Robert Frost
is one of the great poets of the twentieth century. His works have thrilled
both audiences and critics alike for more than 80 years. Frost's greatness lies
in the fact that his poems romanticize the rural simplicity that he loved while
probing into the mysteries of the universe.
Robert Lee
Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874 and spent his early childhood there.
After the death of his father, when the poet was ten, his family moved to
Salem, New Hampshire, farming country of which his poetry was to be so deeply
expressive.
Although he
was an excellent scholar, Frost quit college to do odd jobs and write poetry.
He sailed to London in 1912, where he found a publisher for his poetry. His
first book brought him to the attention of influential critics, including Ezra
Pound who praised Frost as a true American poet.
After the
publication of a second volume of poetry called North of Boston (1914), Frost
returned to the United States to win fame and fortune. He taught college and gave
poetry readings throughout much of the United States. His reputation and fame
grew with each book published. When he died in 1963, Frost had become a
national bard with four Pulitzer Prizes and numerous honorary degrees. Yet the
critic Trilling later described him as a ¡®poet of terror.¡¯
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy
Evening
Whose
woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost: Tree at my Window
Tree
at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague
dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But
tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and
swept
And all but lost.
That
day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
D. H. Lawrence:
David Herbert
Lawrence was born on 11th September 1885 in Eastwood, Nottinghamshire. His
birthplace, 8a Victoria Street, is now maintained as a museum, in the style of
a turn of the century house. He was an author of novels, short stories, poems,
plays, essays, travel books, and letters. His novels Sons and Lovers (1913),
The Rainbow (1915), and Women in Love (1920) made him one of the most important
English writers of the 20th century.
Lawrence was the fourth child of an
illiterate Nottinghamshire coal miner, and an educated mother.Lawrence had a
difficult relationship with his home town, which was until recently in a coal
mining area and, as an academic and a person interested in books and poetry
rather than earning a living through his own physical labours was regarded as
'different'. His contempories did not have fond memories of him and it has only
been in recent times that Eastwood has begun to grant him the recognition he
deserves.
Lawrence himself was deeply affected by
his early years in the town and much of his writings use the locality as a
backdrop, especially the contrast between mining town and unspoiled
countryside, the life and culture of the miners, and the problems between his
parents. He always referred to the Eastwood district as 'the country of my
heart' but this was an affection born more of absence than anything else.
After attending Beauvale Boys
School he won a scholarship to Nottingham High School (1898-1901) and it is
interesting that in his final year he obtained only thirteenth place in
English, out of a class of twenty seven. He left school at 16 to earn a living
as clerk in a surgical appliance factory in Nottingham, but he had to give up
work after a first attack of pneumonia. Convalescing, he began visiting the
Haggs Farm nearby and began an intense friendship with Jessie Chambers. He
became a pupil-teacher in Eastwood in 1902 and, encouraged by Jessie, began to
write in 1905; his first story being published in a local newspaper in 1907. He
subsequently studied at University College, Nottingham, from 1906 to 1908,
earning a teachers' certificate, and went on writing poems and stories and
drafting his first novel.
In the year of 1911 Lawrence had
another attack of pneumonia and decided to give up teaching and live by
writing. He also fell in love and eloped with Frieda Weekley (née von
Richthofen), the German wife of a professor at Nottingham. The couple went
first to Germany and then to Italy, They were married in England in 1914 after
Frieda's divorce.
During World War I Lawrence and his wife
were trapped in England and living in poverty although he managed to avoid
conscription. After World War I Lawrence left the country for Italy and never
again returned to Eastwood or Great Britain. He died in Vence, France on March
2nd , 1930.
Trees in the Garden
Ah
in the thunder air
how
still the trees are!
And
the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly
looses even a last breath of perfume.
And
the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white,
ivory white among the rambling greens
how
evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as
if, in another moment, she would disappear
with
all her grace of foam!
And
the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and
the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of things from the
sea,
and
the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how
still they are together, they stand so still
in
the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as
the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.
William Carlos Williams:
William
Carlos Williams was born in Rutherford, New Jersey, in 1883. He began writing
poetry while a student at Horace Mann High School, at which time he made the
decision to become both a writer and a doctor. He received his M.D. from the
University of Pennsylvania, where he met and befriended Ezra Pound. Pound
became a great influence in Williams' writing, and in 1913 arranged for the
London publication of Williams's second collection, The Tempers.
