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SNAKE D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)
Lawrence is famous for being the author of a great many fiction books that are classics in English literature, including Sons and Lovers, Women in Love, The Plumed Serpent, and, of course, Lady Chatterley's Lover, which is probably the last book ever written by a true literary giant that a majority of America's young people read when it first became available in the United States. The book was first published in Florence in 1928, but did not hit the U.S. market until 1959, when the courts ruled that this "dirty book" could be sold openly to the American public. I remember it well. "Eh, but tha'rt nice, tha'rt nice!"
Besides being a great writer of fiction, Lawrence was also an excellent and prolific poet. "Snake," which appeared in a collection of poems published in 1923 entitled Birds, Beasts and Flowers, is one of his most popular poems, and not surprisingly, one of my favorites. Because it deals with an encounter with a serpent, many literary experts, as well as a great many students, have, over the years, read all sorts of "meanings" into this poem. Obviously, the snake represents evil, and the author's fascination with the reptile has a clear connection to Eve's seduction in the Garden. Or at least that's the starting point for most of these literary analyses.
I prefer to enjoy this poem as a simple story, with no hidden or allegorical meaning. It is not unusual for me to see a large black snake on my farm here in the Shenandoah Valley, and I have often felt as the author does here. Yes, I am expected to kill the animal. That's what most everyone does around these parts when they see a snake. And yet, I find these creatures to be quite beautiful, and I always go about my business without harming them. Once I came upon one sunning himself on a blacktop road and I stopped my truck and used a stick to force him into the ditch, much to amusement and chagrin of passing locals, who are inclined to go out of their way to run over snakes that are dumb enough to sun themselves on the road.
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Snake
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?
Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?
Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,
But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
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