Dr. Siegfried Iseman is the typical Spoon River speaker who blames others for his own destructive path.
Introduction and Text of “Dr. Siegfried Iseman”
The speaker in Edgar Lee Masters’ “Dr. Siegfried Iseman” from Spoon River Anthology is a disgraced physician who goes to imprison for peddling a concoction he called the “Elixir of Youth.”
Dr. Siegfried Iseman will be recognized as the typical Spoon River epitaph speaker who touts himself as a victim, as he huffs and puffs, blaming others for his own crimes on his path to self-destruction.
As scoundrels often justify their own perfidy, they not only blame others for their mishaps but they also feel an inner high-moral ground that sounds logical only to their misguided and twisted thinking.
Dr. Siegfried Iseman
I said when they handed me my diploma, I said to myself I will be good And wise and brave and helpful to others; I said I will carry the Christian creed Into the practice of medicine! Somehow the world and the other doctors Know what’s in your heart as soon as you make This high-souled resolution. And the way of it is they starve you out. And no one comes to you but the poor. And you find too late that being a doctor Is just a way of making a living. And when you are poor and have to carry The Christian creed and wife and children All on your back, it is too much! That’s why I made the Elixir of Youth, Which landed me in the jail at Peoria Branded a swindler and a crook By the upright Federal Judge!
Commentary on “Dr. Siegfried Iseman”
Dr. Siegfried Iseman is the typical Spoon River speaker who blames others for his own destructive path.
First Movement: The No-Witness Convenience
I said when they handed me my diploma, I said to myself I will be good And wise and brave and helpful to others; I said I will carry the Christian creed Into the practice of medicine!
Dr. Iseman begins his confessional by recalling that at the beginning of his entry into the profession of medicine, he promised to be a good Christian doctor. He intended to be “good / And wise and brave and helpful to others.” Even as Iseman was “handed” his diploma, these promises he mouthed to himself.
Interestingly, because the doctor had only silently “said” these things, there is conveniently no witness to his testimony. The lack of any evidence that Iseman had intended to acquit himself honorably allows him to backslide at least without others knowing about this original intentions, a fact that, no doubt, in the beginning of his moral failure gave him a sense of comfort.
Second Movement: Scoundrel Justification
Somehow the world and the other doctors Know what’s in your heart as soon as you make This high-souled resolution.
Siegfried then philosophically laments that making such a “high-souled resolution” opened him to the fraud, greed, and graft of “the world and the other doctors.” Completely without substantial support for the claim, Iseman decries the fact that they all “know” what is the heart of the man of good intentions. But this kind of conclusion is necessary when a scoundrel needs to justify his own improprieties.
Third Movement: Self-Victimized
And the way of it is they starve you out. And no one comes to you but the poor. And you find too late that being a doctor Is just a way of making a living.
Because Siegfried had made a pledge to himself to be good and noble, he became a victim of the other doctors who were not bound by such high-souled intentions. They were free to “starve [him] out.”
Because only the poor came to Dr. Iseman, he found that he could not thrive financially as the others did. Iseman’s lack of financial success ultimately led him to believe that, “being a doctor / Is just a way of making a living.” And he learned this lesson “too late”—this is, too late to change his good intentions and thus begin acting unconscionably as the others had.
Fourth Movement: The Burden of Duty
And when you are poor and have to carry The Christian creed and wife and children All on your back, it is too much!
Poor Siegfried, who remained poor, despite his medical practice became burdened by his “Christian creed” as well as by a “wife and children.” With such heavy responsibilities “on [his] back,” Iseman exclaims, “it is too much!”
Fifth Movement: It’s the Judge’s Fault
That’s why I made the Elixir of Youth, Which landed me in the jail at Peoria Branded a swindler and a crook By the upright Federal Judge!
Siegfried finally reveals that he concocted “the Elixir of Youth,” and that concoction “landed [him] in jail in Peoria.” Iseman’s reputation was ruined, and he was “[b]randed a swindler and a crook.”
He sarcastically blames “the upright Federal Judge” for his predicament. Dr. Siegfried Iseman’s testimony from the grave resembles so many other Spoon River deceased, who excuse their own behavior by claiming themselves victims of someone else.
Named for America’s first feminist writer Margaret Fuller, Mrs. Slack laments marriage and motherhood that crushed her dreams of greatness in becoming a famous writer or the next George Eliot.
