Bagology
"A woman without her handbag feels as lost as a wanderer in the desert. And she wants it large. If she cannot get it in leather-now growing scarce-she will take it in fabric, fur, or even plastic. The handbag is the movable base of her supplies-the depot of her expected needs. These eventual needs may reach out to a degree far beyond any man's power of imagination. A woman's handbag is a mysterious dungeon. It's the key to her real self; the prosaic answer to many poetic conceptions." The fabulous start to a 1945 New York Times article on the Inside Story of a Handbag, available in full here
Well it's the beginning of the academic year, and I know now the full extent of my teaching schedule. Suffice it to say, it ain't light! I'm taking classes everyday and sometimes twice a day. Two new modules, both poetry-based, so be prepared to receive the fall-out of my reading and planning on this blog...meanwhile, as every back-to-schoolgirl should, I've ordered not one but two new bags, by a brand name I won't mention, but slightly more practical than designer. Nevertheless I spent ages pouring over designs and colour options, coming down on the side of purples and blacks. Alas, the psuedo-science of lady-bags, of bagology, is largely lost on gentlemen, even though early examples of the precious magic of the bag was that of the wizard's bag, with its secrets and its containing agents of power. Handbags seem to have come into their own from the early nineteenth century, from modest drawstring purses containing a prayer book and smelling salts, to today's statement pieces. The bag is a container of course, an archetypal female symbol (just think how Freud would have interpreted a handbag in any dream of yours). What's inside is often practical but there's also room for the personal, mysterious and magical.
The bag expresses personality but hides away secrets and valuables. Sizes of handbag are dictated to a certain extent by the vagaries of fashion, but in general a smaller handbag denoted a higher rung on the social ladder - not so much need to carry around the practical paraphernalia. At the bottom of the ladder is the bag lady - homeless, with all her worldly possessions in a bin liner. At the top is some diamond encrusted Louis Vuitton. I suppose being a bookish lady by profession and inclination I always tend to go for something that will take at least a paperback and a couple of notebooks, so that precludes me from the top rank straight away. But who cares; I'm just looking forward to my black and purple bags.
As to what else goes in my bag...well, that would be telling. But there are one or two basically non-useful objects which I always like to have in it. Not quite as odd as the Queen who is purported to carry in her handbag (and she's never without one) predominantly good luck charms from her children (and why not?).But listing such mysterious contents as those inside a bag has made for some good poems: the list poem, always a promising starting point for poetry, can take on a surreal aspect, which is generally a good thing when trying to push a text from practical prose to magical poetry.
Two examples.
What Every Woman Should Carry (Maura Dooley)
My mother gave me the prayer to Saint Theresa.
I added a used tube ticket, kleenex,
several Polo mints (furry), a tampon, pesetas,
a florin. Not wishing to be presumptuous,
not trusting you either, a pack of 3.
I have a pen. There is space for my guardian
angel, she has to fold her wings. Passport.
A key. Anguish, at what I said/didn't say
when once you needed/didn't need me. Anadin.
A credit card. His face the last time,
my impatience, my useless youth.
That empty sack, my heart. A box of matches.
It's the last line that has the bite there. Imminent arson, or self-immolation? The rest are sharp, realisable details, mixed in with the fantastic. The folded up guardian angel line for instance.
And now...
Ten Things Found in a Wizard’s Pocket (Ian McMillan)
A dark night.
Some words that nobody could ever spell.
A glass of water full to the top.
A large elephant.
A vest made from spider’s webs.
A handkerchief the size of a car park.
A bill from the wand shop.
A bucket full of stars and planets, to mix with the dark night.
A bag of magic mints you can suck for ever.
A snoring rabbit.
I know it's not strictly a bag, but seeing as wizards and their bags of magic things are honorable precursors to the handbag, this poem was on my mind. A magical-list poem bound to appeal to the inner child. That snoring rabbit, though - I always wondered what they did before being pulled out of the proverbial hat. I wonder if they sleep as sound as the kittens do when they're done with running around for the time being. And the kittens just love bags, of course! Plastic, leather, briefcase, tote - all a womblike place of safety and refuge, sometimes of play - hide and seek - and perhaps sometimes the right spot for a hidden watchfulness of their own.