Returning to Rutherford, where he sustained his medical practice throughout his life, Williams began publishing in small magazines and embarked on a prolific career as a poet, novelist, essayist, and playwright. Following Pound, he was one of the principal poets of the Imagist movement, though as time went on, he began to increasingly disagree with the values put forth in the work of Pound and especially Eliot, who he felt were too attached to European culture and traditions.
Continuing to
experiment with new techniques of meter and lineation, Williams sought to
invent an entirely fresh—and singularly American—poetic, whose subject matter
was centered on the everyday circumstances of life and the lives of common
people. His influence as a poet spread slowly during the twenties and thirties,
overshadowed, he felt, by the immense popularity of Eliot's "The Waste
Land"; however, his work received increasing attention in the 1950s and
1960s as younger poets, including Allen Ginsberg and the Beats, were impressed
by the accessibility of his language and his openness as a mentor.
His major
works include Kora in Hell (1920), Spring and All (1923), Pictures from
Brueghel and Other Poems (1962), the five-volume epic Paterson (1963, 1992),
and Imaginations (1970). Williams's health began to decline after a heart
attack in 1948 and a series of strokes, but he continued writing up until his
death in New Jersey in 1963.
Spring and All
By the road to the contagious hospital
under
the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind.
Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff
of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All
about them
the cold, familiar wind-
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wild carrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens: clarity,
outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound
change
has come upon them: rooted,
they
grip down and begin to awaken
E. E. Cummings:
Edward Estlin
Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1894. He received his B.A. in
1915 and his M.A. in 1916, both from Harvard. During the First World War,
Cummings worked as an ambulance driver in France, but was interned in a prison
camp by the French authorities (an experience recounted in his novel, The
Enormous Room) for his outspoken anti-war convictions.
After the
war, he settled into a life divided between houses in rural Connecticut and
Greenwich Village, with frequent visits to Paris. In his work, Cummings
experimented radically with form, punctuation, spelling and syntax, abandoning
traditional techniques and structures to create a new, highly idiosyncratic
means of poetic expression.
Later in his
career, he was often criticized for settling into his signature style and not
pressing his work towards further evolution. Nevertheless, he attained great
popularity, especially among young readers, for the simplicity of his language,
his playful mode and his attention to subjects such as war and sex. At the time
of his death in 1962, he was the second most widely read poet in the United
States, after Robert Frost.
beyond
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you
open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
D.H. Lawrence: The Elephant is Slow to Mate
The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait
for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse
and dash in panic through the brake
of
forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.
So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.
Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.
They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.
Sylvia Plath:
Born to middle class parents in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, Sylvia
Plath published her first poem when she was eight. Sensitive, intelligent,
compelled toward perfection in everything she attempted, she was, on the
surface, a model daughter, popular in school, earning straight A's, winning the
best prizes. By the time she entered Smith College on a scholarship in 1950 she
already had an impressive list of publications, and while at Smith she wrote
over four hundred poems.
Sylvia's surface perfection was however
underlain by grave personal discontinuities, some of which doubtless had their
origin in the death of her father (he was a college professor and an expert on
bees) when she was eight. During the summer following her junior year at Smith,
having returned from a stay in New York City where she had been a student
``guest editor'' at Mademoiselle Magazine, Sylvia nearly succeeded in killing
herself by swallowing sleeping pills. She later described this experience in an
autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar, published in 1963. After a period of
recovery involving electroshock and psychotherapy Sylvia resumed her pursuit of
academic and literary success, graduating from Smith summa cum laude in 1955
and winning a Fulbright scholarship to study at Cambridge, England.
In 1956 she married the English poet Ted
Hughes , and in 1960, when she was 28, her first book, The Colossus, was
published in England. The poems in this book---formally precise, well
wrought---show clearly the dedication with which Sylvia had served her
apprenticeship; yet they give only glimpses of what was to come in the poems
she would begin writing early in 1961. She and Ted Hughes settled for a while
in an English country village in Devon, but less than two years after the birth
of their first child the marriage broke apart.
The winter of 1962-63, one of the
coldest in centuries, found Sylvia living in a small London flat, now with two
children, ill with flu and low on money. The hardness of her life seemed to
increase her need to write, and she often worked between four and eight in the
morning, before the children woke, sometimes finishing a poem a day. In these
last poems it is as if some deeper, powerful self has grabbed control; death is
given a cruel physical allure and psychic pain becomes almost tactile.
On February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath
killed herself with cooking gas at the age of 30. Two years later Ariel, a
collection of some of her last poems, was published; this was followed by
Crossing the Water and Winter Trees in 1971, and, in 1981, The Collected Poems
appeared, edited by Ted Hughes.
