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Thread: A poem a day

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    Spring
    - Poem by Charles Duke of Orleans


    The year has changed his mantle cold
    Of wind, of rain, of bitter air;
    And he goes clad in cloth of gold,
    Of laughing suns and season fair;
    No bird or beast of wood or wold
    But doth with cry or song declare
    The year lays down his mantle cold.
    All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
    The pleasant summer livery wear,
    With silver studs on broidered vair;
    The world puts off its raiment old,
    The year lays down his mantle cold.
    Charles Duke of Orleans
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    All That's Past
    - Poem by Walter de la Mare


    Very old are the woods;
    And the buds that break
    Out of the brier's boughs,
    When March winds wake,
    So old with their beauty are--
    Oh, no man knows
    Through what wild centuries
    Roves back the rose.
    Very old are the brooks;
    And the rills that rise
    Where snow sleeps cold beneath
    The azure skies
    Sing such a history
    Of come and gone,
    Their every drop is as wise
    As Solomon.

    Very old are we men;
    Our dreams are tales
    Told in dim Eden
    By Eve's nightingales;
    We wake and whisper awhile,
    But, the day gone by,
    Silence and sleep like fields
    Of amaranth lie.
    Walter de la Mare

    ************************************************** *********
    Biography of Walter de la Mare
    Walter de la Mare poet

    Sir Walter de la Mare was born in Charlton, Kent, in the south of England, of well-to-do parents. His father, James Edward Delamaere, was an official of the Bank of England. His mother, Lucy Sophia (Browning) Delamare, was related to the poet Robert Browning. He was educated in London at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School, which he left at age 16. From 1890 to 1908 he worked in London in the accounting department of the Anglo-American Oil Company. His career as a writer started from about 1895 and he continued to publish to the end of his life. His first published story, 'Kismet' (1895), appeared in the Sketch under the pseudonym Walter Ramal.

    In 1908 de la Mare was awarded a yearly government pension of £100, and he devoted himself entirely to writing. He retired to Taplow in Buckinghamshire, where he lived with his wife, Constance Elfrida Ingpen, and four children. His son Richard became chairman of Faber & Faber, and published several of his father's books. In 1915 he became of of the legatees of his fellow poet Rupert Brooke. De la Mare received the CH in 1948, and the OM in 1953. He died at Twickenham, near London, on June 22, 1958. De la Mare is buried in St Paul's Cathedral.

    His first stories and poems De la Mare wrote for periodicals, among others for The Sketch, and published in 1902 a collection of poetry, SONGS OF CHILDHOOD, under the name Walter Ramal. It attracted little notice. Subsequently De la Mare published many volumes of poetry for both adults and children. In 1904 appeared under his own name the prose romance HENRY BROCKEN, in which the young hero encounters writers form the past.

    THE RETURN (1910) was an eerie story of spirit possession. Arthur Lawford suspects that an eighteenth-century pirate, Nicholas Sabathier, is seizing control of his personality. "'Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,' he began murmuring again - 'merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are quite another story. And it's pretty certain the fellow had some kind of brains. Besides, poor devil, he killed himself. That seems to hint at brains..."

    De la Mare's first successful book was The Listeners; the title poem is one of his most anthologized pieces. In the work supernatural presence haunts the solitary Traveller, the typical speaker of his poems: "Is there anybody there? said the Traveller, / Knocking on the moonlit door; / And his horse in the silence champed the grasses / Of the forest's ferny floor.... / But no one descended to the Traveller; / No head from the leaf-fringed sill / Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, / Where he stood perplexed and still." In 1923 he produced a collection of other people's poetry, COME HITHER. In his poems de la Mare has described the English sea and coast, the secret and hidden world of nature.

    His favorite themes, childhood, death, dreams, commonplace objects and events, de la Mare examined with a touch of mystery and often with an undercurrent of melancholy. His novels have been reprinted many times in horror collections because of their sense of wonder, and also hidden malevolence. However, De la Mare did not have the morbid atmosphere of Poe, but his dreamlike visions had much similarities with Blake.

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Walter de la Mare; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
    Walter de la Mare Poems

    The Listeners
    "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor;
    Silver
    Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon; This way, and that, she peers, and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees;
    Some One
    Some one came knocking At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure;
    Music
    When music sounds, gone is the earth I know, And all her lovely things even lovelier grow; Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.
    Arabia
    Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon;
    Nicholas Nye
    Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
    All That's Past
    Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake,
    A Song Of Enchantment
    A song of Enchantment I sang me there, In a green-green wood, by waters fair, Just as the words came up to me I sang it under the wild wood tree.
    An Epitaph
    Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country.
    Alone
    The abode of the nightingale is bare, Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air, The fox howls from his frozen lair: Alas, my loved one is gone,
    AUTUMN (November)
    There is a wind where the rose was, Cold rain where sweet grass was, And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep
    The Ghost
    Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
    Bones
    Said Mr. Smith, “I really cannot Tell you, Dr. Jones— The most peculiar pain I’m in— I think it’s in my bones.”
    Snow
    No breath of wind, No gleam of sun – Still the white snow Whirls softly down
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

  3. #678
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    A Marriage
    - Poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas

    We met
    under a shower
    of bird-notes.
    Fifty years passed,
    love's moment
    in a world in
    servitude to time.
    She was young;
    I kissed with my eyes
    closed and opened
    them on her wrinkles.
    `Come,' said death,
    choosing her as his
    partner for
    the last dance, And she,
    who in life
    had done everything
    with a bird's grace,
    opened her bill now
    for the shedding
    of one sigh no
    heavier than a feather.
    Ronald Stuart Thomas

    -------------------------------------------------------------------------
    A Blackbird Singing
    - Poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas


    It seems wrong that out of this bird,
    Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
    Places about it, there yet should come
    Such rich music, as though the notes'
    Ore were changed to a rare metal
    At one touch of that bright bill.

    You have heard it often, alone at your desk
    In a green April, your mind drawn
    Away from its work by sweet disturbance
    Of the mild evening outside your room.

    A slow singer, but loading each phrase
    With history's overtones, love, joy
    And grief learned by his dark tribe
    In other orchards and passed on
    Instinctively as they are now,
    But fresh always with new tears.


    Ronald Stuart Thomas
    ************************************************** *
    BIOGRAPHY
    Ronald Stuart Thomas poet

    Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936.

    During his time as a rector he began to write poetry and verse. His writing career continued for fifty years during which time he produced twenty volumes of poetry and was nominated for a Nobel prize and awarded the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry. Whilst religion, understandably, was one of the major themes of his work, he also wrote about nature and about Welsh history. Thomas was fervent and often outspoken Welsh patriot and even wrote his autobiography Nab (Nobody - 1985) in Welsh.

    Thomas enjoyed working in the countryside and spent his whole time as a clergyman working in rural parishes. He retired in 1978. His first wife Elsi, by whom he had a son, died in 1991 after 51 years of marriage. He later married his second wife, Betty, who was with him until his death. He died at the age of 87 n 25th September 2000.

