Oise-Aisne
American Cemetery and Memorial, near Fere-en-Tardenois in Picardy. The Kilmers’
second son, Michael, died at age ten in 1927.
I
knew nothing about Aline Kilmer until I began reading about her husband, whose
poem I have known for most of my life. In 1919, Aline published her first book
of poetry, Candles That Burn,
followed three years later by Vigils.
Human sympathy demands that we read her poems, and literary rigor demands that
we dismiss them. I make no claims for their poetic worth, only that after a
century they document losses and grief most of us will never experience. With
the biographical information supplied above, her poem “Christmas” (Candles That Burn) becomes almost
unspeakably sad:
“`And
shall you have a Tree,’ they say,
`Now
one is dead and one away?’
“Oh,
I shall have a Christmas Tree!
Brighter
than ever it shall be;
Dressed
out with coloured lights to make
The
room all glorious for your sake.
And
under the Tree a Child shall sleep
Near
shepherds watching their wooden sheep.
Threads
of silver and nets of gold,
Scarlet
bubbles the Tree shall hold,
And
little glass bells that tinkle clear.
I
shall trim it alone but feel you near.
“And
when Christmas Day is almost done,
When
they all grow sleepy one by one,
When
Kenton’s books have all been read,
When
Deborah’s climbing the stairs to bed,
“I
shall sit alone by the fire and see
Ghosts
of you both come close to me.
For
the dead and the absent always stay
With
the one they love on Christmas Day.”
Joyce
Kilmer was born on this date, Dec. 6, in 1886. Guy Davenport wrote of Kilmer’s “Trees,”
written in 1913: “Almost immediately it became one of the most famous poems in
English, the staple of school teachers and the one poem known by practically
everybody.” Aline died in 1941 at age fifty-three. I learned “Trees” from Alfalfa. Go to 13:20 to hear his version.
1 comment:
My condolences on your recent loss of your brother. Your blog helped me with my brother's death two years ago November 8 (the occasion of my only other comment here.
I found an interesting post today on Joyce Kilmer and his 'bad poetry'. It includes a section on his loss of his daughter and its impact on his life, and possibly poetry. From Grim's Hall: "It may be that Kilmer seems naive to those born after the great wound of World War I. Yet he was writing after suffering his own great wound, the paralysis and slow death of his beloved daughter. It was that context that brought him to devotion and daily prayer, to the determination to see all things -- yes, even New Jersey transit -- through eyes that reflected on their sacred nature."
I would be interested in your thoughts on this matter, and in fact on this particular blog post from Grim's Hall here https://grimbeorn.blogspot.com/2024/11/poetry-and-its-criticism.html.
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