Morning Song
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In
a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We
stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
One
cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's.
The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.
W.H. Auden:
Wystan Hugh
Auden was born in York, England, in 1907. He moved to Birmingham during
childhood and was educated at Christ's Church, Oxford. As a young man he was
influenced by the poetry of Thomas Hardy and Robert Frost, as well as William
Blake, Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and Old English verse. At Oxford
his precocity as a poet was immediately apparent, and he formed lifelong
friendships with two fellow writers, Stephen Spender and Christopher Isherwood.
In 1928,
Auden published his first book of verse, and his collection Poems, published in
1930, established him as the leading voice of a new generation. Ever since, he
has been admired for his unsurpassed technical virtuosity and an ability to
write poems in nearly every imaginable verse form; the incorporation in his
work of popular culture, current events, and vernacular speech; and also for
the vast range of his intellect, which drew easily from an extraordinary
variety of literatures, art forms, social and political theories, and
scientific and technical information. He had a remarkable wit, and often
mimicked the writing styles of other poets such as Dickinson, W. B. Yeats, and
Henry James.
His poetry
frequently recounts, literally or metaphorically, a journey or quest, and his
travels provided rich material for his verse. He visited Germany, Iceland, and
China, served in the Spanish Civil war, and in 1939 moved to the United States,
where he met his lover, Chester Kallman, and became an American citizen. His
own beliefs changed radically between his youthful career in England, when he
was an ardent advocate of socialism and Freudian psychoanalysis, and his later
phase in America, when his central preoccupation became Christianity and the
theology of modern Protestant theologians.
A prolific
writer, Auden was also a noted playwright, librettist, editor, and essayist.
Generally considered the greatest English poet of the twentieth century, his
work has exerted a major influence on succeeding generations of poets on both
sides of the Atlantic. W. H. Auden was a Chancellor of The Academy of American
Poets from 1954 to 1973, and divided most of the second half of his life
between residences in New York City and Austria. He died in Vienna in 1973.
Song
IX
Stop
all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence
the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let
aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is
Dead.
Put
crape bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black
cotton gloves.
He
was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My
noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever:
I was wrong.
The
stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour
away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any
good.
W. B. Yeats:
William
Butler Yeats was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1865, the son of a well-known
Irish painter, John Butler Yeats. He spent his childhood in County Sligo, where
his parents were raised, and in London. He returned to Dublin at the age of
fifteen to continue his education and study painting, but quickly discovered he
preferred poetry.
Born into the
Anglo-Irish landowning class, Yeats became involved with the Celtic Revival, a
movement against the cultural influences of English rule in Ireland during the
Victorian period, which sought to promote the spirit of Ireland's native
heritage. Though Yeats never learned Gaelic himself, his writing at the turn of
the century drew extensively from sources in Irish mythology and folklore. Also
a potent influence on his poetry was the Irish revolutionary Maud Gonne, whom
he met in 1889, a woman equally famous for her passionate nationalist politics
and her beauty. Though she married another man in 1903 and grew apart from
Yeats (and Yeats himself was eventually married to another woman, Georgie Hyde
Lees), she remained a powerful figure in his poetry.
Yeats was
deeply involved in politics in Ireland, and in the twenties, despite Irish
independence from England, his verse reflected a pessimism about the political
situation in his country and the rest of Europe, paralleling the increasing
conservativism of his American counterparts in London, T. S. Eliot and Ezra
Pound. His work after 1910 was strongly influenced by Pound, becoming more
modern in its concision and imagery, but Yeats never abandoned his strict
adherence to traditional verse forms. He had a life-long interest in mysticism
and the occult, which was off-putting to some readers, but he remained
uninhibited in advancing his idiosyncratic philosophy, and his poetry continued
to grow stronger as he grew older.
Elected a
senator of the Irish Free Republic in 1922, he is remembered as an important
cultural leader, as a major playwright (he was one of the founders of the
famous Abbey Theatre in Dublin), and as one of the very greatest poets—in any
language—of the century. W. B. Yeats was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1923 and
died in 1939 at the age of 73.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
I
will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And
a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine
bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And
live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And
I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping
from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There
midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And
evening full of the linnet's wings.
I
will arise and go now, for always night and day
I
hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While
I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I
hear it in the deep heart's core.
