But most from the hatefulness of man
Who spares not to end what he began,
Whose acts are ill and his speech ill,
Who, having used you at his will,
Thrusts you aside, as when I dine
I serve the dishes and the wine. – Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Jenny”
Just as songs about prostitutes reflect the attitudes of the songwriters, so it is with poetry on the subject. The topic was especially popular in the Victorian Era, so it should come as no surprise that all but one of the poets featured in today’s column lived some part of their lives in that period. We’ll start with what is probably the best-known verse on the subject:
To a Common Prostitute by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Be composed–be at ease with me–I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as Nature,
Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you,
Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.
My girl I appoint with you an appointment, and I charge you that you make preparation to be worthy to meet me,
And I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come.
Till then I salute you with a significant look that you do not forget me.
Though Whitman’s message here – “whores are people like anybody else” – is remarkable for the 1850s, I must admit that I inwardly giggle at his earnestness. I can just picture the girl staring back at him, certain that he was quite mad. Of course, it’s unlikely Whitman ever hired a hooker (not a female one, anyway), but if he did I’m sure his attitude was just as he depicts it in the poem. The next poem, written by another homosexual man born a generation later on the other side of the pond, couldn’t be more opposite:
The Harlot’s House by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
They took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
“The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”
But she–she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
Wilde considered beauty to be the highest morality; his real issue isn’t lust replacing love as he presents it, but that naked heterosexual desire offended his sensibilities. He depicts clients and whores alike as puppets to lust, proving that like most Victorian men he understood neither prostitution nor anything else about women. The next poet is far more realistic:
Ironic Poem About Prostitution by George Orwell (1903-1950)
When I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.
Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, “for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me”.
She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,
And in her lisping, virgin voice,
Stood out for twenty-five.
The same subject, the harlot’s immunity to male professions of “love”, is handled a little differently by a Frenchman:
To Dahlia by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) (translated by Walter Wykes)
Lovely whore
With your hard black eyes
And your soft budding breasts
Shameless flower of the damned
Your aroma overwhelms my senses
I am driven to possess you
But you scarcely feel my flesh
I make no impression
Bland on your bewitching tongue, I have no taste
You exhale my desire like smoke
Incense sacrificed to your unyielding beauty
In general, the French poet romanticizes the whore far less than the English does; even while extolling the virtues of a particular fille de joie who has enchanted him, or of demimondaines in general, there is generally a recognition of the pragmatic realities of harlotry:
Courtesans by Fernand Gregh (1873-1960) (translated by Jethro Bithell)
O Courtesans, Love’s witching, wild priestesses,
You charm the universe from end to end!
Heroes are always fettered by your tresses,
Kings for their pleasure on your bed depend.
Your pose is graceful, and your nostril quivers,
Your feet go dancing, and your deep eyes burn,
Your supple bodies bend like reeds of rivers,
Your robes like incense round about you turn.
Poor men are full of anger when they see you
Come from your segregation of disgrace,
Matrons cast envious eyes at you and flee you,
And the wise, scolding, turn away their face.
But still the sighs of boys with passion paling
Soar up to you in sultry evenings when
You pass, the dreams of lonely artists trailing,
And gray regrets of amorous old men;
And long, strong sighs of young men sick and ailing,
Whose blood chafes at the scent the summer floats,
Longing to take your breasts like fruits, inhaling
Love in the odour of your petticoats.
Of course, there are exceptions to every rule; the next poet shows himself as moralistic and judgmental as any Englishman of his time:
The Gate of the Courtesans by Henri de Régnier (1864-1936) (translated by Jethro Bithell)
If to the town thou come some morning, to
Join the sweet, frivolous, futile sisters who
Bestow their love and sell their beauty, wait
Before thou enter my returnless gate,
Whose folding-doors are mirrors; there descry
Thy coming self, thou who art tempted by
The gold, it may be, and the banquet’s hum,
Thou from a vast and distant country come,
Thou who still pure, and innocently bare,
Smilest, with autumn’s russet in thy hair,
And summer’s fruits upon thy breast embossed,
And thy soft skin like fabled sea-caves mossed,
And in thy warmest flesh’s secret fold
The form of rosy shells the seas have rolled,
And beauty of dawn and shadow, and the scent
Of flowers and gardens, woods and sea-weed blent!
Tarry, ere the ineffable alms thou bring
Of being both the autumn and the spring
To those who far from dawn and harvests live.
Listen, thou mayest yet return, but if
Thou must, I open, glad to see thee pass,
Laughing and double past my double glass.
The poem depicts a beautiful woman’s decision to “waste” her beauty and sex appeal making a living on her own terms as passage through a mirrored gate through which it is impossible to return. Once a woman chose the path of whoredom she was “ruined”, unable to return to the “purity” she left behind. But our last poet dared to denounce that view as pure poppycock in my absolute favorite of all hooker poems:
The Ruined Maid by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”–
“O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.
–“You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”–
“Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she.
–“At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’
And ‘thik oon’ and ‘theäs oon’ and ‘t’other’; but now
Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compan-ny!”–
“Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she.
–“Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”–
“We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she.
–“You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”–
“True. One’s pretty lively when ruined,” said she.