Introduction and Text of “Margaret Fuller Slack”
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Margaret Fuller Slack” from his American classic Spoon River Anthology depicts a tormented woman, who believes motherhood doomed her ambition to become a great writer.
Ironically named after the first American feminist, “Margaret Fuller,” Mrs. Slack does possess the egotistical personality of her namesake, while suffering the ills that they both decry.
Margaret Fuller Slack
I would have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate. For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep-set eyes— Gray, too, and far-searching. But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity? Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write. It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby’s things, And died from lock-jaw, an ironical death. Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life!
Commentary on “Margaret Fuller Slack”
Named for America’s first feminist writer, Margaret Fuller, Mrs. Slack laments marriage and motherhood that crushed her dreams of greatness in becoming the next George Eliot.
First Movement: She Would Have
I would have been as great as George Eliot But for an untoward fate.
Mrs. Slack begins her tirade by proclaiming the greatness she “would have” accomplished: she “would have been as great as George Eliot.” Nevertheless, this speaker did not ascend to such a great height, because “untoward fate” stepped on her dreams.
Second Movement: A Photo of Profundity
For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit, Chin resting on hand, and deep-set eyes— Gray, too, and far-searching.
Mrs. Slack possesses a “photograph of [herself] made by Penniwit,” an artist who later also speaks in the Spoon River Anthology. Margaret uses the photograph to support her contention that she was marked for greatness.
In the photo, she sits with her “chin resting on hand,” and she has “deep-set eyes” that are “gray” and “far-searching.” These qualities in her estimation reveal a profundity that should have allowed her to accomplish greatness, the absence of which she now laments.
Third Movement: The Age Old Problem
But there was the old, old problem: Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity?
Margaret then philosophizes about the human condition, claiming the “old, old problem” is whether one should remain celibate, marry, or simply commit fornication. Mrs. Slack does not reveal how deeply she thought about those alternatives, or even if she had thought about them at all. As the speaker reminisces, she, no doubt, adds to her own self worth, by implying that she had thought and pondered those issues.
Fourth Movement: The Promise of Leisure
Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me, Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel, And I married him, giving birth to eight children, And had no time to write.
Before Mrs. Slack had the opportunity to determine which path was the right one for her to travel to fame, she found herself “wooed” by “John Slack, the rich druggist.” The druggist “lur[ed]” her by “promis[ing] [her] leisure”—time she would use to write “[her] novel.”
With this promise of leisure, Margaret married the druggist, but instead of writing, she proceeded to give birth to “eight children.” Of course, with eight children, she can fall back on the excuse that she “had no time to write.” Apparently, Mrs. Slack remained blissfully unaware that famous poet, Anne Bradstreet, created a significant body of writing while birthing and raising eight children.
Fifth Movement: Dying of Lock-Jaw, Filled with Words
It was all over with me, anyway, When I ran the needle in my hand While washing the baby’s things, And died from lock-jaw, an ironical death.
Margaret then reveals how she died, “It was all over with me, anyway, / When I ran the needle in my hand.” She met with this sad fate, while “washing the baby’s things.” She contracted “lock-jaw” and died.
Mrs. Slack finds dying of lock-jaw to be “ironical,” no doubt, because she considered herself filled with words—words unfortunately that would remain unexpressed because of the time-consuming servitude of raising a family. And, of course, in keeping with her own selfishness, she does not consider how her absence will impact the lives of the children she leaves behind.
Sixth Movement: The Urge vs the Philosophy
Hear me, ambitious souls, Sex is the curse of life!
Margaret’s final statement oversimplifies her lot but reveals her philosophical conclusion about “life” as she remarks, “Sex is the curse of life!” Readers, unfortunately, will never be able to experience the profundity of that statement because Margaret’s ambition to write was obliterated by her urge to procreate.
The pair of sonnets pays a glancing tribute to the lives of Aunt Winnie and her niece Linda Sue—two opposite personality dispositions with a few deeply ingrained temperaments in common, which tied their hearts and souls together in loving embrace.
An Intense Heart
In memoriam: Winifred Lucille Richardson Goodin December 22, 1932 – July 4, 2026
I am not now that girl of tender years, My womanhood from girlhood having grown— Roses push forth where once did dwell my tears; Daisies push up while hands have turned to stone.
