On the Poetry of Mad Men

Two nights ago I watched the season three premiere of Mad Men. I’ll confess to being hopelessly addicted to this show, even if I remain conflicted about the series’ message. I can’t think of any other movie or television show which makes anomie look so stylish. The writers are careful to focus on character, but it’s undeniable that the show’s real hook is Danish Modern. It can’t help but glamourize jewel tones, skinny ties, teak furniture, and the Janus-faced lives of those at Sterling Cooper that go along with them.

But of particular importance to this blog: the show also manages to glamourize modern poetry. Season two found Don Draper fascinated with Frank O’Hara’s 1957 collection Meditations in an Emergency after sitting next to a hipster reading it in a bar. He even read the final stanzas of “Mayakovsky” in voiceover at the end of the first episode.

Thanks to this, sales of O’Hara’s book shot up 218%. It’s easy to see why “Mayakovsky” caught Don’s attention. It’s oppressive atomism and melancholia is a gloss on his personality.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

The actual Mayakovsky (Vladimir, not O’Hara’s poem) led a tragic life of denunciations and depression. He shot himself at the age of 37. Perhaps a little too into his art, his suicide note was in the form of a poem. O’Hara himself met a sad end when he was hit by a dune buggy (on a beach on Fire Island, of all places!) Let’s hope Don doesn’t succumb to either of these fates.

Bruce Handy’s recent Vanity Fair piece also revealed another poetic tidbit about a character. Writer Matthew Weiner gave actress January Jones a poem by Sylvia Plath to read at the start of the second season. “Ariel,” written on Plath’s 30th birthday is, according to Handy, “an abstract howl of female rage and despair.” Handy fails to mention that Ariel is also the name of the horse Plath rides in the poem. At last Betty Draper’s hours of riding lessons throughout the second season make sense (and all this time I thought it was just for the sexy equestrian wear!) Plath’s metaphor of shedding the shackles of female domestic captivity (she “unpeels” as she rides) becomes itself a metaphor for Betty’s character arc in season two (as she finally stands up for herself).

White
Godiva, I unpeel --
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And
now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts
in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that
flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the
cauldron of morning.

I wonder if every character in the show has a similar literary pedigree? In celebration of Mad Men’s return, I’m going to suggest a poem each week that relates to a co-worker, family member, or sexual conquest of Don Draper (the latter category of course being the most substantial).

This week I’ll start with my favourite character: Roger Sterling. In Vanity Fair Handy described him as “sybaritic,” which of course means that he is inflicted with a sexual transmitted disease “devoted to excessive luxury” (OED). But since this is a blog post and not a William Makepeace Thackery novel, I’ll simply describe him as a hedonist. But he’s also a charming wit (see Season 3, Episode 1) and a stone cold silver fox. What poet’s work might encapsulate this decadent and libidinous entitlement?

Why Byron of course! Roger’s break-up speech to Joan in Season 1 (“I am so glad I got to roam those hillsides”) reminds me of this ditty. Byron, lecherous at the best of times, sounds downright dirty here. I think most people read it as a wistful elegy, but to me it’s the poetic equivalent of a drunken leer. Crisp and naughty—I bet Roger Sterling would like it just fine.

So, we'll go no more a roving
    So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
    And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
    And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
    By the light of the moon.

Next week: Peggy Olson.  Your suggestions, dear reader, are heartily welcome.