I have been thinking lately of poets - and other writers - without children. The world is such a fertile place, and April's cruel green shoots are coming. Yet, T.S. Eliot had no children - a fact I find less commented on than might be, since it immediately casts many of his poems about barren and fertile ground into new light. Blake had no children with his wife, either. I note, too that Jane Austen and Karen Blixen did not have children. Neither did Mahmoud Darwish. Or of course, Larkin. Or Emily Dickinson. Or Hart Crane. Among the busy world, many go by without offspring.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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It was a man (Cyril Connolly?) who said the pram in the hall was art's greatest enemy, and the poet George Mackay Brown once told me he thought every child a writer had was one book they wouldn't write. Presumably the logic is that the need to earn a living for the family gets in the way. OTOH, Charles Dickens seems to have found the pressure a stimulus if anything.
It’s not good to generalize, but great poets, unless they can delegate child raising to his/her spouse, probably shouldn’t have children. Poets live too much inside their own heads, having children means often having to choose between satisfying the urge to write (create) and satisfying a child’s need for attention.
Ironically one of the most beautiful and truthfully motherhood poem was “morning song” by Plath.