An intense heart had I, my breath took flight; Now carved in stone, my name with years proclaim. Those marbled voices bound with softer might Than ever did my own out-spoken frame.
She dwells in ash, yet clutches at my core, Though I have risen past her earthly stage. Her silence tugs, yet I am hers no more— A bird slipped from the prison of her cage.
Pure skin of light is mine, not hers to keep, She decomposes, held in the big sleep.
A Quiet Soul
In memoriam futuram: Linda Sue Richardson Grimes January 7, 1946 –
I am not now that girl of tender years, My womanhood from girlhood having grown— Roses push forth where once did dwell my tears; Daisies push up while hands have turned to stone.
A quiet soul I was, my breath held tight; Now carved in stone, my name with years proclaim. Those marbled voices bound with greater might Than ever did my own soft-spoken frame.
She dwells in ash, yet clutches at my core, Though I have risen past her earthly stage. Her silence tugs, yet I am hers no more— A bird slipped from the prison of her cage.
Pure skin of light is mine, not hers to keep, She decomposes, held in the big sleep.
Image: Emily Dickinson – Amherst College – Daguerrotype of the poet at age 17, circa 1847 – likely the only authentic, extant likeness of the poet
Emily Dickinson’s “Delayed till she had ceased to know”
Emily Dickinson’s “Delayed till she had ceased to know” explores the tragic irony of fulfillment arriving only after the recipient has surrendered consciousness, while its spiritual implications echo Paramahansa Yogananda’s emphasis on inner realization, perseverance, and the danger of abandoning the search for divine fulfillment too soon.
Introduction and Text of “Delayed till she had ceased to know”
In my earlier essays on Dickinsonian poems, I have discussed the speaker’s tendency to privilege inward experience over outward appearances. In “Delayed till she had ceased to know,” the speaker turns that concern toward the painful consequences of mistimed fulfillment.
The poem presents a woman who dies only an hour before the arrival of some long-awaited joy or victory. The terrible irony is not merely that fulfillment comes too late, but that it comes so close to her death that the knowledge of its approach might have enabled her to continue living.
This idea has a meaningful parallel in the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda, who repeatedly emphasizes that genuine fulfillment must ultimately be discovered within rather than dependent upon changing external circumstances.
From that perspective, the poem’s tragedy can be understood not simply as the loss of an earthly reward, but as the surrender of hope immediately before the possibility of fulfillment becomes apparent.
The speaker does not explicitly identify the anticipated “bliss” as divine realization, and the poem wisely leaves its nature uncertain. Nevertheless, Yogananda’s spiritual emphasis on perseverance and inner awareness provides a useful lens through which to consider the speaker’s haunting question: What if the defeated soul had known how near the victory really was?
Delayed till she had ceased to know
Delayed till she had ceased to know – Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay – An hour behind the fleeting breath – Later by just an hour than Death – Oh lagging Yesterday!
Could she have guessed that it would be – Could but a crier of the joy Have climbed the distant hill – Had not the bliss so slow a pace Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still?
Oh if there may departing be Any forgot by Victory In her imperial round – Show them this meek appareled thing That could not stop to be a king – Doubtful if it be crowned!
Commentary on “Delayed till she had ceased to know”
Emily Dickinson’s “Delayed till she had ceased to know” examines the poignant consequences of a victory or blessing that arrives only after the person who longed for it has passed beyond the ability to receive it.
First Movement: “Delayed till she had ceased to know”
Delayed till she had ceased to know – Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay – An hour behind the fleeting breath – Later by just an hour than Death – Oh lagging Yesterday!
The speaker begins with the stark repetition of the word “Delayed.” The repetition immediately establishes the central grievance: something desirable was coming, but it came too late.
The woman has “ceased to know” before the anticipated joy arrives, suggesting that the tragedy involves not simply physical death but the loss of consciousness necessary to experience fulfillment.
The speaker then places the woman’s “loving bosom” within a “vest of snow.” The image of snow suggests both physical burial and emotional stillness. The warmth associated with the “loving bosom” has been overcome by the cold finality of death.
The contrast between love and snow emphasizes the gulf between the woman’s former vitality and her present condition. The precise measurement of time makes the tragedy especially painful: “An hour behind the fleeting breath – / Later by just an hour than Death –.”