    Whilst still remembered for his Welsh republican views, it is for his religious poetry that he is still held in high regard. Of his work, he said:

    "My chief aim is to make a poem . You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in... then there we are." His Collected Poems was published in 1993 and is still available today.

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Ronald Stuart Thomas; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
    Ronald Stuart Thomas Poems

    The Dance
    She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer
    A Day In Autumn
    It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
    Children's Song
    We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees,
    Ninetieth Birthday
    You go up the long track That will take a car, but is best walked On slow foot, noting the lichen That writes history on the page
    A Blackbird Singing
    It seems wrong that out of this bird, Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should come Such rich music, as though the notes'
    A Marriage
    We met under a shower of bird-notes.
    A Welsh Testament
    All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter? I spoke a tongue that was passed on To me in the place I happened to be, A place huddled between grey walls
    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
    Welsh Landscape
    To live in Wales is to be conscious At dusk of the spilled blood That went into the making of the wild sky, Dyeing the immaculate rivers
    The Cat And The Sea
    It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals;
    Here
    I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.
    Pisces
    Who said to the trout, You shall die on Good Friday To be food for a man And his pretty lady?
    Death Of A Poet
    Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day's colour Widow the sky, what can he say
    Welsh History
    We were a people taut for war; the hills Were no harder, the thin grass Clothed them more warmly than the coarse Shirts our small bones.

    All poems of Ronald Stuart Thomas »
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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  5. #679
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    Quote Originally Posted by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot View Post
    A Marriage
    - Poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas

    We met
    under a shower
    of bird-notes.
    Fifty years passed,
    love's moment
    in a world in
    servitude to time.
    She was young;
    I kissed with my eyes
    closed and opened
    them on her wrinkles.
    `Come,' said death,
    choosing her as his
    partner for
    the last dance, And she,
    who in life
    had done everything
    with a bird's grace,
    opened her bill now
    for the shedding
    of one sigh no
    heavier than a feather.
    Ronald Stuart Thomas

    -------------------------------------------------------------------------


    A Blackbird Singing
    - Poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas


    It seems wrong that out of this bird,
    Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
    Places about it, there yet should come
    Such rich music, as though the notes'
    Ore were changed to a rare metal
    At one touch of that bright bill.

    You have heard it often, alone at your desk
    In a green April, your mind drawn
    Away from its work by sweet disturbance
    Of the mild evening outside your room.

    A slow singer, but loading each phrase
    With history's overtones, love, joy
    And grief learned by his dark tribe
    In other orchards and passed on
    Instinctively as they are now,
    But fresh always with new tears.


    Ronald Stuart Thomas
    ************************************************** *


    BIOGRAPHY
    Ronald Stuart Thomas poet

    Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in Cardiff in 1913, the son of a sea captain. He was educated at University College of North Wales and later undertook theological training at St Michael's College in Cardiff. He was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1936.

    During his time as a rector he began to write poetry and verse. His writing career continued for fifty years during which time he produced twenty volumes of poetry and was nominated for a Nobel prize and awarded the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry. Whilst religion, understandably, was one of the major themes of his work, he also wrote about nature and about Welsh history. Thomas was fervent and often outspoken Welsh patriot and even wrote his autobiography Nab (Nobody - 1985) in Welsh.

    Thomas enjoyed working in the countryside and spent his whole time as a clergyman working in rural parishes. He retired in 1978. His first wife Elsi, by whom he had a son, died in 1991 after 51 years of marriage. He later married his second wife, Betty, who was with him until his death. He died at the age of 87 n 25th September 2000.

    Whilst still remembered for his Welsh republican views, it is for his religious poetry that he is still held in high regard. Of his work, he said:

    "My chief aim is to make a poem . You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in... then there we are." His Collected Poems was published in 1993 and is still available today.

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Ronald Stuart Thomas; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
    Ronald Stuart Thomas Poems

    The Dance
    She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer
    A Day In Autumn
    It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
    Children's Song
    We live in our own world, A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees,
    Ninetieth Birthday
    You go up the long track That will take a car, but is best walked On slow foot, noting the lichen That writes history on the page
    A Blackbird Singing
    It seems wrong that out of this bird, Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should come Such rich music, as though the notes'
    A Marriage
    We met under a shower of bird-notes.
    A Welsh Testament
    All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter? I spoke a tongue that was passed on To me in the place I happened to be, A place huddled between grey walls
    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
    Welsh Landscape
    To live in Wales is to be conscious At dusk of the spilled blood That went into the making of the wild sky, Dyeing the immaculate rivers
    The Cat And The Sea
    It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals;
    Here
    I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.
    Pisces
    Who said to the trout, You shall die on Good Friday To be food for a man And his pretty lady?
    Death Of A Poet
    Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day's colour Widow the sky, what can he say
    Welsh History
    We were a people taut for war; the hills Were no harder, the thin grass Clothed them more warmly than the coarse Shirts our small bones.

    All poems of Ronald Stuart Thomas »



    Good Morning Tyr.....very nice!
    ~ "It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals;
    Here
    I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.
    Pisces...." ~




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  7. #680
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    Sonnet
    - Poem by Arthur Davison Ficke

    There are strange shadows fostered of the moon,
    More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day….
    Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June,
    Into the dusk of swooping bats at play;
    Or go into that late November dusk
    When hills take on the noble lines of death,
    And on the air the faint, astringent musk
    Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath.
    Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun,
    Knows nothing—aye, a thousand shadows there
    Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run,
    Like petrels of the changing foul or fair;
    Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him
    Whose homeland lies past each horizon's rim….
    Arthur Davison Ficke
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    The Helmsman
    - Poem by Hilda Doolittle


    O be swift—
    we have always known you wanted us.

    We fled inland with our flocks.
    we pastured them in hollows,
    cut off from the wind
    and the salt track of the marsh.

    We worshipped inland—
    we stepped past wood-flowers,
    we forgot your tang,
    we brushed wood-grass.

    We wandered from pine-hills
    through oak and scrub-oak tangles,
    we broke hyssop and bramble,
    we caught flower and new bramble-fruit
    in our hair: we laughed
    as each branch whipped back,
    we tore our feet in half-buried rocks
    and knotted roots and acorn-cups.

    We forgot—we worshipped,
    we parted green from green,
    we sought further thickets,
    we dipped our ankles
    through leaf-mould and earth,
    and wood and wood-bank enchanted us—

    and the feel of the clefts in the bark,
    and the slope between tree and tree—
    and a slender path strung field to field
    and wood to wood
    and hill to hill
    and the forest after it.

    We forgot—for a moment
    tree-resin, tree-bark,
    sweat of a torn branch
    were sweet to taste.

    We were enchanted with the fields,
    the tufts of coarse grass—
    in the shorter grass—
    we loved all this.

    But now, our boat climbs—hesitates—drops—
    climbs—hesitates—crawls back—
    climbs—hesitates—
    O, be swift—
    we have always known you wanted us.
    Hilda Doolittle

    ************************************************** ************

    Biography of Hilda Doolittle

    Hilda Doolittle poet

    H.D. (born Hilda Doolittle) was an American poet, novelist and memoirist known for her association with the early 20th century avant-garde Imagist group of poets such as Ezra Pound and Richard Aldington. The Imagist model was based on the idioms, rhythms and clarity of common speech, and freedom to choose subject matter as the writer saw fit. H.D.'s later writing developed on this aesthetic to incorporate a more female-centric version of modernism.

