Miss Gee by Auden: Analysis

'Let me tell you a little story
   About Miss Edith Gee;
 She lived in Clevedon Terrace
   At number 83.

 She'd a slight squint in her left eye,
   Her lips they were thin and small,
 She had narrow sloping shoulders
   And she had no bust at all.

 She'd a velvet hat with trimmings,
   And a dark grey serge costume;
 She lived in Clevedon Terrace
   In a small bed-sitting room.

 She'd a purple mac for wet days,
   A green umbrella too to take,
 She'd a bicycle with shopping basket
   And a harsh back-pedal break.

 The Church of Saint Aloysius
   Was not so very far;
 She did a lot of knitting,
   Knitting for the Church Bazaar.

 Miss Gee looked up at the starlight
   And said, 'Does anyone care
 That I live on Clevedon Terrace
   On one hundred pounds a year?'

 She dreamed a dream one evening
   That she was the Queen of France
 And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius
   Asked Her Majesty to dance.

 But a storm blew down the palace,
   She was biking through a field of corn,
 And a bull with the face of the Vicar
   Was charging with lowered horn.

 She could feel his hot breath behind her,
   He was going to overtake;
 And the bicycle went slower and slower
   Because of that back-pedal break.

 Summer made the trees a picture,
   Winter made them a wreck;
 She bicycled to the evening service
   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

 She passed by the loving couples,
   She turned her head away;
 She passed by the loving couples,
   And they didn't ask her to stay.

 Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle,
   She heard the organ play;
 And the choir sang so sweetly
   At the ending of the day,

 Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle,
   She knelt down on her knees;
 'Lead me not into temptation
   But make me a good girl, please.'

 The days and nights went by her
   Like waves round a Cornish wreck;
 She bicycled down to the doctor
   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

 She bicycled down to the doctor,
  And rang the surgery bell;
 'O, doctor, I've a pain inside me,
   And I don't feel very well.'

 Doctor Thomas looked her over,
   And then he looked some more;
 Walked over to his wash-basin,
  Said,'Why didn't you come before?'

 Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner,
   Though his wife was waiting to ring,
 Rolling his bread into pellets;
   Said, 'Cancer's a funny thing.

 'Nobody knows what the cause is,
   Though some pretend they do;
 It's like some hidden assassin
   Waiting to strike at you.

 'Childless women get it.
   And men when they retire;
 It's as if there had to be some outlet
   For their foiled creative fire.'

 His wife she rang for the servent,
   Said, 'Dont be so morbid, dear';
 He said: 'I saw Miss Gee this evening
   And she's a goner, I fear.'

 They took Miss Gee to the hospital,
   She lay there a total wreck,
 Lay in the ward for women
   With her bedclothes right up to her neck.

 They lay her on the table,
   The students began to laugh;
 And Mr. Rose the surgeon
   He cut Miss Gee in half.

 Mr. Rose he turned to his students,
   Said, 'Gentlemen if you please,
 We seldom see a sarcoma
   As far advanced as this.'

 They took her off the table,
   They wheeled away Miss Gee
 Down to another department
   Where they study Anatomy.

 They hung her from the ceiling
   Yes, they hung up Miss Gee;
 And a couple of Oxford Groupers
   Carefully dissected her knee.'

-- W H Auden

Two Stylistic forces seem to juxtapose each other within the words of ‘Miss Gee’. One is deliberately misleading; a tonal façade than hides what the poem is actually about like a cloak. The other ‘Stylistic force’ lies underneath that cloak, and crudely contrasts against the initial tone.

That initial tone is a strikingly light and whimsical one. The poem’s repetitive structure (4 lines a verse with an alternate rhyme scheme) is reminiscent of playful nursery rhymes, or even a limerick. That kind of evocation is further cemented by the immediate subject matter; and odd ball tale about a dainty old woman with a funny name.  Notice the seemingly arbitrary aspects of Ms Gee’s life that the poet focuses on at first. ‘She lived at Clevedon Terrace… at number 83….Her lips were thin and small, and she had not bust at all’ It’s as if a humorsome poet is simply having fun with his wordplay – Something a lot of children poems do; creating repetitively catchy rhymes/tunes modelled around off-beat and simple set-ups. Perhaps this kind of manipulation is present to make the later sections all the more shocking, with its innocuous disposition being misdirection to what is actually an emotionally dampening poem.

 As the poem escalated, it seems to be more cynical, nihilistic and even existential. The ostensibly ‘playful’ focus we initially saw on arbitrary aspects of Miss Gee’s life was perhaps a subtle way of showing us the entirety of her mundane life. As readers, we will feel more shocked and sympathetic if the drabness of Ms Gee’s life comes as a sudden realization later on, and not the writer telling us from the outset ‘Her life is boring and uneventful’. The innocence of the character makes the reader sympathize (She talks like a child ‘make me a good girl please’ and dreams fancifully like a little girl to) but the tone of the poet seems cold and distant, as if he doesn’t want us to simply feel empathy. This is what I find puzzling about Miss Gee. The detached and somewhat apathetic language makes me think this isn’t just about us feeling sorry for Miss. Gee, but something more. We end up with some gruesomely gratuitous moments following her death (from cancer) ‘They hung her from the ceiling, yes they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers, Carefully dissected her knee’ Which brings to mind meat that hangs from the ceiling in the back of butchers/resteraunts, simply waiting to be consumed. What is the point? To show how life can be meaningless and dull, with apathetic human beings? Fair enough, but the whole ‘human’s sucks’ is echoed more than enough in fiction, and is often done by well-off westerners who’ve never even imagined living homeless in some eastern warzone. ‘Oh the woes of our civilized and comfortable western life!’ This may sound mocking of me, but I can get behind a story like that. But it has to have the writer inject some kind of unique voice of their own, which Auden doesn’t seem to do. He’s probably comparable to Miss Gee’s doctor who plainly states to his wife ‘Cancer’s a funny thing’ – Cold and detached. It isn’t spiteful, but not lamenting either.

I realize that not every work of art has to be joyous celebrations of its medium. I’ll quickly get behind some cultural deconstructionist, a tragedy writer, and even some playful Schadenfreude. Yet, Miss. Gee is none of those things. And in the same way Auden muses on Miss Gee’s depressingly tiresome existence, I similarly muse on his depressingly tiresome poem.

Miss Gee’s a funny thing


- Taha