The speaker could have described the reward as arriving long after the woman’s death, but instead the poem specifies “an hour.” The narrow interval intensifies the sense of missed possibility. The desired fulfillment was not impossibly distant; it was almost within reach. Death simply arrived first.
The closing apostrophe—“Oh lagging Yesterday!”—personifies the past as something capable of moving too slowly. Yesterday itself seems responsible for the delay. Time, rather than simply passing, has become an adversary that has failed the woman at the precise moment when she needed it to move differently.
From Yogananda’s perspective, the passage can also suggest the spiritual danger of allowing external circumstances to determine one’s inner state. Yogananda repeatedly taught that lasting peace and fulfillment are not ultimately dependent upon the changing conditions of the material world.
The woman, however, appears to have reached a point at which the external arrival of bliss matters desperately because she has no evidence that it is coming. The tragedy therefore lies partly in the absence of inward assurance.
If the soul could remain convinced of an approaching fulfillment even when outward circumstances offered no confirmation, surrender might be postponed. The first movement thus establishes the poem’s fundamental irony: fulfillment was not necessarily impossible; it was simply not known to be coming before death intervened.
Second Movement: “Could she have guessed that it would be”
Could she have guessed that it would be – Could but a crier of the joy Have climbed the distant hill – Had not the bliss so slow a pace Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still?
The second movement shifts from certainty about death to speculation about what might have happened differently. The speaker asks whether the woman could have survived if she had somehow known that joy was approaching.
The image of a “crier of the joy” is especially significant. A crier is a herald, someone who announces important news before the event itself occurs. The speaker imagines such a messenger appearing on a distant hill, carrying evidence that fulfillment is approaching. The joy itself might still be far away, but knowledge of its arrival could have provided the hope necessary to endure.
The distance of the hill is important as well. The messenger is not yet at the woman’s side. The desired event remains separated from her by space and time. Nevertheless, even an announcement of its approach might have changed her decision to surrender.
This possibility resonates particularly strongly with Yogananda’s emphasis on perseverance in spiritual life. His teachings repeatedly encourage the seeker not to abandon the inward quest merely because the desired realization has not yet appeared.
Spiritual progress may remain invisible for a considerable period before its results become apparent. In that sense, the speaker’s “distant hill” can be read metaphorically as the place from which the first evidence of approaching fulfillment might appear.
Yet the speaker is more uncertain than a straightforward spiritual teaching would be. The poem does not say that the woman would certainly have survived. Instead, the speaker asks: “Who knows but this surrendered face / Were undefeated still?”
The phrase “Who knows” preserves the poem’s mystery. The speaker can imagine another outcome but cannot prove it. The woman’s surrender may have been premature, but the poem cannot determine whether knowledge of the approaching bliss would actually have saved her.
The word “surrendered” nevertheless connects physical death with spiritual defeat. The woman’s face has yielded because hope apparently arrived too late. Yogananda’s teachings provide an illuminating counterpoint here: the spiritual seeker must continue looking inward even when external circumstances seem to announce defeat. Inner awareness can sustain perseverance precisely when visible evidence is absent or contrary.
The tragedy, then, is not simply that the woman died. It is that the poem leaves readers wondering whether she died one hour before she needed to, because the knowledge of impending joy might have given her the strength to continue.
Third Movement: “Oh if there may departing be”
Oh if there may departing be Any forgot by Victory In her imperial round – Show them this meek appareled thing That could not stop to be a king – Doubtful if it be crowned!
In the final movement, the speaker broadens the poem from the fate of one woman to the larger question of those whom Victory overlooks. Victory is personified as a powerful imperial figure moving through the world in a triumphant procession: “Any forgot by Victory / In her imperial round –.”
The language of “imperial” introduces images of conquest, authority, and worldly power. Victory seems almost like a monarch distributing crowns to those who have succeeded.
Yet the speaker asks that, if Victory ever forgets anyone along her grand procession, she should be shown this particular woman. The contrast between imperial grandeur and personal humility becomes especially striking in: “Show them this meek appareled thing”
The woman is not dressed in the outward symbols of power. She is “meek,” apparently possessing none of the conventional magnificence associated with victory. Yet the speaker asks that Victory recognize her nonetheless. The next line deepens the irony “That could not stop to be a king –.”