    H.D. was born in Pennsylvania in 1886, and moved to London in 1911 where her publications earned her a central role within the then emerging Imagism movement. A charismatic figure, she was championed by the modernist poet Ezra Pound, who was instrumental in building and furthering her career. From 1916–17, she acted as the literary editor of the Egoist journal, while her poetry appeared in the English Review and the Transatlantic Review. During the First World War, H.D. suffered the death of her brother and the breakup of her marriage to the poet Richard Aldington, and these events weighed heavily on her later poetry. Glenn Hughes, the authority on Imagism, said of her 'her loneliness cries out from her poems. She had a deep interest in Ancient Greek literature, and her poetry often borrowed from Greek mythology and classical poets. Her work is noted for its incorporation of natural scenes and objects, which are often used to emote a particular feeling or mood.

    She befriended Sigmund Freud during the 1930s, and became his patient in order to understand and express her bisexuality.

    H.D. married once, and undertook a number of heterosexual and lesbian relationships. She was unapologetic about her sexuality, and thus became an icon for both the gay rights and feminist movements when her poems, plays, letters and essays were rediscovered during the 1970s and 1980s. This period saw a wave of feminist literature on the gendering of Modernism and psychoanalytical misogyny, by a generation of writers who saw her as an early icon of the feminist movement.

    Career

    Early life

    Hilda Doolittle was born into the Moravian community in Bethlehem in Pennsylvania's Lehigh Valley. Her father, Charles Doolittle, was professor of astronomy at Lehigh University and her mother, Helen (Wolle), was a Moravian with a strong interest in music. In 1896, Charles Doolittle was appointed Flower Professor of Astronomy at the University of Pennsylvania, and the family moved to a house in Upper Darby, an affluent Philadelphia suburb. She attended Philadelphia's Friends Central High School, at Fifteenth and Race streets, graduating in 1905. In 1901, she met and befriended Ezra Pound, who was to play a major role both in her private life and her emergence as a writer. In 1905, Pound presented her with a sheaf of love poems under the collective title Hilda's Book.

    That year, Doolittle attended Bryn Mawr College to study Greek literature, but left after only three terms due to poor grades and the excuse of poor health. While at the college, she met the poets Marianne Moore and William Carlos Williams. Her first published writings, some stories for children, were published in The Comrade, a Philadelphia Presbyterian Church paper, between 1909 and 1913, mostly under the name Edith Gray. In 1907, she became engaged to Pound. Her father disapproved of Pound,] and by the time her father left for Europe in 1908, the engagement had been called off. Around this time, H.D. started a relationship with a young female art student at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Frances Josepha Gregg. After spending part of 1910 living in Greenwich Village, she sailed to Europe with Gregg and Gregg's mother in 1911. In Europe, H.D. began a more serious career as a writer. Her relationship with Gregg cooled, and she met a writing enthusiast named Brigit Patmore with whom she became involved in an affair. Patmore introduced H.D. to another poet, Richard Aldington.

    H.D. Imagiste

    Soon after arriving in England, H.D. showed Pound some poems she had written. Pound had already begun to meet with other poets at the Eiffel Tower restaurant in Soho. He was impressed by the closeness of H.D. poems's to the ideas and principles he had been discussing with Aldington, with whom he had shared plans to reform contemporary poetry through free verse, the tanka and the tightness and conciseness of the haiku, and the removal of all unnecessary verbiage. In summer 1912, the three poets declared themselves the "three original Imagists", and set out their principles as:
    Direct treatment of the 'thing' whether subjective or objective.
    To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
    As regarding rhythm: to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in the sequence of a metronome.

    During a meeting with H.D. in a tea room near the British Museum that year, Pound appended the signature H.D. Imagiste to her poetry, creating a label that was to stick to the poet for most of her writing life. However H.D. told different versions of this story at various times, and during her career published under a variety of pseudonyms. That same year, Harriet Monroe started her Poetry magazine and asked Pound to act as foreign editor. In October, he submitted three poems each by H.D. and Aldington under the rubric Imagiste. Aldington's poems were in the November issue of Poetry and her poems "Hermes of the Ways," "Orchard," and "Epigram", in the January 1913 issue. Imagism as a movement was launched with H.D. as its prime exponent.

    The early models for the Imagist group were from Japan, and H.D. often visited the exclusive Print Room at the British Museum in the company of Richard Aldington and the curator and poet Laurence Binyon in order to examine Nishiki-e prints that incorporated traditional Japanese verse. However, she also derived her way of making poems from her reading of Classical Greek literature and especially of Sappho, an interest she shared with Aldington and Pound, each of whom produced versions of the Greek poet's work. In 1915, H.D. and Aldington launched the Poets' Translation Series, pamphlets of translations from Greek and Latin classics. H.D. worked on the plays by Euripides, publishing in 1916 a translation of choruses from Iphigeneia at Aulis, in 1919 a translation of choruses from Iphigeneia at Aulis and Hippolytus, an adaptation of Hippolytus called Hippolytus Temporizes (1927), a translation of choruses from The Bacchae and Hecuba (1931), and Euripides' Ion (1937) a loose translation of Ion.

    She continued her association with the group until the final issue of the Some Imagist Poets anthology in 1917. She and Aldington did most of the editorial work on the 1915 anthology. Her work also appeared in Aldington's Imagist Anthology 1930. All of her poetry up to the end of the 1930s was written in an Imagist mode, utilising spare use of language, and a classical, austere purity. This style of writing was not without its critics. In a special Imagist issue of The Egoist magazine in May 1915, the poet and critic Harold Monro called H.D.'s early work "petty poetry", denoting "either poverty of imagination or needlessly excessive restraint".

    Oread, one of her earliest and best-known poems, which was first published in the 1915 anthology, illustrates this early style:

    Whirl up, sea—
    Whirl your pointed pines.
    Splash your great pines
    On our rocks.
    Hurl your green over us—
    Cover us with your pools of fir.

    World War I and after

    Before World War I, H.D. married Aldington in 1913; however, their first and only child, a daughter, was stillborn in 1915. Aldington enlisted in the army. The couple became estranged and Aldington reportedly took a mistress in 1917. H.D.

    became involved in a close but platonic relationship with D. H. Lawrence. In 1916, her first book, Sea Garden, was published and she was appointed assistant editor of The Egoist, replacing her husband. In 1918, her brother Gilbert was killed in action, and that March she moved into a cottage in Cornwall with the composer Cecil Gray, a friend of Lawrence's. She became pregnant with Gray's child, however, by the time she realised she was expecting, the relationship had cooled and Gray had returned to live in London. When Aldington returned from active service he was noticeably traumatised, and he and H.D. later separated.

