Underlying any sense of alienation is an element of loss: estrangement stems from negation (or lack of being in the first place). The artistic meaning of the word tends to stress alienation from oneself—from one’s innermost feelings—more than alienation from anything in particular outside of one’s self. Particulars always play a role, but it’s the emotional vacuity that’s prime. In each of the following poems, the protagonists have found themselves incapable in some way of experiencing life in fulfilling and self-confirming ways. The first two poems discussed, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by John Keats and “Rain” by Roo Borson, are about alienation arising out of immediate loss, whereas the last poem, “anyone lived in a pretty how town” by E. E. Cummings, is about an everyman figure who’s alienated from the get go.
In “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”, a grief-stricken knight sitting upon a “cold hill’s side” (44) explains to a passerby why he lingers there, “alone and palely loitering” (2). He describes meeting a beautiful woman in a meadow, draping her with “a garland for her head, / And bracelets too, and fragrant zone” (17-18), and riding around with her on his “pacing steed” (21). he promptly fell in love. Falling asleep beside her, he dreamed of “pale Kings, and Princes too” (37) that cry to him, “La belle dame sans merci / Hath thee in thrall!” (39-40). Translated and dumbed-down, this means: “The beautiful woman without mercy has you enslaved!”
Lost love, or a lack thereof, is a common theme in poems regarding alienation, and it takes a prominent role in every poem discussed in this essay. Romantic love is no doubt the most powerful form of human relationships, so it’s no surprise tat.
theme of loitering
something tends to alienate
Roo Borson
Rain
The bay the color of steel, of a warship
with scattered sun and cloud on its flanks,
the color of a battlefield
after it’s all over,
of a soldier’s mind when there’s nothing left to kill,
in the immediate vicinity anyway,
and he can rest
but what is that kind of rest worth?
There’s always going to be something left alive.
The water from a tin cup
tastes thin and substanceless,
you can never get enough.
It’s not that the first time wakens
a bloodthirst, it’s that you cross over
to a country where everything’s different,
a country of men
who don’t know what they’re after.
Everything tastes thin.
You take it all in, trying to get satisfied.
Then you just shut off.
Rain zig-zags down between the hills.
It shatters on roves, and there are people inside
just sitting around listening
If you’re an ex-soldier you’re out walking in the rain,
you’re used to it. Hand in pockets,
the sidewalk full of shoes scraping past,
trousers, the bunched hems of dresses under coats.
You look at people form the bottom up.
Sometimes a pair of women’s eyes catches
at your throat, at the way it was when you were a kid,
always wanting to know what came next,
like a movie full of possible surprise endings,
which way would it turn out?
But you never expected this. Never thought
the whole thing could just go on and on,
no end in sight, not much happening, just the rain,
the grey sidewalk and the shoes, soggy shoes
filled with other people’s lived. The warm women
hurrying beneath their dresses.
Out on the street
you see people in-between things, never
the place they’ve left or where they’re going, only
their faces with that look of expectation.
Except of course for the ones who live out on the street,
who stay there rain or shine, slumped in doorways,
sunk in their own eyes.
Further off the hills are blurred with white mist.
It’s coming down hard there too. But from here
it just looks like a white mist that slowly blows and changes.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
E. E. Cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hoe and then)they
said their nevers and they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
I
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
II
Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
III
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
V
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
VI
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.
VII
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.
VIII
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
IX
And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
X
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'
XI
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.
XII
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.