The woman did not live long enough to claim the triumph that may have been approaching. The word “king” continues the poem’s imagery of crowns, imperial power, and worldly recognition.
Yet the speaker’s phrasing also makes conventional victory seem strangely inadequate. The woman who could not become a “king” may possess a worth that does not depend upon earthly status.
Here again, Yogananda’s distinction between external achievement and inward realization offers a useful parallel. The world’s definition of victory depends upon visible accomplishment, recognition, and the attainment of desired circumstances. Spiritual realization, by contrast, is inward. A person may appear externally defeated while possessing an inner consciousness that is untouched by worldly failure.
The woman occupies precisely this ambiguous position. Outwardly, she has lost. She has died before receiving the anticipated joy. She has not become a “king,” and she does not receive an obvious crown. Yet the speaker refuses to reduce her to defeat. That refusal becomes most powerful in the final line: “Doubtful if it be crowned!”
The speaker does not resolve the question by declaring that the woman ultimately receives a spiritual crown. Instead, the speaker leaves her status uncertain. The uncertainty is essential. The woman may have missed worldly victory, but perhaps worldly victory was never the highest measure of her worth.
Yogananda’s spiritual philosophy can therefore deepen, rather than settle, the poem’s ambiguity. If true fulfillment is inward, then the external delay of victory need not determine the ultimate condition of the soul.
Yet the speaker refuses to reveal whether such an inward victory was actually achieved. The final “Doubtful” keeps the poem suspended between tragedy and transcendence.
Ultimately, “Delayed till she had ceased to know” is a poem about the cruel importance of timing, but it is also a poem about the relationship between outward circumstances and inward endurance.
The speaker presents fulfillment as something that may exist only a moment beyond the reach of the person who desires it. The poem’s deepest tragedy is that the woman might have endured had she known how near the promised joy had become.
Read alongside Paramahansa Yogananda’s teachings, the poem acquires an additional spiritual dimension. Yogananda’s emphasis on inner realization suggests that the seeker should not measure ultimate fulfillment solely by external events or abandon the inward search because visible victory has been delayed.
The speaker, however, remains deliberately less certain. The poem does not assure us that the woman possessed such inward certainty, nor does it identify the delayed bliss as explicitly divine. Instead, the speaker leaves her audience with the haunting possibility that the woman surrendered at the very threshold of fulfillment.
By placing the “meek appareled thing” before the personified figure of Victory, the speaker finally questions whether conventional victory can adequately measure human worth. The woman may never have received her earthly crown, but perhaps the absence of that crown does not constitute the final truth about her.
In the space between surrender and victory, between death and delayed bliss, the speaker leaves readers to contemplate a question that Yogananda’s spiritual teachings likewise encourage us to consider: How can we know how close we may be to fulfillment when outward circumstances give us no evidence that it is near?
an American-Innovative villanelle inspired by my little story “No Sharks” from my memoirMy Life in Little Stories
The flat rock had gone missing from the sheet metal covering the well. I saw it but then turned it from my mind— Then a headline flashed my thoughts, “Boy drowns in well.”
On a cold March day to Granny’s we visited for a spell. Rodney and Kelly ran to play in the cold March wind. The flat rock had gone missing from the sheet metal covering the well.
Granny’s houseplants held us talking, so much to tell. I heard a thump, guessed a ball had hit the house behind? Then a headline flashed my thoughts, “Boy drowns in well.”
I ran outside, not knowing what I’d find. Kelly stood a few feet from the well looking stunned. The flat rock had gone missing from the sheet metal covering the well.
“Where’s Rodney?” She pointed; I ran and nearly fell. I lifted the metal, saw pale eyes; the worst stabbed my mind: Again, the headline flashed my thoughts, “Boy drowns in well.”
Granny screamed, “He’s alive!” She held my legs. I pulled from him from the well. No water in his lungs! no injury him befell!— His only fear was that sharks might dwell In the big pond he thought was connected to the well.
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “Nicholas Bindle,” the speaker vents his outrage at the town’s citizenry for continuing to harass him for charitable offerings while his financial situation was not strong.
Introduction and Text of “Nicholas Bindle”
In Edgar Lee Masters’ “Nicholas Bindle” from Masters’ American classic Spoon River Anthology, the speaker is expressing his outrage at the town’s citizenry for continuing to harass him for charitable offerings while his financial situation was not strong.
