Poem of the Week: The Secret Day by Stella Benson | hair

Secret day

My evening has passed, gone and left me tired,
And now tomorrow comes and knocks on the door;
So I built the day, the day I wanted,
Lest joy come again, lest peace return again,
Lest comfort come no more.

So I built today, a proud and full day,
The rock towers were built on sand.
The foxgloves and the gorse I planted in my path;
Thyme, velvety thyme, grew under my hand,
It grew pink under my hand.

So built today is more expensive than a dream.
Peace be upon the sky above.
And it made the seas seem enormous and misty
Kinder to me than life, and fairer to me than love.
More beautiful than love.

And I built a house – a house on the edge
Of high and twisting slopes. The low singing of the sea fills it;
And there resides my secret friend, and there I believe
I will hide my heart away before tomorrow kills it
A cold tomorrow will kill him.

Yes, today I have built a wall against tomorrow,
So let tomorrow call – I will not fear,
Because no one will kill me, and no one will make me sad,
And no one will spoil this beloved day you created.
No storm will stir my sea. There is no night except for me to shade it
This is the day I did it.

This poem by novelist, journalist, and suffragette Stella Benson appears in her collection Twenty published in June 1918, shortly before the end of World War I. (Some of her reactions to World War I are recorded here.) Benson (1892-1933) went to California that same year, largely because she was in poor health and because her doctor recommended the climate.

I imagine that most of Twenty’s book was compiled before she embarked on her travels. The secret day may have stemmed from her fears about the trip and her future in a strange country. Interestingly, it illustrates the psychological need to find refuge in time rather than space. Benson recognizes that the device is artificial, but he makes a compelling plea for its necessity, beautifully structured by persistent echoes of alliteration. She “built the day” (the day she hoped to live otherwise) “lest joy should come again, lest peace come no more, / lest rest come no more.” The concluding line of every stanza is always effective, but never more so than here, with its frank acknowledgment of the animal’s most basic need – “rest.”

In the second stanza, the poet acknowledges the limits of the ‘building’ metaphor, and creates a specific image of the English coastal landscape, immediately evoking flowers from the ground. The day is now more than just a theatrical spectacle, although Benson continues to highlight her original metaphor, as in the third stanza’s image of peace “painted” on the sky, creating “immense and misty seas. . . .”

Along with the separation from her country, there is the implied disagreement with the “secret friend.” Writing in capital letters here seems like a childish gesture. I do not know how easily a poet in 1918 could have solved the problem which Benson posed for herself, but perhaps some pictorial excesses might have been recommended. It would have helped her have the “secret boyfriend” if she had at least dropped the capitalization.

Despite its sentimental moments, Benson’s poem does not lack power and originality. A confessional tone of voice is effective. The speaker trusts the reader with her introspective project, where simple diction and repetition suggest true candor and vulnerability. Do hexagonal lines provide too much space to fill? Maybe here and there, but at the same time, the rhythms add to the speaker’s assertiveness, the authority of her narration of things in the first person.

The last line of the final stanza underscores the pathos of her new metaphorical role: She has built a wall, not a house, and the cherished “today” is already fading with darkness, though the claim to refuge remains a challenge.

Benson’s focus was primarily on fiction and journalism. Twenty appears to have been the only complete collection of her poems published during her lifetime. Among the recent distinctions is the appearance of two more Benson poems in Philip Larkin’s Oxford Anthology of Twentieth Century English Poetry in 1972. (Perhaps this was at Monica Jones’ suggestion? But Larkin is credited with approving!)