Edwin, Richard and Me

I have been thinking of the poem Richard Cory recently for three reasons. First, I heard my friend, Mike McDonald of Jr. Gone Wild, perform the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. Next, I have done a lot of thinking about what I want and what I need. The two, want and need, when examined, are very exclusive of each other. The last is that the author and I both write poetry about, or in his case wrote, about the very gritty side of life.

Edwin Arlington Robinson was born December twenty-second, 1869, in Lincoln County, Maine to a stereo-typical hard drinking politician and his wife but grew up in Gardiner. From what is known about his childhood, it was certainly not the best of times for a young Robinson who described it as “stark and unhappy”. This bleak and dark view of Robinson’s may well have been genetic as addiction and depression haunted his family like a Charles Dickens’ specter. In fact, the view persisted throughout his life as Robinson wrote poem after poem of a world where dreams crumbled and struggle seemed pointless. Born 100 years later, Robinson would probably have become a Goth and written Vampire books.

The repercussions to the art world would have been more monstrous than any Anne Rice character. I imagine Paul Simon stuck for an idea about an ironic view of the rich and poor producing drivel about the Romanov family or a young Robinson writes page after page of crap about vampires, the John Lennon murder and the Reagan Presidency. Not that his family did much to raise the spirits of Robinson. Even how he was named seems like a dark, surreal event worthy of Bing Crosby’s kids.

Robinson’s parents, Edward and Mary, didn’t even bother to name him because they wanted a girl. That was not done until six months later when his parents were vacationing at a resort where they likely continued to refer to baby Edwin as “it”. As in “Honey, the baby is crying, go feed it.”

The other vacationers felt this was not a good thing and encouraged the Robinson’s to name their child. Not showing too much concern even for this rather important detail of parenting, Ed and Mary allowed this task to fall into the hands of their fellow, obviously drunken, vacationers. These folks obviously did not want to waste their precious drinking time on such matters so a young woman from Arlington (thus giving Ed and Mary their new son’s middle name), after the other resort guests had written down their choices, drew the name “Edwin” from a hat.

I shudder to think what other names some drunken bitch or bastard might have placed in that hat. Names like “Tit-Sucker” and “Shit-Maker” Arlington Robinson would have made English class more exciting but only if an already emotionally handy-capped Robinson had staved off suicide long enough to write. Robinson hated the name (and most likely his parents) as with his father being an “Edward” he was called “Win”. Ironically, the nick name would be premonitory as his older brothers would both accomplish dick-all.

It appears that Ed and Mary blew the better part of the college money on Robinson’s older brother, Dean, who earned a medical degree. Dr. Robinson then proceeded to become addicted to laudanum for his “headaches”. Herman took some accounting and math courses when his turn came while Edwin would go into the arts studying English, French and Shakespeare where he strove to get no marks higher than a ”B”. Thus as his parents saw what they likely felt was their best chance at the “American Dream” go sideways, Robinson saw first-hand how societal expectations and traditions fuck you over. Probably the most defining moment of societal traditions handing you your ass would come from his brother Herman.

Emma Shepherd was a looker, even by today’s synthetic standards and likely a world class bitch. Still, it seems she was Robinson’s first muse and encouraged him to spend his time writing poetry. It seems evident this gave her a good excuse to leave Robinson behind as she dated his two older brothers. After realizing that Dean was a “down” addict and Edwin hopelessly Naive about a “woman’s needs” (Romantic poetry over money? For shame!) , Miss Shepherd decided to marry Herman. Miss Shepherd knew that Ed and Mary, having given Dean the longer and more costly education and not even bothering to name Edwin, would likely leave the family home to their middle son. With the eldest son a drug addict and the youngest an uneducated impoverished artist, the wise, fifteen year old woman saw Herman as the best of the lot.

Herman and Emma married on February 12th, 1890, an event that caused the youngest Robinson to shut himself away writing poetry. Edwin, at the age of 21, then headed off to Harvard.

Herman may have inherited his parent’s house but he also inherited his family’s drinking problem. Herman’s skill as an investment broker and business man was certainly not aided by his true love, Lady Liquor. By 1893, Emma had returned home to live with her family and their three children while the news of impending poverty gave Edward an unrecoverable shock (as strokes were referred to back then). Herman would head to Boston to continue drinking himself to death and dying in a charity hospital in 1909.

Having finished his studies, E.A. Robinson returned to Gardiner after his father’s death and the collapse of the family fortune in 1893. Self-publishing 500 copies of his first collection of poetry, with the bright and cheery title, The Torrent and the Night Before in 1896, Robinson would for many years live the life of a struggling artist. As if to ensure his Emo status for all time, God took his mother from him after she contracted diphtheria shortly before the books arrival from the printers.