    Close to the end of the war, H.D. met the wealthy English novelist Bryher (Annie Winifred Ellerman). They lived together until 1946, and although both took numerous other partners, Bryher remained her lover for the rest of H.D.'s life. In 1919, H.D. came close to death when she gave birth to her daughter Frances Perdita Aldington—although the father was not Aldington, but Gray—while suffering from war influenza. During this time, her father, who had never recovered from Gilbert's death, died. In 1919, H.D. wrote one of her few known statements on poetics, Notes on Thought and Vision, which was unpublished until 1982. In this, she speaks of poets (herself included) as belonging to a kind of elite group of visionaries with the power to 'turn the whole tide of human thought'.

    H.D. and Aldington attempted to salvage their relationship during this time, but he was suffering from the effects of his participation in the war, possibly post-traumatic stress disorder, and they became estranged, living completely separate lives, but not divorcing until 1938. They remained friends, however, for the rest of their lives. From 1920, her relationship with Bryher became closer and the pair travelled in Egypt, Greece and the United States before eventually settling in Switzerland. Bryher entered a marriage of convenience in 1921 with Robert McAlmon, which allowed him to fund his publishing ventures in Paris by utilising some of her personal wealth for his Contact Press.Both Bryher and H.D. slept with McAlmon during this time. Bryher and McAlmon divorced in 1927.

    Novels, films and psychoanalysis

    In the early 1920s, H.D. started to write three projected cycles of novels. The first of these, Magna Graeca, consists of Palimpsest (1921) and Hedylus (1928). The Magna Graeca novels use their classical settings to explore the poetic vocation, particularly as it applies to women in a patriarchal literary culture. The Madrigal cycle consists of HERmione, Bid Me to Live, Paint It Today and Asphodel, and is largely autobiographical, dealing with the development of the female artist and the conflict between heterosexual and lesbian desire. Kora and Ka and The Usual Star, two novellas from the Borderline cycle, were published in 1933. In this period, she also wrote Pilate's Wife, Mira-Mare, and Nights.

    During this period her mother had died and Bryher had divorced her husband, only to marry H.D.'s new male lover, Kenneth Macpherson. H.D., Bryher, and Macpherson lived together and traveled through Europe as what the poet and critic Barbara Guest termed in her biography of H.D. as a 'menagerie of three'. Bryher and Macpherson adopted H.D.'s daughter, Perdita. In 1928, H.D. became pregnant but chose to abort the pregnancy in November. Bryher and Macpherson set up the magazine Close Up (to which H.D. regularly contributed) as a medium for intellectual discussion of cinema. In 1927, the small independent film cinema group POOL or Pool Group was established (largely funded with Bryher's inheritance) and was managed by all three. Only one POOL film survives in its entirety, Borderline (1930), which featured H.D. and Paul Robeson in the lead roles. In common with the Borderline novellas, the film explores extreme psychic states and their relationship to surface reality. As well as acting in this film, H.D. wrote an explanatory pamphlet to accompany it, a piece later published in Close Up.

    In 1933, H.D. traveled to Vienna to undergo analysis with Sigmund Freud. She had an interest in Freud's theories as far back as 1909, when she read some of his works in the original German. H.D. was referred by Bryher's psychoanalyst due to her increasing paranoia about the rise of Adolf Hitler which indicated another world war, an idea that H.D. found intolerable. The Great War (World War I) had left her feeling shattered. She had lost her brother in action, while her husband suffered effects of combat experiences, and she believed that the onslaught of the war indirectly caused the death of her child with Aldington: she believed it was her shock at hearing the news about the RMS Lusitania that directly caused her miscarriage. Writing on the Wall, her memoir about this psychoanalysis, was written concurrently with Trilogy and published in 1944; in 1956 it was republished with Advent, a journal of the analysis, under the title Tribute to Freud.

    World War II and after

    H.D. and Bryher spent the duration of World War II in London. During this time, H.D. wrote The Gift, a memoir of her childhood and family life in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, which reflects on people and events in her background that helped shape her as a writer. The Gift was eventually published in 1960 and 1982. She also wrote Trilogy, published as The Walls do not Fall (1944), Tribute to the Angels (1945) and The Flowering of the Rod (1946). The opening lines of The Walls do not Fall clearly and immediately signal H.D.'s break with her earlier work:

    An incident here and there,
    and rails gone (for guns)
    from your (and my) old town square.

    After the war, H.D. and Bryher no longer lived together, but remained in contact. H.D. moved to Switzerland where, in the spring of 1946, she suffered a severe mental breakdown which resulted in her staying in a clinic until the autumn of that year. Apart from a number of trips to the States, H.D. spent the rest of her life in Switzerland. In the late 1950s, she underwent more treatment, this time with the psychoanalyst Erich Heydt. At Heydt's prompting, she wrote End to Torment, a memoir of her relationship with Pound, who allowed the poems of Hilda's Book to be included when the book was published. Doolittle was one of the leading figures in the bohemian culture of London in the early decades of the century. Her later poetry explores traditional epic themes, such as violence and war, from a feminist perspective. H.D. was the first woman to be granted the American Academy of Arts and Letters medal.

    Later life and death

    During the 1950s, H.D. wrote a considerable amount of poetry, most notably Helen in Egypt (written between 1952–54), an examination from a feminist point of view of a male-centred epic poetry. H.D. used Euripides's play Helen as a starting point for a reinterpretation of the basis of the Trojan War and, by extension, of war itself. This work has been seen by some critics, including Jeffrey Twitchell-Waas, as H.D.'s response to Pound's Cantos, a work she greatly admired. Other poems from this period include Sagesse, Winter Love and Hermetic Definition. These three were published posthumously with the collective title Hermetic Definition (1972). The poem Hermetic Definition takes as its starting points her love for a man 30 years her junior and the line 'so slow is the rose to open' from Pound's Canto 106. Sagesse, written in bed after H.D. had broken her hip in a fall, serves as a kind of coda to Trilogy, being partly written in the voice of a young female Blitz survivor who finds herself living in fear of the atom bomb. Winter Love was written together with End to Torment and uses as narrator the Homeric figure of Penelope to restate the material of the memoir in poetic form. At one time, H.D. considered appending this poem as a coda to Helen in Egypt.

    H.D. visited the United States in 1960 to collect an American Academy of Arts and Letters medal. Returning to Switzerland, she suffered a stroke in July 1961 and died a couple of months later in the Klinik Hirslanden in Zürich. Her ashes were returned to Bethlehem, and were buried in the family plot in the Nisky Hill Cemetery on October 28, 1961. Her epitaph consists of the following lines from her early poem "Let Zeus Record":

    So you may say,
    Greek flower; Greek ecstasy
    reclaims forever
    one who died
    following intricate song's
    lost measure.

    Legacy

    The rediscovery of H.D. began in the 1970s, and coincided with the emergence of a feminist criticism that found much to admire in the questioning of gender roles typical of her writings. Specifically, those critics who were challenging the standard view of English-language literary modernism based on the work of such male writers as Pound, Eliot and James Joyce, were able to restore H.D. to a more significant position in the history of that movement. Her writings have served as a model for a number of more recent women poets working in the modernist tradition; including the New York School poet Barbara Guest, the Anglo-American poet Denise Levertov, the Black Mountain poet Hilda Morley and the Language poet Susan Howe. Her influence is not limited to female poets, and many male writers, including Robert Duncan and Robert Creeley, have acknowledged their debt.