Nicholas also demonstrates his disgust that Deacon Rhodes was acquitted of bank fraud. This poem’s speaker begins with a question for his fellow citizens who, he feels, should be ashamed for their role in urging him to donate.
Nicholas’ opening question reveals his own beliefs about the situation and therefore is rhetorical in nature. Of course, he wants them to feel shame as he is berating them. The speaker concludes his tirade also with a question that again reveals his own disgust at how unfairly he thinks he was treated.
Nicholas Bindle condenses his tirade into a mere eleven lines that bellow his deep displeasure from the grave. Nicholas Bindle is one of the extremely unhappy deceased who use their epitaph to castigate their fellow citizens with sharp, critical words.
Bindle expresses deep contempt for the citizens of Spoon River. He is one of the many unhappy dead who have unkind words for the citizens of Spoon River.
Nicholas Bindle
Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens, When my estate was probated and everyone knew How small a fortune I left?— You who hounded me in life, To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor, To the village!—me who had already given much. And think you not I did not know That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church, Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes, Who broke the bank and all but ruined me, Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?
The speaker in “Nicholas Bindle” declares himself an innocent man destroyed by the guilt of others—a common theme with these reporters from the graveyard.
First Movement: Chiding for Charity
Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens, When my estate was probated and everyone knew How small a fortune I left?—
The speaker Nicholas Bindle chides his “fellow citizens” for begging him to give to charity. He needles them as he asked if they were “not ashamed” when they became aware that his estate was so meager.
After Nicholas’ death, his estate was “probated” in the courts, and the size of his holdings would have been exposed. Of course, he is implying that his generosity in giving to charities has depleted his funds. Nicholas knows that those citizens understand “how small a fortune [he] left” behind, and he wants to vent his anger and frustration over the issue.
Second Movement: Begging for More
You who hounded me in life, To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor, To the village!—me who had already given much.
Nicholas continues his rant, accusing the citizens of “hound[ing]” him to “give, give, give.” They constantly implored him to donate to church and the support the poverty stricken, as well as to the town in general.
Indignantly, the speaker claims that he had indeed given quite a bit of fortune, yet they continued to badger him to contribute even more. Nicholas wants to make sure his fellow citizens understand the deep frustration their pleading for charitable offerings has engendered in him.
Third Movement: Guilt That Goes Unpunished
And think you not I did not know That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church, Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes, Who broke the bank and all but ruined me, Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?
Finally, Nicholas does reveal that he actually did provide some bounty: he gave the church a pipe-organ. But instead of taking any comfort in his giving, he is outraged because “Deacon Rhodes” had been in attendance when the pipe-organ first “played its christening songs.”
In an earlier poem/epitaph, the reader learned about Deacon Rhodes, who won his acquittal through some legal chicanery. The unfairness of this situation rankles the frustrated Nicholas as he derides those who caused it to happen.
Although Nicholas does not allude to those specific circumstances, because he probably does not know the details, he is obsessed because Rhodes’ guilt went unpunished. Nicholas along with other citizens would have experienced financial hardship and even ruin because of old Thomas Rhodes breaking the bank.
Nicholas expresses his outrage as he compares his own situation to those whom he believes bear guilt, while he is an innocent man hounded by the busy-body citizens of Spoon River.
“Understand therefore, that the LORD thy God giveth thee not this good land to possess it for thy righteousness. For thou art a stiffnecked people.” Deut. 9:6
When Auden said, “About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters,” he meant my parents. They went about it loud and long. My mother lost her father when she was twenty, married mine when she was twenty-one & practiced a vinegar tongue. He cursed the weather and my attitude. But they knew how to grow a garden.
When my husband plants onions, he doesn’t set them deep enough. They sit there growing like little pots sticking out of the ground. That’s wrong. They need to grow deep in the earth. So later when you pull up a green onion, the useless layers sluff off.
I never knew how they worshiped, I never knew if they prayed. I sat on the floor cross-legged like an Indian but as stiffnecked as an Israelite. I do, however, plant onions right.
Dorcas Gustine did not let any grievance go unchallenged, and her post-mortem pride is displayed in her report from beyond the grave. As in the other epitaphs, Dorcas’ report is actually airing a grievance as it disparages the behavior and thinking of others.