Though not an unsuccessful writer, Robinson was not exactly cutting a swath through town with the money made from his endeavours. His second publication (whose title would become the self-descriptive phrase of Goths and vampire junkies due to its use by Bela Lugosi), The Children of the Night, was especially well received and a copy ended up in the hands of Theodore Roosevelt’s son Kermit (who, showing how far the apple fell from that tree, sole contribution to America was lending his name to a frog). The American icon and President was so impressed with the book, he invited Robinson to the White House which Robinson declined, essentially stating he had nothing to wear. Roosevelt would instead offer Robinson in 1905, a job with the U.S. government, which was nothing more than a place to sit while he worked at “bettering American letters” (Roosevelt’s words).

After his brother’s death in 1909, Robinson twice more proposed to Emma, once even telling her it would be of no inconvenience as she would not have to change her name. Twice more she refused his offer and Robinson headed off to New York where his greater destiny awaited. Emma, for her part, would hardly suffer from this decision.

In New York, Robinson would flower at last. He would win the Pulitzer Prize three times in the 1920s and be nominated for the Noble Prize four times. For the last twenty years of his life, Robinson would visit the famed McDowell Colony in New Hampshire, acquiring a score of female groupies during his stay. One of them, painter Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones, would fall in love with Robinson. Despite the age difference, 16 years, they began a heated relationship during the last ten years of his life. He would write some his later, more joyful pieces at this point, indicating that perhaps he had changed muses from Emma to Elizabeth.

In terms of volume of work, Emma Robinson would remain Robinson’s greatest muse, a designation she would cultivate locally and after his death, internationally. She would write and eventually publish to academic success, her interpretations of the influences behind Robinson’s work. There she would claim title to some of Robinson’s poems that would rightfully have gone to Sparhawk-Jones. Edwin, the one Emma once considered the worst choice of the three brothers, quite a blow when the other two died from health complications arising from drug addictions, would end up supporting her children.

Robinson would die a bachelor, from cancer on April 6th 1935, leaving the majority of his estate to Emma and her children. Emma would pass away five years later in 1940 and her last role as a muse may have been for Paul Simon, who would supply the theme song to The Graduate (it is still not known who loved her more, Jesus or Edwin). Sparhawk-Jones, in a reversal of roles after his death, would paint several canvases using Robinson as her inspiration. A man that wrote from the experience of his relationships with muses would in death become a muse himself.

Richard Cory, the most famous of Robinson’s work, is written in the very traditional way. Four lines per stanza with a syllable count of ten, which was unlike his contemporaries who were experimenting with free verse and non-adherence to a syllabic structure. It would be the only poem he wrote where the central character came from and was part of the societal and monetary elite.

Most of Robinson’s work would cast its nets towards the fish no one ever wanted to catch. The poor, the struggling, those that like Robinson had in his early years, ended up on the other side of the American Dream. With Richard Cory’s surprise ending and subject matter, it should have been no surprise to be given new life by the youth of the 1960s.

The hippies, mostly rich or middle class kids who at least symbolically were spitting the silver spoon out of their mouths, would publish it in their art magazines or sneak it into counter-culture and underground publications. This is how at the tender age of 10, I first encountered Richard Cory. It is also a typical example of Robinson’s dark, Emo and Goth worthy work.

This is why, when contemplating my needs, desires and the muse inspired depression plaguing me, the poem resonated in my mind. Ignoring the appearance of the lying slut I am likely still in love with, Richard Cory helped me spiritually solve a problem that had financial foundations.

I am stuck paying one-hundred and fifty dollars on a storage unit for belongings that are helping to drive my debt load higher and higher. Sure I want to try and hold on to some of my books, clothes and belongings but my need to dispose of my storage space is the more logical of the two. With an increasing debt load, the "want" to own and hold onto things has become too costly for my needs. I suppose struggling artist is another commonality I share with Robinson.

Sure I could declare bankruptcy and hide it all away. Donald Trump acquiring the US Presidency has made the stigma of bankruptcy far less embarrassing. Still "want" is not "need" and this poem shows me what "want" really gets you.

None of what I own makes me happy enough to sacrifice my sense of right and wrong. Nothing I cling to will win me the love of "the right woman". Nothing I can buy in life would keep me from following the actions of Richard Cory when the darkness of existence, shadowing the financial ease of life, becomes too costly. It might be better to lose it all than continue to be depressed by the financial weight of physical things.

That said here is Robinson's poem:

Richard Cory:

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.