    Hilda Doolittle's Works:

    Poems

    "Eurydice"
    "Sea Rose"
    "Garden"
    "Mid-day"
    "Hermes of the Ways"
    "The Helmsman"
    "Helen"
    "Oread"
    "Heat"

    Poetry collections

    Sea Garden (1916)
    The God (1917)
    Translations (1920)
    Hymen (1921)
    Heliodora and Other Poems (1924)
    Hippolytus Temporizes (1927)
    Red Roses for Bronze (1932)
    The Walls Do Not Fall (1944)
    Tribute to the Angels (1945)
    Trilogy (1946)
    Flowering of the Rod (1946)
    By Avon River (1949)
    Helen in Egypt, New Directions (1961)
    Hermetic Definition, New Directions (1972)

    Prose

    Notes on Thought and Vision (1919)
    Paint it Today (written 1921, published 1992)
    Asphodel (written 1921-22, published 1992)
    Palimpsest (1926)
    Kora and Ka (1930)
    Nights (1935)
    The Hedgehog (1936)
    Tribute to Freud (1956)
    Bid Me to Live (1960)
    End to Torment: A Memoir of Ezra Pound, New Directions (1979)
    HERmione, New Directions (1981)
    The Gift, New Directions (1982)
    Majic Ring (written 1943-44, published 2009)
    The Sword Went Out to Sea (written 1946-47, published 2007)
    White Rose and the Red (written 1948, published 2009)
    The Mystery (written 1948-51, published 2009)

    This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia Hilda Doolittle; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
    Hilda Doolittle Poems

    Helen
    All Greece hates the still eyes in the white face, the lustre as of olives where she stands,
    Sea Rose
    Rose, harsh rose, marred and with stint of petals, meagre flower, thin, sparse of leaf,
    Adonis
    1. Each of us like you has died once,
    The Mysteries Remain
    The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed-time and of sun and rain;
    Pear Tree
    Silver dust lifted from the earth, higher than my arms reach, you have mounted.
    Oread
    Whirl up, sea— Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines On our rocks.
    Sheltered Garden
    I have had enough. I gasp for breath. Every way ends, every road,
    Leda
    Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak,
    Sea Poppies
    Amber husk fluted with gold, fruit on the sand marked with a rich grain,
    Heat
    O wind, rend open the heat, cut apart the heat, rend it to tatters.
    At Baia
    I should have thought in a dream you would have brought some lovely, perilous thing, orchids piled in a great sheath,
    The Pool
    Are you alive? I touch you. You quiver like a sea-fish. I cover you with my net.
    At Ithaca
    Over and back, the long waves crawl and track the sand with foam; night darkens, and the sea
    Acon
    Bear me to Dictaeus, and to the steep slopes; to the river Erymanthus.
    My friends , this is brilliant poetry from a magnificent poetic mind, a writing genius, IMHO...-TYR
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    The Congo: A Study of the Negro Race
    ---- By Vachel Lindsay

    I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY
    Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
    Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
    Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,
    Pounded on the table,
    Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,
    Hard as they were able,
    Boom, boom, BOOM,
    With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom,
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
    THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision.
    I could not turn from their revel in derision.
    THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
    CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
    Then along that riverbank
    A thousand miles
    Tattooed cannibals danced in files;
    Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
    And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
    And “BLOOD” screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
    “BLOOD” screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
    “Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
    Harry the uplands,
    Steal all the cattle,
    Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
    Bing.
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,”
    A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
    From the mouth of the Congo
    To the Mountains of the Moon.
    Death is an Elephant,
    Torch-eyed and horrible,
    Foam-flanked and terrible.
    BOOM, steal the pygmies,
    BOOM, kill the Arabs,
    BOOM, kill the white men,
    HOO, HOO, HOO.
    Listen to the yell of Leopold’s ghost
    Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
    Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
    Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
    Listen to the creepy proclamation,
    Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,
    Blown past the white-ants’ hill of clay,
    Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play: —
    “Be careful what you do,
    Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
    And all of the other
    Gods of the Congo,
    Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
    Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
    Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.”

    II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS
    Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call
    Danced the juba in their gambling-hall
    And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,
    And guyed the policemen and laughed them down
    With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
    THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
    CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
    A negro fairyland swung into view,
    A minstrel river
    Where dreams come true.
    The ebony palace soared on high
    Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky.
    The inlaid porches and casements shone
    With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.
    And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore
    At the baboon butler in the agate door,
    And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
    That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.

    A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came
    Through the agate doorway in suits of flame,
    Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
    And hats that were covered with diamond-dust.
    And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call
    And danced the juba from wall to wall.
    But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng
    With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song: —
    “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.” ...
    Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes,
    Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,
    Canes with a brilliant lacquer shine,
    And tall silk hats that were red as wine.
    And they pranced with their butterfly partners there,
    Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
    Knee-skirts trimmed with the jassamine sweet,
    And bells on their ankles and little black-feet.
    And the couples railed at the chant and the frown
    Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down.
    (O rare was the revel, and well worth while
    That made those glowering witch-men smile.)

    The cake-walk royalty then began
    To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
    To the tune of “Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,”
    While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air,
    And sang with the scalawags prancing there: —
    “Walk with care, walk with care,
    Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
    And all the other
    Gods of the Congo,
    Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
    Beware, beware, walk with care,
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,
    BOOM.”
    Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while
    That made those glowering witch-men smile.

    III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION
    A good old negro in the slums of the town
    Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.
    Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,
    His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
    Beat on the Bible till he wore it out
    Starting the jubilee revival shout.
    And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,
    And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs,
    And they all repented, a thousand strong
    From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong
    And slammed with their hymn books till they shook the room
    With “glory, glory, glory,”
    And “Boom, boom, BOOM.”
    THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
    CUTTING THROUGH THE FOREST WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
    And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
    And showed the Apostles with their coats of mail.
    In bright white steel they were seated round
    And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
    And the twelve Apostles, from their thrones on high
    Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry: —
    “Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;
    Never again will he hoo-doo you,
    Never again will he hoo-doo you.”

    Then along that river, a thousand miles
    The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
    Pioneer angels cleared the way
    For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
    For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
    Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
    There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed
    A million boats of the angels sailed
    With oars of silver, and prows of blue
    And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
    ’Twas a land transfigured, ’twas a new creation.
    Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation
    And on through the backwoods clearing flew: —
    “Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.
    Never again will he hoo-doo you.
    Never again will he hoo-doo you.

    Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
    And only the vulture dared again
    By the far, lone mountains of the moon
    To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—
    “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
    “Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
    Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you.”
    ************************************************** ****

    Vachel Lindsay
    From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
    Vachel Lindsay
    Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 1913.jpg
    Lindsay in 1913
    Born November 10, 1879
    Springfield, Illinois, United States
    Died December 5, 1931 (aged 52)
    Springfield, Illinois, United States
    Occupation Poet

    Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (/ˈveɪtʃəl ˈlɪnzi/; November 10, 1879 – December 5, 1931) was an American poet. He is considered a founder of modern singing poetry, as he referred to it, in which verses are meant to be sung or chanted.

