Assignment 2: "From the Journals of the Frog Prince" by Susan Mitchell

General Comments:

The Assignments are designed to help you practice reading, analyzing, and writing about poetry. The process of first reading the poem quietly to yourself and making sense of it, then looking up unfamiliar or striking words and references, discussing your impressions and ideas with friends, and organizing your thoughts in formulating a coherent, well-argued, and articulate response is important in developing your academic skills. You should set aside some time when you can concentrate and work on these assignments. If given reasonable attention and thought, they should not take up an enormous amount of your time. Please do not begin and finish the assignment in the few wee hours of the morning before it is due. In that state of panic, your are more likely to experience frustration, incomprehension, and dissatisfaction. Why rob yourself of the joy of discovery, of the learning process, of the chance to improve, test, and challenge yourself?
Repetition: I noticed that in your eagerness to answer each and every question, you forgot to consider whether the questions are separate or related. The result is that you repeated yourself often, especially in questions 1 and 3.
Retelling the poem or a story: Summarizing, paraphrasing, or restating the bulk of a poem or story is usually not required. Check yourself if you feel you are beginning to do so by asking yourself "Is retelling this story essential to my argument?" or "Does retelling the poem enhance or develop what I am about to say in any significant way?" or "If I don't retell the story, will readers still be able to follow my argument?" or "Do I have to retell as much as I am retelling?"
Philosophizing: At some point, poems will make you think of some philosophy, or you may feel that you are gaining some moral from what you are reading. This is fine but is that philosophy what is asked of you by the question? If an insight is relevant to the answer or argument that you are giving in response to a specific question, you may include it. Be careful, however, that you are still answering a specific question and not preaching.

In March I dreamed of mud,
sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table,
rainbow slicks of mud under the throne.
In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun.
Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchen	5
for wafts of silt and ale,
cinnamon and river bottom,
tender scallion and sour underlog.

At night I cannot sleep.
I am listening for the dribble of mud	10
climbing the stairs to our bedroom
as if a child in a wet bathing suit ran
up them in the dark.

Last night I said, “Face it, you’re bored.
How many times can you live over	15
with the same excitement
that moment when the princess leans
into the well, her face a petal
falling to the surface of the water
as you rise like a bubble to her lips,	20
the golden ball bursting from your mouth?”
Remember how she hurled you against the wall,
your body cracking open,
skin shriveling to the bone,
the green pod of your heart splitting in two,	25
and her face imprinted with every moment
of your transformation?

I no longer tremble.

Night after night I lie beside her.
“Why is your forehead so cool and damp?” she asks.	30
Her breasts are soft and dry as flour.
The hand that brushes my head is feverish.
At her touch I long for wet leaves,
the slap of water against rocks.

“What are you thinking of?” she asks.	35
How can I tell her
I am thinking of the green skin
shoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk?
Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hilt
of my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul?	40
Someday I will drag her by her hair
to the river--and what? Drown her?
Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet?
But there’s no more violence in her
than in a fence or a gate.	45

“What are you thinking of?” she whispers.
I am staring into the garden.
I am watching the moon
wind its trail of golden slime around the oak,
over the stone basin of the fountain.	50
How can I tell her
I am thinking that transformations are not forever?

--Susan Mitchell

1. allusion (overt/explicit) (4 points) This poem is included in the collection Disenchantments: An Anthology of Modern Fairy Tale Poetry (1985). How is Mitchell’s allusion to the well-known fairy tale a critique of that version? What does her story and shift in focus from the princess to the prince say about the enchanting idea of love, physical appearance (“Beauty and the Beast” and Shrek also play with these themes), and ever after? What disenchantments are there that make it belong in a collection of that name?

2. overstatement/hyperbole, review of denotation/connotation (3 points) Look up the word mortgage in a dictionary that gives etymological information such as the Oxford English Dictionary (CL ref 423 Oc98 1989). Taking into consideration the meaning of the components that make up this word in the original French, do you think the prince is overstating his condition?

3. understatement/litotes, review of simile (3 points) We have seen dreams described in previous poems in connection to ideas of freedom and captivity. Explain how the frog prince may be expressing similar wishes in this simile describing the princess: “But there’s no more violence in her / than in a fence or a gate.” The image of the fence or gate seems passive enough (especially in contrast to the preceding aggressive imaginings of the prince, or is it merely understated passivity?). How is comparing the princess to a fence or gate related to freedom or captivity? How violent can she be?

4. allusion (covert/implicit) (2 bonus points) The allusion to the fairy tale frog prince is an overt one. Mitchell makes another, less explicit reference, to a previous retelling of the story. What elements do you find in Mitchell’s “From the Journals” that connect it to a poem by Anne Sexton?

From the Journals of the Frog Prince (1978)		The Frog Prince (1971)
by Susan Mitchell		by Anne Sexton

In March I dreamed of mud,		Frau Doktor,
sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table,		Mama Brundig,
rainbow slicks of mud under the throne.		take out your contacts,
In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun.		remove your wig.
Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchen	5	I write for you.	5
for wafts of silt and ale,		I entertain.
cinnamon and river bottom,		But frogs come out
tender scallion and sour underlog.		of the sky like rain.

