{"id":68463,"date":"2014-03-21T12:38:15","date_gmt":"2014-03-21T16:38:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=68463"},"modified":"2014-03-21T21:10:38","modified_gmt":"2014-03-22T01:10:38","slug":"i-heart-suburbia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/03\/21\/i-heart-suburbia\/","title":{"rendered":"I Heart Suburbia"},"content":{"rendered":"

The light verse of Phyllis McGinley, born on this day in 1905.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"beer-belongs-tennis-pool\"<\/a>

Friends Over for Tennis<\/i>, Douglas Crockwell, 1949<\/p><\/div>\n

In 1960, W. D. Snodgrass won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. \u201cThe following year,\u201d he says in his Art of Poetry interview<\/a>, \u201cit was given to Phyllis McGinley, which was horrifying; she used to write little silly verses for The Saturday Evening Post<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

McGinley was on the cover of Time<\/em>; her work appeared in the Atlantic <\/em>and\u00a0T<\/em>he New<\/em> Yorker<\/em>. And yet this scathing, passing reference is the only mention she receives in our entire archive. How can we have passed over such a popular and laureled poet?<\/p>\n

Chalk it up to, let\u2019s say, a difference in sensibility. As Ginia Bellafante put it a few years ago in an excellent essay for the Times<\/em><\/a>, McGinley wrote \u201creverentially of lush lawns and country-club Sundays \u2026 [she] is almost entirely forgotten today, and while her anonymity is attributable in part to the disappearance of light verse, it seems equally a function of our refusal to believe that anyone living on the manicured fringes of a major American city in the middle of the 20th century might have been genuinely pleased to be there.\u201d <\/p>\n

That\u2019s a much more generous and evenhanded appraisal than Snodgrass\u2019s. But even as I sit here reading McGinley\u2019s work, I share in the refusal to believe. This woman was actually living it up in Larchmont<\/em><\/em>. Can it be true? Her verse is clever and well wrought\u2014it earned praised from no less a luminary than W.\u2009H. Auden, who wrote the foreword to one of her collections\u2014but after a few lines, I find my brow reflexively arched. Is it not at least possible that she was pulling one over on us, churning out delightful, perfectly cadenced paeans to the \u2019burbs while privately guarding a faint flame of Cheeverian ennui?<\/p>\n

No, it is not. McGinley genuinely adored the life of a suburban housewife\u2014she had a tumultuous, itinerant childhood, and she relished the stability of married life, the fine china, the deviled eggs, the stand mixer, the quilting bees. Her poems tout convention and pooh-pooh feminism; they sound as if they were made to be read aloud by the president of the PTA on the occasion of an eighth-grade graduation. Here\u2019s a bit from \u201cOde to the End of Summer\u201d:<\/p>\n

\n

Farewell, vacation friendships, sweet but tenuous
Ditto to slacks and shorts,
Farewell, O strange compulsion to be strenuous
Which sends us forth to death on tennis courts.
Farewell, Mosquito, horror of our nights;
Clambakes, iced tea, and transatlantic flights.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

And from \u201cReflections at Dawn\u201d:<\/p>\n

\n

I wish I owned a Dior dress
Made to my order out of satin.
I wish I weighed a little less
And could read Latin.
Had perfect pitch or matching pearls,
A better head for street directions,
And seven daughters, all with curls
And fair complexions.
I wish I\u2019d tan instead of burn.
But most, on all the stars that glisten,
I wish at parties I could learn
to sit and listen.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

And here I could mount a trenchant critique of the suburbs or trot out a couple of zingers\u2014but what would be the point? The tragicomedy of these poems is how they\u2019ve gone, in the span of a few decades, from prizewinning to self-parodying. Work like McGinley\u2019s is jarringly familiar and yet totally foreign, indicative of how quickly a culture can scorn what it once adored\u2014how an era\u2019s prevailing tastes become pass\u00e9, or worse, naive.\u00a0Suburbia has become so inextricably (if deservedly) affiliated with conformity, conservatism, and delusive sameness that it\u2019s impossible to read McGinley with an objective eye, even more than fifty years after her heyday. And as Bellafante notes, light verse, once an arts-and-letters staple, is now extinct. It\u2019s worth considering how and why such a thriving form came to seem so silly\u2014and, for that matter, which one is next on the chopping block. It\u2019s entirely possible, for instance, that quick, five-hundred-word blog posts pegged to poets\u2019 birthdays will not age gracefully.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The light verse of Phyllis McGinley, born on this day in 1905. In 1960, W. D. Snodgrass won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. \u201cThe following year,\u201d he says in his Art of Poetry interview, \u201cit was given to Phyllis McGinley, which was horrifying; she used to write little silly verses for The Saturday Evening Post.\u201d McGinley […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[9158,13266,13265,1267,6205,13267],"class_list":["post-68463","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-birthdays","tag-light-verse","tag-phyllis-mcginley","tag-pulitzer-prize","tag-suburbs","tag-w-d-snodgrass"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe light verse of Phyllis McGinley, born on this day in 1905.<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 21, 2014 \u2013 The light verse of Phyllis McGinley, born on this day in 1905. In 1960, W. D. 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