Well it's the beginning of the academic year, and I know now the full extent of my teaching schedule. Suffice it to say, it ain't light! I'm taking classes everyday and sometimes twice a day. Two new modules, both poetry-based, so be prepared to receive the fall-out of my reading and planning on this blog...meanwhile, as every back-to-schoolgirl should, I've ordered not one but two new bags, by a brand name I won't mention, but slightly more practical than designer. Nevertheless I spent ages pouring over designs and colour options, coming down on the side of purples and blacks. Alas, the psuedo-science of lady-bags, of bagology, is largely lost on gentlemen, even though early examples of the precious magic of the bag was that of the wizard's bag, with its secrets and its containing agents of power. Handbags seem to have come into their own from the early nineteenth century, from modest drawstring purses containing a prayer book and smelling salts, to today's statement pieces. The bag is a container of course, an archetypal female symbol (just think how Freud would have interpreted a handbag in any dream of yours). What's inside is often practical but there's also room for the personal, mysterious and magical.
The bag expresses personality but hides away secrets and valuables. Sizes of handbag are dictated to a certain extent by the vagaries of fashion, but in general a smaller handbag denoted a higher rung on the social ladder - not so much need to carry around the practical paraphernalia. At the bottom of the ladder is the bag lady - homeless, with all her worldly possessions in a bin liner. At the top is some diamond encrusted Louis Vuitton. I suppose being a bookish lady by profession and inclination I always tend to go for something that will take at least a paperback and a couple of notebooks, so that precludes me from the top rank straight away. But who cares; I'm just looking forward to my black and purple bags.
As to what else goes in my bag...well, that would be telling. But there are one or two basically non-useful objects which I always like to have in it. Not quite as odd as the Queen who is purported to carry in her handbag (and she's never without one) predominantly good luck charms from her children (and why not?).But listing such mysterious contents as those inside a bag has made for some good poems: the list poem, always a promising starting point for poetry, can take on a surreal aspect, which is generally a good thing when trying to push a text from practical prose to magical poetry.
Two examples.
What Every Woman Should Carry (Maura Dooley)
My mother gave me the prayer to Saint Theresa.
I added a used tube ticket, kleenex,
several Polo mints (furry), a tampon, pesetas,
a florin. Not wishing to be presumptuous,
not trusting you either, a pack of 3.
I have a pen. There is space for my guardian
angel, she has to fold her wings. Passport.
A key. Anguish, at what I said/didn't say
when once you needed/didn't need me. Anadin.
A credit card. His face the last time,
my impatience, my useless youth.
That empty sack, my heart. A box of matches.
It's the last line that has the bite there. Imminent arson, or self-immolation? The rest are sharp, realisable details, mixed in with the fantastic. The folded up guardian angel line for instance.
And now...
Ten Things Found in a Wizard’s Pocket (Ian McMillan)
A dark night.
Some words that nobody could ever spell.
A glass of water full to the top.
A large elephant.
A vest made from spider’s webs.
A handkerchief the size of a car park.
A bill from the wand shop.
A bucket full of stars and planets, to mix with the dark night.
A bag of magic mints you can suck for ever.
A snoring rabbit.
I know it's not strictly a bag, but seeing as wizards and their bags of magic things are honorable precursors to the handbag, this poem was on my mind. A magical-list poem bound to appeal to the inner child. That snoring rabbit, though - I always wondered what they did before being pulled out of the proverbial hat. I wonder if they sleep as sound as the kittens do when they're done with running around for the time being. And the kittens just love bags, of course! Plastic, leather, briefcase, tote - all a womblike place of safety and refuge, sometimes of play - hide and seek - and perhaps sometimes the right spot for a hidden watchfulness of their own.
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