At night I cannot sleep.		Frogs arrive
I am listening for the dribble of mud	10	With an ugly fury.	10
climbing the stairs to our bedroom		You are my judge.
as if a child in a wet bathing suit ran		You are my jury.
up them in the dark.
		My guilts are what
Last night I said, “Face it, you’re bored.		we catalogue.
How many times can you live over	15	I’ll take a knife	15
with the same excitement		and chop up frog.
that moment when the princess leans
into the well, her face a petal		Frog has no nerves.
falling to the surface of the water		Frog is as old as a cockroach.
as you rise like a bubble to her lips,	20	Frog is my father’s genitals.
the golden ball bursting from your mouth?”		Frog is a malformed doorknob.	20
Remember how she hurled you against the wall,		Frog is a soft bag of green.
your body cracking open,
skin shriveling to the bone,		The moon will not have him.
the green pod of your heart splitting in two,	25	The sun wants to shut off
and her face imprinted with every moment		like a light bulb.
of your transformation?		At the sight of him	25
		the stone washes itself in a tub.
I no longer tremble.		The crow thinks he’s an apple
		and drops a worm in.
Night after night I lie beside her.		At the feel of frog
“Why is your forehead so cool and damp?” she asks.	30	the touch-me-nots explode	30
Her breasts are soft and dry as flour.		like electric slugs.
The hand that brushes my head is feverish.		Slime will have him.
At her touch I long for wet leaves,		Slime has made him a house.
the slap of water against rocks.
		Mr. Poison
“What are you thinking of?” she asks.	35	is at my bed.	35
How can I tell her		He wants my sausage.
I am thinking of the green skin		He wants my bread.
shoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk?
Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hilt		Mama Brundig,
of my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul?	40	he wants my beer.
Someday I will drag her by her hair		He wants my Christ	40
to the river--and what? Drown her?		for a souvenir.
Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet?
But there’s no more violence in her		Frog has boil disease
than in a fence or a gate.	45	and a bellyful of parasites.
		He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
“What are you thinking of?” she whispers.		And the ground soils itself.	45
I am staring into the garden.
I am watching the moon		Why
wind its trail of golden slime around the oak,		should a certain
over the stone basin of the fountain.	50	quite adorable princess
How can I tell her		be walking in her garden
I am thinking that transformations are not forever?		at such a time	50
		and toss her golden ball
		up like a bubble
		and drop it into the well?
		It was ordained.
		Just as the fates deal out	55
		the plague with a tarot card.
		Just as the Supreme Being
		drills holes in our skulls to let
		the Boston Symphony through.

		But I digress.	60
		A loss has taken place.
		The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot
		into the bottom of the well.

		Lost, she said,
		my moon, my butter calf,	65
		my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
		Obviously it was more than a ball.
		Balls such as these are not
		for sale in Au Bon Marche.
		I took the moon, she said,	70
		between my teeth
		and now it is gone
		and I am lost forever.
		A thief had robbed by day.

		Suddenly the well grew	75
		thick and boiling
		and a frog appeared.
		His eyes bulged like two peas
		and his body was trussed into place.
		Do not be afraid, Princess,	80
		he said, I am not a vagabond,
		a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
		a doorkeeper, a postman
		or a laborer.
		I come to you as a tradesman.	85
		I have something to sell.
		Your ball, he said,
		for just three things.
		Let me eat from your plate.
		Let me drink from your cup.	90
		Let me sleep in your bed.
		She thought, Old Waddler,
		those three you will never do,
		but she made the promises
		with hopes for her ball once more.	95
		He brought it up in his mouth
		like a tricky old dog
		and she ran back to the castle
		leaving the frog quite alone.

		That evening at dinner time	100
		a knock was heard at the castle door
		and a voice demanded:
		King’s youngest daughter,
		let me in. You promised;
		now open to me.	105
		I have left the skunk cabbage
		and the eels to live with you.
		The king then heard of her promise
		and forced her to comply.

		The frog first sat on her lap.	110
		He was as awful as an undertaker.
		Next he was at her plate
		looking over her bacon
		and calves’ liver.
		We will eat in tandem,	115
		he said gleefully.
		Her fork trembled
		as if a small machine
		had entered her.
		He sat upon the liver	120
		and partook like a gourmet.
		The princess choked
		as if she were eating a puppy.
		From her cup he drank.
		It wasn’t exactly hygienic.	125
		From her cup she drank
		as if it were Socrates’ hemlock.

		Next came the bed.
		The silky royal bed.
		Ah! The penultimate hour!	130
		There was the pillow
		with the princess breathing
		and there was the sinuous frog
		riding up and down beside her.
		I have been lost in a river	135
		of shut doors, he said,
		and I have made my way over
		the wet stones to live with you.
		She woke up aghast.
		I suffer for birds and fireflies	140
		but not frogs, she said,
		and threw him across the room.
		Kaboom!

		Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
		a handsome prince arose in the	145
		corner of her royal bedroom.
		He had kind eyes and hands
		and was a friend of sorrow.
		Thus they were married.
		After all he had compromised her.	150

		He hired a night watchman
		so that no one could enter the chamber
		and he had the well
		boarded over so that
		never again would she lose her ball,	155
		that moon, that Krishna hair,
		that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
		that madonna womb.

McClatchy, J. D., ed. Anne Sexton: The Artist and Her Critics. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1978. (Arts PS3537.E915 A613)

Sexton, Anne. The Awful Rowing Toward God. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1975. (Arts PS3537.E915 S518A)

Mitchell, Susan. "From the Journals of the Frog Prince." The New Yorker 15 May 1978: 40.