    Contents

    1 Early years
    2 Beginnings as a poet
    3 Poetry as performance
    4 Attitudes towards race
    5 Later years
    5.1 Fame
    5.2 Marriage, children and financial troubles
    5.3 Suicide
    5.4 Legacy
    5.4.1 Literary
    5.4.2 Archives etc
    6 Selected works
    7 References and notes
    8 External links

    Early years

    Lindsay was born in Springfield, Illinois where his father, Vachel Thomas Lindsay, worked as a medical doctor and had amassed considerable financial resources. The Lindsays lived across the street from the Illinois Executive Mansion, home of the Governor of Illinois. The location of his childhood home influenced Lindsay, and one of his poems, "The Eagle Forgotten", eulogizes Illinois governor John P. Altgeld, whom Lindsay admired for his courage in pardoning the anarchists involved in the Haymarket Affair, despite the strong protests of US President Grover Cleveland.

    Growing up in Springfield influenced Lindsay in other ways, as evidenced in such poems as "On the Building of Springfield" and culminating in poems praising Springfield's most famous resident, Abraham Lincoln. In "Lincoln", Lindsay exclaims, "Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all!" In his 1914 poem "Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight (In Springfield, Illinois)", Lindsay specifically places Lincoln in Springfield, with the poem's opening:

    It is portentous, and a thing of state
    That here at midnight, in our little town
    A mourning figure walks, and will not rest...

    Lindsay studied medicine at Ohio's Hiram College from 1897 to 1900, but he did not want to be a doctor; his parents were pressuring him toward medicine. Once he wrote to them that he wasn't meant to be a doctor but a painter; they wrote back saying that doctors can draw pictures in their free time. He left Hiram anyway, heading to Chicago to study at the Art Institute of Chicago from 1900 to 1903. In 1904 he left to attend the New York School of Art (now The New School) to study pen and ink. Lindsay remained interested in art for the rest of his life, drawing illustrations for some of his poetry. His art studies also probably led him to appreciate the new art form of silent film.[1] His 1915 book The Art of the Moving Picture is generally considered the first book of film criticism, according to critic Stanley Kauffmann, discussing Lindsay in For the Love of Movies: The Story of American Film Criticism.
    Beginnings as a poet
    Vachel Lindsay in 1912

    While in New York in 1905 Lindsay turned to poetry in earnest. He tried to sell his poems on the streets. Self-printing his poems, he began to barter a pamphlet titled "Rhymes To Be Traded For Bread", which he traded for food as a self-perceived modern version of a medieval troubadour.

    From March to May, 1906, Lindsay traveled roughly 600 miles on foot from Jacksonville, Florida, to Kentucky, again trading his poetry for food and lodging. From April to May, 1908, Lindsay undertook another poetry-selling trek, walking from New York City to Hiram, Ohio.

    From May to September 1912 he traveled — again on foot — from Illinois to New Mexico, trading his poems for food and lodging. During this last trek, Lindsay composed his most famous poem, "The Congo". Going through Kansas, he was supposedly so successful that "he had to send money home to keep his pockets empty".[2] On his return, Harriet Monroe published in Poetry magazine first his poem "General William Booth Enters into Heaven" in 1913 and then "The Congo" in 1914. At this point, Lindsay became very well known.
    Poetry as performance

    This article possibly contains original research. Please improve it by verifying the claims made and adding inline citations. Statements consisting only of original research should be removed. (September 2007) (Learn how and when to remove this template message)

    Unlike Lindsay’s more purely intellectual contemporaries, the poet declaimed his works from the stage, complete with the extravagant gestures of a carnival barker and old time preacher, from the beginning declaring himself to be a product of what he termed ‘Higher Vaudeville’: “I think that my first poetic impulse is for music; second a definite conception with the ring of the universe...” (Vachel Lindsay, Edgar Lee Masters 1935, page 62) This is evidenced by the 1931 recording he made just before his suicide, his still-radical performances of ‘The Mysterious Cat’, ‘The Flower-Fed Buffaloes’ and parts of ‘The Congo’ exhibiting a fiery and furious, zany, at times incoherent delivery that appears to have owed more to jazz than poetry, though the highly religious Lindsay was always reluctant to align himself thus.

    Part of the success and great fame that Lindsay achieved — albeit briefly — was due to the singular manner in which he presented his poetry "fundamentally as a performance, as an aural and temporal experience...meant...to be chanted, whispered, belted out, sung, amplified by gesticulation and movement, and punctuated by shouts and whoops." [2]

    Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
    Harry the uplands,
    Steal all the cattle,
    Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
    Bing.
    Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, Boom...
    The Congo[3]

    His best-known poem, "The Congo," exemplified his revolutionary aesthetic of sound for sound's sake. It imitates the pounding of the drums in the rhythms and in onomatopoeic nonsense words. At parts, the poem ceases to use conventional words when representing the chants of Congo's indigenous people, relying just on sound alone.

    Lindsay's extensive correspondence with the poet W. B. Yeats details his intentions of reviving the musical qualities of poetry as they were practiced by the ancient Greeks. Because of his identity as a performance artist and his use of American midwestern themes, Lindsay became known in the 1910s as the "Prairie Troubador."

    In the final twenty years of his life, Lindsay was one of the best known poets in the U.S. His reputation enabled him to befriend, encourage and mentor other poets, such as Langston Hughes and Sara Teasdale. His poetry, though, lacked elements which encouraged the attention of academic scholarship, and, after his death, he became an obscure figure.
    Attitudes towards race

    This article possibly contains original research. Please improve it by verifying the claims made and adding inline citations. Statements consisting only of original research should be removed. (September 2007) (Learn how and when to remove this template message)

    Most contemporaries acknowledged Lindsay's intention to be an advocate for African-Americans.[4] This intention was particularly evident in the 1918 poem "The Jazz Birds", praising the war efforts of African-Americans during World War I, an issue to which the vast majority of the white US seemed blind. Additionally, W.E.B. Du Bois hailed Lindsay's story "The Golden-Faced People" for its insights into racism. Lindsay saw himself as anti-racist not only in his own writing but in his encouragement of a writer; he credited himself with discovering Langston Hughes, who, while working as a busboy at a Washington, D.C., was at the restaurant where Lindsay ate and gave Lindsay copies of his poems.[4]

    However, many contemporaries and later critics have contended over whether a couple of Lindsay's poems should be seen as homages to African and African-American music, as perpetuation of the "savage African" stereotype, or as both. DuBois, before reading and praising "the Golden-Faced People," wrote in a review of Lindsay's "Booker T. Washington Trilogy" that "Lindsay knows two things, and two things only, about Negroes: The beautiful rhythm of their music and the ugly side of their drunkards and outcasts. From this poverty of material he tries now and then to make a contribution to Negro literature." DuBois also criticized "The Congo," which has been the most persistent focus of the criticisms of racial stereotyping in Lindsay's work.