R. S. Thomas:
RONALD STUART THOMAS (1913–2000) was born in Cardiff but his father served in the Merchant Navy and the family moved from place to place before settling at Holyhead, Ang. in 1918. Educated at the University College of North Wales, Bangor, where he read Classics, he received his theological training at St. Michael¡¯s College, Llandaf, Cardiff. After ordination in 1936 he held two curacies in the Marches, at Chirk, Denbs. (1936–40), where he met and married the painter Mildred E. Eldridge, and at Hanmer, Flints. (1940–42). He became rector of Manafon, Mont., in 1942, and it was at this time that he began seriously to learn the Welsh language. At Manafon he wrote nearly all the poems which were published in his first three volumes, The Stones of the Field (1946), An Acre of Land (1952) and The Minister (1955), and later collected in Song at the Year¡¯s Turning (1955). Some of these early poems, such as ¡®Out of the Hills¡¯, ¡®A Labourer¡¯, ¡®A Peasant¡¯, ¡®The Welsh Hill Country¡¯ and ¡®Cynddylan on a Tractor¡¯, show a developed philosophy of nature and a concern with the geography and history, as with the farmers and farm-labourers, of the hill-country. As an epitome of these people he created the character of the peasant Iago Prytherch, who appears in about twenty poems written during the period from 1946 to 1970, developing into a complex persona for the poet, as spokesman, opponent, friend and even alter ego.
A Peasant
Iago Prytherch his name,
though, be it allowed
Just an ordinary man of the
bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a
gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping
the green skin
From the yellow bones with
a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or
churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clouds
that glint in the wind -
So are his days spent, his
spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that
cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perphaps
once a week.
And then at night seehim
fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he
leans to gob in the fire.
there is something
frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with
years of sweat
And animal contact, shock
the refined,
But affected, sense with
their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype,
who, season by season
Against seige of rain and
thw wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an
impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed even in
death's confusion.
remember him, then, for he,
too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under
the curious stars.
Gary Snyder:
Gary Snyder was born in San Francisco, and brought up in Oregon and Washington State. He received his BA in anthropology at Reed College, Portland, in 1951. His subsequent career has been a remarkable combination of the academic and the contemplative, spiritual study and physical labour. Between working as a logger, a trail-crew member, and a seaman on a Pacific tanker, he studied Oriental languages at Berkeley (1953-6), was associated with Beat writers such as Ginsberg and Kerouac, lived in Japan (1956-64), later studied Buddhism there, and won numerous literary prizes, including a Guggenheim fellowship (1968) and the Pulitzer Prize (1975). He now teaches literature and 'wilderness thought' at the University of California at Davis.
The shapes and strengths of Gary Snyder's craft were established at the outset of his career. His first book, Riprap (Kyoto, 1959), demonstrates the clarity of his seeing, his desire to crystalize moments, his striking ability to convey the physical nature of an instant. Simplicity, distance, accuracy of atmosphere: these are hallmarks of the work throughout. The laid-back, jotted-down tone masks an acute sensitivity to rhythm and, in particular, assonance. Though his formal spectrum is narrow, from terse, rhythmic observation with a resonant conclusion to lengthy, free-associative odysseys through the American 'back country¡¯, his territory is vast, and his resources of phrase and juxtaposition seemingly endless. Such a ranging strategy does not always pan gold from the water, but when it does Snyder comes face to face with a wide, gladdening openness, or touches wellsprings of healing profundity.
Hay For The Horses
He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To
splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt
and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
--The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds --
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And
dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."
Thomas Hardy :
Thomas
Hardy, the son of a stonemason, was born in Dorsetshire, England, in 1840. He
trained as an architect and worked in London and Dorset for ten years. Hardy
began his writing career as a novelist, publishing Desperate Remedies in 1871,
and was soon successful enough to leave the field of architecture for writing.
His novels Tess of the D'Urbervilles (1891) and Jude the Obscure (1895), which
are considered literary classics today, received negative reviews upon
publication and Hardy was criticized for being too pessimistic and preoccupied
with sex. He left fiction writing for poetry, and published eight collections,
including Wessex Poems (1898) and Satires of Circumstance (1912). Hardy's
poetry explores a fatalist outlook against the dark, rugged landscape of his
native Dorset. He rejected the Victorian belief in a benevolent God, and much
of his poetry reads as a sardonic lament on the bleakness of the human
condition. A traditionalist in technique, he nevertheless forged a highly
original style, combining rough-hewn rhythms and colloquial diction with an
extraordinary variety of meters and stanzaic forms. A significant influence on later
poets (including Frost, Auden, Dylan Thomas, and Philip Larkin), his influence
has increased during the course of the century, offering an alternative—more
down-to-earth, less rhetorical—to the more mystical and aristocratic precedent
of Yeats. Thomas Hardy died in 1928.