–“I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town.”–
“My dear – a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.
One Year Ago Today
“Easter” fell quite a bit later last year than this.
Amazing, I’m 46 now, but when I was 17, my English teacher (she must have only been 22 or so, read us “The Ruined Maid” and told us it was about rape! We all took it so earnestly. Thank you for showing me what the poem is really about (I’d forgotten all about it until now).
But then, this was the same high school that brought “rape crisis” counsellors to our classes to convince the boys that we were all rapists (oh sorry “potential” rapists). Charming when I think back on it. I will never let that kind of ideological filth be fed to my own sons, that is for sure.
Yes, because rape usually results in its victim having nice clothes and proper elocution. Before I was raped I wore T-shirts and jeans and spoke like South Louisiana white trash; the only reason I’m so successful and eloquent today is because of several rapes. Aren’t I lucky?
Indeed, it took a heroic level of willful blindness to read the poem that way. But, that was the least of the lunacies of the day, a few years later we had the surreal tales of “ritual abuse” and the like. I’m beginning to think that I was brought up at the height of neofeminist lunacy. But it goes on doesn’t it, I’m sure the same people today say that there is no difference between rape and prostitution (indeed, you keep pointing it out).
And the girl I see regularly, I suppose her trip to Europe that I paid for, or the iPad, or my helping her with her entry into a top US college….(etc. etc.) is because of my having repeatedly raped her. I must send this poem to her, she’ll love it.
the irony in orwells poem is that a harlot will never love you in return,so its idiotic to even consider it,because thats how prostitution works?and why does he consider her pure and sad and calls her”maiden”?is this also ironic?im not sure i get where the irony is,but maybe its bcause its difficult to analyse a poem thats not written or translated to my native language.
The irony is in the very parts you question, calling her a maiden and so on. It’s the juxtaposition of his faux sentimentality with her pragmatism, especially when it comes as a seeming non sequitur in the last line (the punch line).
Darren has covered it. Remember, Orwell was born at the height of “white slavery” hysteria in Britain, and was a teenager during its height in the US; he heard all the same ridiculous rhetoric about how whores were “innocent victims” of evil men as is popular now. I might point out that those who swallow it these days are even dumber than those who did the last time, both because of the historical record and because this time they could read the writings of real prostitutes on the internet.
Considering all the Hardy they forced upon us in school, why didn’t the literature master ever read us that poem? I like it!
I do, too. Hardy’s rejection of the sexual judgmentalism of his day (it’s one of the central themes of Tess of the d’Urbervilles) is almost never mentioned in classes about him. We can’t have a dry-as-toast writer being interesting or anything, after all.
I suppose they are nice but poetry is lost on me like humor is on a vulcan. 😛
What about the humorous poem by Orwell?
Well, I understood that one at least – though it wasn’t hilariously funny.
It’s all good … I’ll wait for the “limericks” version of this column! 😛
Here’s one I wrote all by myself:
An eager young lady from Malverne
To entertain groups of men did yearn;
When she did a big party,
Some impatient smarty
At the end of the line yelled, “When’s MY turn?”
There once was a cunning young knave,
Who dug up a whore from a grave;
She was mouldy as shit,
And missing a tit,
But think of the money he saved!
Yikes! 🙁
Streetwalkers, brothel chicks, or high-class call girls,
Or the dancer in G-string with a smile as she twirls,
And porn girls who writhe and moan on my screen,
Always make me so happy if you know what I mean,
Even when cast before swine they’re still pearls.
LOL – SEE! That’s one of the things we all love about you, Maggie. You’re a multifaceted woman and I’ll bet you’re equally at home at a state dinner or crawfish boil behind uncle Ed’s double-wide. And – you probably don’t freak out when uncle Ed gets drunk and breaks out his new shotgun to show everyone!
I envy you. 🙁
LMAO, my last ten years in the Navy I had to attend to a lot of “highfallutin” functions in that “dinner dress” tux that military wears. I know a tux makes a lot of guys look distinguished – I just look like a big guy in a tux, LOL. Every time I’d get out of the car to walk into one, I’d grab my wife’s arm real tight and she’d say … “It’ll be okay, babe!” … and I would say … “Well, just keep me out of trouble” … and she’d ALWAYS say … “You’ll be fine – just DO NOT USE THE F-WORD HERE!!”
Pretty much, yeah. I’m a big believer in the chameleonic quality of woman, and feel it’s important to be able to play many roles as needed. 🙂
I would bet that like a lot of erotic art, poems to prostitutes and other sex workers were often “lost” by relatives and even publishers.
Anyway, here’s one by 19th century lesbian poet Wu Tsao –
For the Courtesan Ch’ing Lin
On your slender body
Your jade and coral girdle ornaments chime
Like those of a celestial companion
Come from the Green Jade City of Heaven.
One smile from you when we meet,
And I become speechless and forget every word.
For too long you have gathered flowers,
And leaned against the bamboos,
Your green sleeves growing cold,
In your deserted valley:
I can visualize you all alone,
A girl harboring her cryptic thoughts.
You glow like a perfumed lamp
In the gathering shadows.
We play wine games
And recite each other’s poems.
