At first, I looked along the road
hoping to see him saunter home
among the olive trees,
a whistle for the dog
who mourned him with his warm head on my knees.
Six months of this
and then i noticed that whole days had passed
without my noticing.
I sorted cloth and scissors, needle, thread,
thinking to amuse myself,
but found a lifetime’s industry instead.
I sewed a girl
under a single star—cross-stitch, silver silk—
running after childhood’s bouncing ball.
I chose between three greens for the grass;
a smoky pink, a shadow’s grey
to show a snapdragon gargling a bee
I threaded walnut brown for a tree,
my thimble like an acorn
pushing up through umber soil.
Beneath the shade
I wrapped a maiden in a deep embrace
with heroism’s boy
and lost myself completely
in a wild embroidery of love, lust, lessons learnt;
then watched him sail away
into the loose gold stitching of the sun.
And when the others came to take his place,
disturb my peace,
I played for time.
I wore a widow’s face, kept my head down,
did my work by day, at night unpicked it.
I knew which hour of the dark the moon
would start to fray,
I stitched it.
Grey threads and brown
pursued my needle’s leaping fish
to form a river that would never reach the sea.
I tried it. I was picking out
the smile of a woman at the centre
of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content,
most certainly not waiting,
when I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside the door.
I licked my scarlet thread
and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle’s eye once more.
Duffy, Carol Ann. "Penelope." The World's Wife. London, 1999. Print.
Duffy's "Penelope" is not so much a "man's rebellion against what he is," as it is a woman's rebellion against how others want her to be.
The title and assumed name of the speaker, Penelope, alludes to the faithful wife of Odysseus who keeps suitors at bay while Odysseus is gone, patiently awaiting his return. In the Greek story she tricks the suitors and tells them that she is creating a burial shroud and will not remarry until it is finished, and so each night she undoes part of her work to remain unavailable. The name Penelope is thus associated with absolute fidelity.
Duffy's poem references similar events--the long leave of a woman's husband, a craft done and undone, and the celibacy of a woman whose husband is away. However, Duffy's portrayal of Penelope is strikingly different from Homer's. Instead of the faithful, dutiful and passionate wife the reader may expect, Duffy describes an independent woman who is frankly indifferent to men and actually relieved by her freedom during her husband's absence. Though at first she "looked along the road hoping to see him saunter home," by the end of the poem she has completely lost her eagerness to see him return and in stead of rejoicing in his return, she neglects to even look up from her work: "I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside the door. I liked my scarlet thread and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle's eye once more." At this point it becomes clear that the stitching is not merely a pastime to keep suitors at bay until her beloved returns, but is a personal passion which she values more than her marriage. She is in fact not faithful at all, except in the traditional celibate sense.
Penelope in Duffy's version is a woman who lives for desires and interests which go beyond her husband and her marriage. Her embroidery is a metaphor for the exploration of personal fantasies: "I sewed a girl
under a single star—cross-stitch, silver silk—running after childhood’s bouncing ball." She sews "lust, lessons learnt" and gleefully accepts the absence of the man who might normally control her life, "[watching] him sail away into the loose gold stitching of the sun." By the end of the story she has fully realized her own worth and independence, and finds that investing in herself, "a woman at the centre of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content," rather than investing in her marriage, is what truly brings her happiness. Men are not a temptation to her because they could only "disturb [her] peace."
In this version Penelope has much more personal depth and is no longer helplessly dependent on her husband's return. She is "most certainly not waiting," and in this way rebels against what others might expect of her, and the restraints those expectations place on her as a woman.
hoping to see him saunter home
among the olive trees,
a whistle for the dog
who mourned him with his warm head on my knees.
Six months of this
and then i noticed that whole days had passed
without my noticing.
I sorted cloth and scissors, needle, thread,
thinking to amuse myself,
but found a lifetime’s industry instead.
I sewed a girl
under a single star—cross-stitch, silver silk—
running after childhood’s bouncing ball.
I chose between three greens for the grass;
a smoky pink, a shadow’s grey
to show a snapdragon gargling a bee
I threaded walnut brown for a tree,
my thimble like an acorn
pushing up through umber soil.
Beneath the shade
I wrapped a maiden in a deep embrace
with heroism’s boy
and lost myself completely
in a wild embroidery of love, lust, lessons learnt;
then watched him sail away
into the loose gold stitching of the sun.
And when the others came to take his place,
disturb my peace,
I played for time.
I wore a widow’s face, kept my head down,
did my work by day, at night unpicked it.
I knew which hour of the dark the moon
would start to fray,
I stitched it.
Grey threads and brown
pursued my needle’s leaping fish
to form a river that would never reach the sea.
I tried it. I was picking out
the smile of a woman at the centre
of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content,
most certainly not waiting,
when I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside the door.
I licked my scarlet thread
and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle’s eye once more.
Duffy, Carol Ann. "Penelope." The World's Wife. London, 1999. Print.
Duffy's "Penelope" is not so much a "man's rebellion against what he is," as it is a woman's rebellion against how others want her to be.
The title and assumed name of the speaker, Penelope, alludes to the faithful wife of Odysseus who keeps suitors at bay while Odysseus is gone, patiently awaiting his return. In the Greek story she tricks the suitors and tells them that she is creating a burial shroud and will not remarry until it is finished, and so each night she undoes part of her work to remain unavailable. The name Penelope is thus associated with absolute fidelity.
Duffy's poem references similar events--the long leave of a woman's husband, a craft done and undone, and the celibacy of a woman whose husband is away. However, Duffy's portrayal of Penelope is strikingly different from Homer's. Instead of the faithful, dutiful and passionate wife the reader may expect, Duffy describes an independent woman who is frankly indifferent to men and actually relieved by her freedom during her husband's absence. Though at first she "looked along the road hoping to see him saunter home," by the end of the poem she has completely lost her eagerness to see him return and in stead of rejoicing in his return, she neglects to even look up from her work: "I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside the door. I liked my scarlet thread and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle's eye once more." At this point it becomes clear that the stitching is not merely a pastime to keep suitors at bay until her beloved returns, but is a personal passion which she values more than her marriage. She is in fact not faithful at all, except in the traditional celibate sense.
Penelope in Duffy's version is a woman who lives for desires and interests which go beyond her husband and her marriage. Her embroidery is a metaphor for the exploration of personal fantasies: "I sewed a girl
under a single star—cross-stitch, silver silk—running after childhood’s bouncing ball." She sews "lust, lessons learnt" and gleefully accepts the absence of the man who might normally control her life, "[watching] him sail away into the loose gold stitching of the sun." By the end of the story she has fully realized her own worth and independence, and finds that investing in herself, "a woman at the centre of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content," rather than investing in her marriage, is what truly brings her happiness. Men are not a temptation to her because they could only "disturb [her] peace."
In this version Penelope has much more personal depth and is no longer helplessly dependent on her husband's return. She is "most certainly not waiting," and in this way rebels against what others might expect of her, and the restraints those expectations place on her as a woman.
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