The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The
weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had
sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The
wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An
aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffed plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So
little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there
trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Seamus Heaney:
Seamus Heaney was born on April 13, 1939, in
Castledawson, County Derry, Northern Ireland. He earned a teacher's certificate
in English at St. Joseph's College in Belfast and in 1963 took a position as a
lecturer in English at that school. While at St. Joseph's he began to write,
joining a poetry workshop with Derek Mahon, Michael Longley, and others under
the guidance of Philip Hobsbaum. In 1965 he married Marie Devlin, and the
following year he published Death of a Naturalist. Since then he has published
hundreds more, in such collections as Opened Ground (Farrar, Straus and Giroux,
1999), which was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year; The Spirit
Level (1996); Selected Poems 1966-1987 (1990); and Sweeney Astray (1984). He
has also written several volumes of criticism, including The Redress of Poetry
(1995). Heaney's most recent translation is Beowulf (Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 2000), which won the Whitbread Book of the Year Award. He is also
co-translator, with Stanislaw Baranczak, of Laments: Poems of Jan Kochanowski
(1995), and co-author, with Joseph Brodsky and Derek Walcott, of a collection
of essays entitled Homage to Robert Frost (1996). Seamus Heaney is a Foreign
Member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and held the chair of
Professor of Poetry at Oxford from 1989 to 1994. In 1995 he received the Nobel
Prize in Literature. Heaney has been a resident of Dublin since 1976, but since
1981 he has spent part of each year teaching at Harvard University, where in
1984 he was elected the Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory.
Lightenings
VI
Once, as a child, out
in a field of sheep,
Thomas Hardy
pretended to be dead
And lay down flat
among their dainty shins.
In that sniffed-at,
bleated-into, grassy space
He experimented with
infinity.
His small cool brow
was like an anvil waiting
For sky to make it
sing the prefect pitch
Of his dumb being,
and that stir he caused
In the fleece-hustle
was the original
Of a ripple that
would travel eighty years
Outward from there,
to be the same ripple
Inside him at its
last circumference.
VII
(I misremembered. He
went down on all fours,
Florence Emily says,
crossing a ewe-leaze.
Hardy sought the
creatures face to face,
Their witless eyes
and liability
To panic made him
feel less alone,
Made proleptic sorrow
stand a moment
Over him, perfectly
known and sure.
And then the flock's
dismay went swimming on
Into the blinks and
murmurs and deflections
He'd know at parties in renowned old age
When sometimes he
imagined himself a ghost
And circulated with
that new perspective.)
Craig Raine: A Martian Sends A Postcard Home
Caxtons
are mechanical birds with many wings
and
some are treasured for their markings -
they
cause the eyes to melt
or
the body to shriek without pain.
I
have never seen one fly, but
sometimes
they perch on the hand.
Mist
is when the sky is tired of flight
and
rests its soft machine on ground:
then
the world is dim and bookish
like
engravings under tissue paper.
Rain
is when the earth is television.
It
has the property of making colours darker.
Model
T is a room with the lock inside -
a
key is turned to free the world
for
movement, so quick there is a film
to
watch for anything missed.
But
time is tied to the wrist
or
kept in a box, ticking with impatience.
In
homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that
snores when you pick it up.
If
the ghost cries, they carry it
to
their lips and soothe it to sleep
with
sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately,
by tickling with a finger.
Only
the young are allowed to suffer
openly.
Adults go to a punishment room
with
water but nothing to eat.
They
lock the door and suffer the noises
alone.
No one is exempt
and
everyone's pain has a different smell.
At
night when all the colours die,
they
hide in pairs
and
read about themselves -
in
colour, with their eyelids shut.
Ted
Hughes: Hawk Roosting
I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction,
no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the
sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.
My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot
Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -
The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:
The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.
Thomas Hardy: The Oxen
Christmas
Eve, and twelve of the clock.
"Now
they are all on their knees,"
An
elder said as we sat in a flock
By
the embers in hearthside ease.
We
pictured the meek mild creatures where
They
dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor
did it occur to one of us there
To
doubt they were kneeling then.
So
fair a fancy few would weave
In
these years! Yet, I feel,
If
someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come;
see the oxen kneel
"In
the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our
childhood used to know,"
I
should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping
it might be so.
Thomas Hardy : The Voice
Woman
much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying
that now you are not as you were
When
you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But
as at first, when our day was fair.