    Subtitled "A Study of the Negro Race" and beginning with a section titled "Their Basic Savagery", "The Congo" reflects the tensions within a relatively isolated and pastoral society suddenly confronted by the industrialized world. The poem was inspired by a sermon preached in October 1913 that detailed the drowning of a missionary in the Congo River; this event had drawn worldwide criticism, as had the colonial exploitation of the Congo under the government of Leopold II of Belgium. Lindsay defended the poem; in a letter to Joel Spingarn, Chairman of the Board of Directors of the NAACP, Lindsay wrote that "My 'Congo' and 'Booker T. Washington Trilogy' have both been denounced by the Colored people for reasons that I cannot fathom.... The third section of 'The Congo' is certainly as hopeful as any human being dare to be in regard to any race." Spingarn responded by acknowledging Lindsay's good intentions, but saying that Lindsay sometimes glamorized differences between people of African descent and people of other races, while many African-Americans wished to emphasize the "feelings and desires" that they held in common with others.[5]

    Similarly, critics in academia often portray Lindsay as a well-meaning but misguided primitivist in his representations of Africans and African Americans. One such critic, Rachel DuPlessis, argues that the poem, while perhaps meant to be "hopeful," actually "others" Africans as an inherently violent race. In the poem and in Lindsay's defenses of it, DuPlessis hears Lindsay warning white readers not to be "hoo-doo'd" or seduced by violent African "mumbo jumbo." This warning seems to suggest that white civilization has been "infected" by African violence; Lindsay thus, in effect, "blames blacks for white violence directed against them." [5] Conversely, Susan Gubar notes approvingly that "the poem contains lines blaming black violence on white imperialism." While acknowledging that the poem seems to have given its author and audiences an excuse to indulge in "'romantic racism' or 'slumming in slang,'" she also observes that Lindsay was "much more liberal than many of his poetic contemporaries," and that he seems to have intended a statement against the kind of racist violence perpetrated under Leopold in the Congo.[5]
    Later years
    Fame

    Lindsay's fame as a poet grew in the 1910s. Because Harriet Monroe showcased him with two other Illinois poets — Carl Sandburg and Edgar Lee Masters — his name became linked to theirs. The success of either of the other two, in turn, seemed to help the third.

    Edgar Lee Masters published a biography of Lindsay in 1935 (four years after its subject's death) entitled 'Vachel Lindsay: A Poet in America'.

    Lindsay himself indicated in the 1915 preface to "The Congo" that no less a figure than William Butler Yeats respected his work. Yeats felt they shared a concern for capturing the sound of the primitive and of singing in poetry. In 1915, Lindsay gave a poetry reading to President Woodrow Wilson and the entire Cabinet.[citation needed]
    Marriage, children and financial troubles

    Lindsay's private life was rife with disappointments, such as his unsuccessful courtship in 1914 of fellow poet Sara Teasdale before she married rich businessman Ernst Filsinger. While this itself may have caused Lindsay to become more concerned with money, his financial pressures would greatly increase later on.

    In 1924 he moved to Spokane, Washington, where he lived in room 1129 of the Davenport Hotel until 1929. On May 19, 1925, at age 45, he married 23-year-old Elizabeth Connor. The new pressure to support his considerably younger wife escalated as she bore him daughter Susan Doniphan Lindsay in May 1926 and son Nicholas Cave Lindsay in September 1927.

    Desperate for money, Lindsay undertook an exhausting string of readings throughout the East and Midwest from October 1928 through March 1929. During this time, Poetry magazine awarded him a lifetime achievement award of $500 (equivalent to about $6974 in 2012 dollars). In April 1929, Lindsay and his family moved to the house of his birth in Springfield, Illinois, an expensive undertaking. In that same year, coinciding with the Stock Market Crash of 1929, Lindsay published two more poetry volumes: The Litany of Washington Street and Every Soul A Circus. He gained money by doing odd jobs throughout but in general earned very little during his travels.
    Suicide

    Crushed by financial worry and in failing health from his six-month road trip, Lindsay sank into depression. On December 5, 1931, he committed suicide by drinking a bottle of Lysol. His last words were: "They tried to get me; I got them first!"[6]
    Legacy
    Literary

    Lindsay, a versatile and prolific writer and poet, helped to 'keep alive the appreciation of poetry as a spoken art' [7] whose 'poetry was said to 'abound in meter and rhymes and is no shredded prose'[8] had a traditional verse structure[9] and was described by a contemporary in 1924 as 'pungent phrases, clinging cadences, dramatic energy, comic thrust, lyric seriousness and tragic intensity.[10]Lindsay's biographer, Dennis Camp records that 'Lindsay's ideas on 'civic beauty and civic tolerance' ,were published in 1912 in his broadside ' The Gospel of Beauty' and that later,in 1915, Lindsay published the first American study of film as an art form, 'The Art of The Moving Picture and notes on Lindsay's tombstone is recorded a single word, 'Poet'.[11]
    Archives etc

    Today the Illinois Historic Preservation Agency helps to maintain the Vachel Lindsay House at 603 South Fifth Street in Springfield, the site of Lindsay's birth and death. The agency has donated the home to the state, which then closed it to restore the home at a cost of $1.5 million. As of October 8, 2014, the site is now again open to the public giving full guided tours for those who choose to ring the bell on Thursday to Sunday, from 1 to 5 pm. Lindsay's grave lies in Oak Ridge Cemetery. The bridge crossing the midpoint of Lake Springfield, built in 1934, is named in Lindsay's honor.[12]

    The massive Vachel Lindsay Archive resides at the Albert and Shirley Small Special Collections Library at the University of Virginia, and comprises his personal papers, manuscripts of his works, correspondence, photographs, artworks, printing blocks, books from his personal library, and a comprehensive collection of books by and about Lindsay. The Archives and Special Collections at Amherst College holds a small collection of manuscripts and other items sent by Lindsay to Eugenia Graham.
    Selected works

    "Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight"
    "An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie"
    "A Rhyme About an Electrical Advertising Sign"
    "A Sense of Humor"
    "Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, Bryan"
    "The Dandelion"
    "Drying Their Wings"
    "Euclid"
    "Factory Windows are Always Broken"
    "The Flower-Fed Buffaloes"
    "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven" — the American Classical Composer Charles Ives would write music to this poem (with a couple of additional text alterations) shortly after its publication
    "In Praise of Johnny Appleseed"
    "The Kallyope Yell" — see calliope for references
    "The Leaden-Eyed"
    "Love and Law"
    "The Mouse That Gnawed the Oak Tree Down"
    "The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son"
    "On the Garden Wall"
    "The Prairie Battlements"
    The Golden Book of Springfield
    "Prologue to "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread" "
    "The Congo: A Study of the Negro Race"
    "The Eagle That is Forgotten"
    "The Firemen's Ball"
    "The Rose of Midnight"
    "This Section is a Christmas Tree"
    "To Gloriana"
    "What Semiramis Said"
    "What the Ghost of the Gambler Said"
    "Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket"
    "Written for a Musician"