Then you sing `Remembering South of the River’
With its heart breaking verses. Then
We paint each other’s beautiful eyebrows.
I want to possess you completely –
Your jade body
And your promised heart.
It is Spring.
Vast mists cover the Five Lakes.
My dear, let me buy a red painted boat
And carry you away.
OFF TOPIC:
This is is a great subject, but I’d like to take the time to bring to light another matter:
Village Voice Media is losing advertising because of a campaign against them by prohibitionists started recently. If you’ve been following Maggie’s blog for a while, then you are familiar with the Backpage.com attacks. If they are going to play hardball, then maybe we should as well. Here is a list of papers under attack:
The Village Voice, LA Weekly, Phoenix New Times, Denver Westword, Houston Press, Dallas Observer, SF Weekly, Seattle Weekly, St. Louis RFT, Miami New Times, Minneapolis City Pages, OC Weekly, Palm Beach New Times.
You can subscribe to at least one of the papers for home delivery, or patronize their advertisers. In any case, they can use your support. Thanks.
The above is posted by Susan, which is me. I’ve been having trouble logging in, because Gravatar is forcing me to use an old handle. But I thought this is an important enough topic for me to log in for. I don’t work for Village Voice Media, and never have–I had meant to sign my own name at the bottom, and not as “Village Voice”. Another error.
Anyway, support these papers. They don’t deserve to go under because of bunch of hysterical people who’ve most likely aren’t regular readers of these papers.
I think you should be able to get in now (since I edited the comments) as “Susan” with the same email address.
Susan, I “tweeted” your appeal on Twitter, with a link to your comment here. 🙂
Hi Maggie,
I originally ran across this from “The Baltimore Consort.”
Watkins Ale
That was a maid this other day
And she must needs go forth to play.
And as she walked, she sighed and said
“I am afraid to die a maid.”
When that be heard a lad, what talk this maiden had,
Where of he was full glad and did not spare
To say “Fair maid, I pray, wither go to today?”
“Good sir,” then did she say, “What do you care?”
“For I will, without fail,
Maiden give to you Watkins ale.”
“Watkins ale, sir,” quoth she,
What is that, I pray you tell me?”
‘Tis sweeter far than sugar fine
And pleasanter than Muscadine.
And if you please fair maid to stay
A little while to sport and play
I will give you the same, Watkins ale called by name,
Or else I were to blame, in truth fair maid.
“Good sir,” quoth she again, “If you will take the pain,
I shall it not refrain, nor be dismayed.”
He took this maiden then aside
And led her where she was not spied
And told her many a pretty tale,
And gave her well of Watkins ale.
When he had done to her his will,
They talked but what I shall not skill
At last she said, “Spare your tale,
Give me some more of Watkins ale
Or else I will not stay, for I must needs away,
My mother bade me play, the time is past.
Therefore, good sir,”, quoth she, “if you have done with me.”
“Nay soft, fair maid,” quoth he again at last.
Let us talk a little while.”
With that the maiden began to smile.
And said, “Good sir, full well I know,
Your ale I see runs very low.”
This young man then, begin so blamed,
Did blush as one being ashamed.
He took her by the middle small,
And gave her more of Watkins ale
And said, “Fair maid I pray, when you go forth to play,
Remember what I say, walk not alone.”
“Nay soft,” said she again. “I thank you for your pain,
For fear of further stain, I must be gone.”
“Farewell maiden,” then quoth he;
“Adieu good sir,” again quoth she
Thus they parted then at last,
Till thrice three months were gone and passed.
This maiden then fell very sick.
Her maidenhead began to kick.
Her color waxed wan and pale,
With taking much of Watkins ale.
I wish all maidens coy, that hear this pretty toy,
Wherein most women’s joy, how they do sport.
For surely Watkins ale, and if it be not stale,
Will bring them to some bale, as hath report.
New ale will make their bellies bowne,
As trial by this same has shown.
This proverb hath been taught in schools,
It is no jesting with edged tools.
Good maids and wives, I pardon crave,
And lack not that which you would have.
To blush it is a woman’s grace,
And well becometh a maiden’s face.
For women will refuse the thing that they would choose,
So men should them excuse of thinking ill.
Cat will after kind, all winkers are not blind,
You maidens know my mind, say what you will.
When you drink ale, beware the toast,
For therein lies the danger most.
If any here offended be,
Then blame the author, blame not me.
Note: Tune is from Queen Elizabeth’s Virginal Book. Words earlier
than 1592. RG
BR
And an, ahem, oral selection, if you will.
And that is why I love Walt Whitman
Dear Maggie,
I truly admire your blog and agree with your interpretation of five of the seven poems. I must disagree with the idea that Henri de Régnier was jugdmental towards prostitutes. I truly believe that there is an ironic view of the socities of the Belle Époque – although artistic, it was a very church-judgmental society.
I read a constrat between the artistic and perfection being that is the prostitute, and the judgment of the societies which considered them “ruined”.
As Hardy called them “ruined” I read the “futile sisters” in the same manner.
What do you think?
I know you posted this a long time ago, but I hope you see this.
Love,
Reblogged this on Notyetawoman.