Can
it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing
as when I drew near to the town
Where
you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even
to the original air-blue gown!
Or
is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling
across the wet mead1 to me here,
You
being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard
no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering
forward,
Leaves around me
falling,
Wind
oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman
calling.
William Butler Yeats: When You Are Old
When
you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And
nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And
slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your
eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How
many loved your moments of glad grace,
And
loved your beauty with love false or true,
But
one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And
loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And
bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur,
a little sadly, how Love fled
And
paced upon the mountains overhead
And
hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W. H. Auden: Lullaby
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm:
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.
Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstacy,
Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost.
All the dreaded cards
foretell.
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought.
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find our mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.
Denise Levertov: The Secret
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it
was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
Margaret Atwood: Variation on the Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with
its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Philip Larkin:
Philip Larkin
was born in 1922 in Coventry, England. He attended St. John's College, Oxford.
His first book of poetry, The North Ship, was published in 1945 and, though not
particularly strong on its own, is notable insofar as certain passages
foreshadow the unique sensibility and maturity that characterizes his later
work. In 1946, Larkin discovered the poetry of Thomas Hardy and became a great
admirer of his poetry, learning from Hardy how to make the commonplace and
often dreary details of his life the basis for extremely tough, unsparing, and
memorable poems. With his second volume of poetry, The Less Deceived (1955),
Larkin became the preeminent poet of his generation, and a leading voice of
what came to be called "The Movement," a group of young English
writers who rejected the prevailing fashion for neo-Romantic writing in the
style of Yeats and Dylan Thomas. Like Hardy, Larkin focused on intense personal
emotion but strictly avoided sentimentality or self-pity. In 1964, he confirmed
his reputation as a major poet with the publication of The Whitsun Weddings,
and again in 1974 with High Windows: collections whose searing, often mocking,
wit does not conceal the poet's dark vision and underlying obsession with
universal themes of mortality, love, and human solitude. Deeply anti-social and
a great lover (and published critic) of American jazz, Larkin never married and
conducted an uneventful life as a librarian in the provincial city of Hull,
where he died in 1985.
The Trees
The
trees are coming into leaf
Like
something almost being said;
The
recent buds relax and spread,
Their
greenness is a kind of grief.
Is
it that they are born again
And
we grow old? No, they die too.
Their
yearly trick of looking new
Is
written down in rings of grain.
Yet
still the unresting castles thresh
In
fullgrown thickness every May.
Last
year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin
afresh, afresh, afresh.
Philip Larkin: Talking in Bed
Talking
in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying
together there goes back so far,
An
emblem of two people being honest.
Yet
more and more time passes silently.
Outside,
the wind's incomplete unrest
Builds
and disperses clouds about the sky,
And
dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None
of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At
this unique distance from isolation
It
becomes still more difficult to find
Words
at once true and kind,
Or
not untrue and not unkind.
Philip Larkin: Ambulances
Closed
like confessionals, they thread
Loud
noons of cities, giving back
None
of the glances they absorb.
Light
glossy grey, arms on a plaque,
They
come to rest at any kerb:
All
streets in time are visited.
Then
children strewn on steps or road,
Or
women coming from the shops
Past
smells of different dinners, see
A
wild white face that overtops
Red
stretcher-blankets momently
As
it is carried in and stowed,
And
sense the solving emptiness
That
lies just under all we do,
And
for a second get it whole,
So
permanent and blank and true.
The
fastened doors recede. Poor soul,
They
whisper at their own distress;
For
borne away in deadened air
May
go the sudden shut of loss
Round
something nearly at an end,
And
what cohered in it across
The
years, the unique random blend
Of
families and fashions, there
At
last begin to loosen. Far
From
the exchange of love to lie
Unreachable
inside a room
The
traffic parts to let go by
Brings
closer what is left to come,
And
dulls to distance all we are.
Thom Gunn: The Man with Night Sweats
I
wake up cold, I who
Prospered
through dreams of heat
Wake
to their residue,
Sweat,
and a clinging sheet.
My
flesh was its own shield:
Where
it was gashed, it healed.
I
grew as I explored
The
body I could trust
Even
while I adored
The
risk that made robust,
A
world of wonders in
Each
challenge to the skin.
I
cannot but be sorry
The
given shield was cracked,
My
mind reduced to hurry,
My
flesh reduced and wrecked.
I
have to change the bed,
But
catch myself instead
Stopped
upright where I am
Hugging
my body to me
As
if to shield it from
The
pains that will go through me,
As if hands were enough
To hold an avalanche
off.