Introduction and Text of “Dorcas Gustine”
Edgar Lee Masters’ “Dorcas Gustine” from the poet’s American classic Spoon River Anthology is an American sonnet which dramatizes the thoughts of a strong-willed character. Dorcas reports that she defended herself against wrongs, or perhaps perceived wrongs, and thereby was “not beloved of the villagers.”
Because Dorcas Gustine felt great pride in her behavior of not allowing any grievance to go unchallenged, she now displays that post-mortem pride in her revealing report from beyond the grave.
Dorcas Gustine
I was not beloved of the villagers, But all because I spoke my mind, And met those who transgressed against me With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing Nor secret griefs nor grudges. That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised, Who hid the wolf under his cloak, Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly. It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth And fight him openly, even in the street, Amid dust and howls of pain. The tongue may be an unruly member— But silence poisons the soul. Berate me who will—I am content.
Commentary on“Dorcas Gustine”
Dorcas Gustine did not let any grievance go unchallenged, and her post-mortem pride is displayed in her report from beyond the grave.
First Movement: Not Well Liked
I was not beloved of the villagers, But all because I spoke my mind, And met those who transgressed against me With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing Nor secret griefs nor grudges.
The speaker Dorcas Gustine begins her monologue by asserting that the villagers of Spoon River did not particularly care for her. She then offers her belief that they did not like her because she “spoke [her] mind.”
Dorcas did not allow any transgression against her to go unchallenged. She calls her self-defense “plain remonstrance,” which implies that she is certain that she was simply defending herself with honesty.
Because of Dorcas’ habit of meeting every slight with a response, she declares that she was, therefore, able to go about without concealing those griefs, which she did not allow to grow in “secret,” nor did she keep her grudges hidden.
What Dorcas does not seem to realize is that her failure to nurse secret griefs and grudges did not translate positively by the other villagers; she likely felt that airing each disaffection should be a healthy act.
Second Movement: Allusion to Plutarch
That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised, Who hid the wolf under his cloak, Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly.
Dorcas alludes to Plutarch’s tale of the Spartan boy who, to avoid detection, held a baby wolf—which is a fox in Plutarch’s telling—under his garment, and even though the wolf gnawed into the boy’s stomach, he did not grimace.
Dorcas does not realize the irony of her allusion. The Spartan boy’s act demonstrated his severe training in conquering pain, while Dorcas demonstrates a self-involved attitude that will not accept pain or any discomfort.
Third Movement: An Open Fight
It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth And fight him openly, even in the street, Amid dust and howls of pain.
Dorcas then explains that she finds the braver act “to snatch the wolf forth / And fight him openly.” But such an act for the Spartan boy would have demonstrated weakness, as the boy explained, ” . . . better to die without yielding to the pain than through being detected because of weakness of spirit to gain a life to be lived in disgrace.”
Dorcas’ idea of bravery differs greatly from that of the Spartan boy. Dorcas found that she had to remove the source of her consternation immediately. She had no patience and probably felt herself superior to those who would “remonstrate” against her.
Fourth Movement: Not Content
The tongue may be an unruly member— But silence poisons the soul. Berate me who will—I am content.
Dorcas concludes by admitting that “the tongue may be an unruly member,” but despite that unruliness, she believes holding one’s tongue is poisonous, that is, “silence poisons the soul.” Dorcas then calls for those who disagree with her to “berate [her]” if they choose, and concludes by stating that she is “content.”
The reader never discovers how Dorcas Gustine died. That she is providing a post-mortem report, however, belies her claim that she is content. As the reader has discovered from all the other deceased reporters, none can be thought to be content. All of them display some grievance or strongly held tie to their former lives that they wish to share.
His squeal was not at all As pathetic as the barnyard pig Whose blood jets propelled That old expression, “bled like a stuck hog”— He bled beautifully, just the right color And sticky-sweet texture she expected from him And his flesh shucked off those bones easy And clean as pulling his t-shirt right off his back. His plump rump slid off as easy as his white cotton Undies. His joints unhooked quick as any brassiere She ever shucked.
Standing ankle-deep in guts She marveled at the cooperation Of the sum of his parts, They seemed to want to be put asunder.
Still, she’s truly sorry it had to end that way— She’d rather his tongue be sliding over hers Than down the gullet of those buzzards—but oh well, His cherubic face glowing like the moon Is a bright charm dangling from her bracelet of old lovers.
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