    References and notes

    Solbert, Oscar N.; Newhall, Beaumont; Card, James G., eds. (April 1953). "Vachel Lindsey on Film" (PDF). Image, Journal of Photography of George Eastman House. Rochester, N.Y.: International Museum of Photography at George Eastman House Inc. 2 (4): 23–24. Retrieved 26 June 2014.
    "A modern troubadour". The Independent. Dec 28, 1914. Retrieved July 28, 2012.
    "The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay". Gutenberg.org. Retrieved 2015-03-10.
    Ward, John Chapman Ward: "Vachel Lindsay Is 'Lying Low'", College Literature 12 (1985): 233–45)
    "Race Criticism of "The Congo"". English.illinois.edu. Retrieved 2015-03-10.
    Masters, Edgar Lee (1935). Vachel Lindsay : A Poet in America. p. 361. ISBN 978-0819602398.
    Reading list -'Biography, Vachel Lindsay'-Poetry Foundation.org , Chicago 2015
    Howells, William Dean 'Harpers' Magazine , Sept. 1915
    'Biography of Vachel Lindsay' Poetry Foundation.org , Chicago 2015
    Van Doren, Carl 'Many Minds' Knopf, New York 1924
    Camp, Dennis Dr 'Biography in Brief' Vachel Lindsay Association (est 1946), Springfield US

    http://historiccommissions.springfie...dsayBridge.asp

    External links
    Wikiquote has quotations related to: Vachel Lindsay

    Vachel Lindsay Association website- biography, essays, works
    Profile of Vachel Linsay from PBS's "I Hear America Singing" program, hosted by Thomas Hampson
    Vachel Lindsay Collection, Amherst College Archives and Special Collections
    Entry on Vachel Lindsay from Anthology of Modern American Poetry
    Works by Vachel Lindsay at Project Gutenberg
    Works by or about Vachel Lindsay at Internet Archive
    Works by Vachel Lindsay at LibriVox (public domain audiobooks)
    "The Chinese Nightingale"
    "The Congo and Other Poems by Vachel Lindsay"
    Vachel Lindsay at Library of Congress Authorities, with 80 catalog records
    Vachel Lindsay Collection - Harry Ransom Center Digital Collections

    Authority control

    WorldCat Identities VIAF: 9889931 LCCN: n79148281 ISNI: 0000 0001 1037 7221 GND: 118780069 SUDOC: 030306701 BNF: cb12174978f (data) MusicBrainz: 0e5f0876-22ac-46c8-a768-c419a1b8c2f2 BNE: XX1000508 IATH: w6xk8f3t

    Categories:

    American male poetsWriters from Springfield, IllinoisPeople with epilepsySuicides by poisonPoets who committed suicideSchool of the Art Institute of Chicago alumniHiram College alumni1879 births1931 deathsSuicides in IllinoisPeople associated with the Dil Pickle ClubMale suicides

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    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
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    The Coyote
    - Poem by Charles Badger Clark

    Trailing the last gleam after,
    In the valleys emptied of light,
    Ripples a whimsical laughter
    Under the wings of the night.
    Mocking the faded west airily,
    Meeting the little bats merrily,
    Over the mesas it shrills
    To the red moon on the hills.

    Mournfully rising and waning,
    Far through the moon-silvered land
    Wails a weird voice of complaining
    Over the thorns and the sand.
    Out of blue silences eerily.
    On to the black mountains wearily,
    Till the dim desert is crossed,
    Wanders the cry, and is lost.

    Here by the fire's ruddy streamers,
    Tired with our hopes and our fears,
    We inarticulate dreamers
    Hark to the song of our years.
    Up to the brooding divinity
    Far in that sparkling infinity
    Cry our despair and delight,
    Voice of the Western night!
    Charles Badger Clark
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    While History's Muse
    by Thomas Moore


    While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
    Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
    Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
    For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
    But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
    When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
    She saw History write,
    With a pencil of light
    That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

    "Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
    The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
    Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
    Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
    At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
    Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
    And, bright o'er the flood
    Of her tears, and her blood,
    Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name."
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 11-08-2017 at 09:11 AM.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    An Old Man's Winter Night
    Poem by Robert Frost


    All out of doors looked darkly in at him
    Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
    That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
    What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
    Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
    What kept him from remembering what it was
    That brought him to that creaking room was age.
    He stood with barrels round him -- at a loss.
    And having scared the cellar under him
    In clomping there, he scared it once again
    In clomping off; -- and scared the outer night,
    Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
    Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
    But nothing so like beating on a box.
    A light he was to no one but himself
    Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
    A quiet light, and then not even that.
    He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
    So late-arising, to the broken moon
    As better than the sun in any case
    For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
    His icicles along the wall to keep;
    And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
    Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
    And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
    One aged man -- one man -- can't keep a house,
    A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
    It's thus he does it of a winter night.
    ----- Robert Frost
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    Reluctance
    --by Robert Frost

    OUT through the fields and the woods
    And over the walls I have wended;
    I have climbed the hills of view
    And looked at the world, and descended;
    I have come by the highway home,
    And lo, it is ended.

    The leaves are all dead on the ground,
    Save those that the oak is keeping
    To ravel them one by one
    And let them go scraping and creeping
    Out over the crusted snow,
    When others are sleeping.

    And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
    No longer blown hither and thither;
    The last lone aster is gone;
    The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
    The heart is still aching to seek,
    But the feet question ‘Whither?’

    Ah, when to the heart of man
    Was it ever less than a treason
    To go with the drift of things,
    To yield with a grace to reason,
    And bow and accept the end
    Of a love or a season?

    Reluctance is about man’s unwillingness to accept life as it flows – with its disappointments. The poet having wandered over fields and walls (suggesting civilization) and hills and woods (suggestive of wilderness) is on his way back home. At a more philosophical level, he is saying that he has seen and experienced all aspects of life and is now home, that is, his journey through life has come to a close. ‘Climbing hills’ refers to the difficulties faced in life and ‘descended’ perhaps to the compromises one has to make in life.

    The mood of the poem is pensive. The use of words – ended, dead, lone, gone, wither, aching – all go to create this mood. His melancholy mood is reflected in nature too – the trees are barren, the snow is crusted, the dead leaves lie in heaps and the last of the blossoms are withered.

    His mood lightens as he speaks of the Oak, pictured perhaps as naughty for it is ‘keeping’ its leaves to let them go down one by one ‘when others are sleeping’. But this does nothing to uplift his mood.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    Aubade
    ---- by Phillip Larkin

    I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
    Till then I see what's really always there:
    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
    Making all thought impossible but how
    And where and when I shall myself die.
    Arid interrogation: yet the dread
    Of dying, and being dead,
    Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
    The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
    - The good not done, the love not given, time
    Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
    An only life can take so long to climb
    Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
    But at the total emptiness for ever,
    The sure extinction that we travel to
    And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
    Not to be anywhere,
    And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

    This is a special way of being afraid
    No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
    That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
    Created to pretend we never die,
    And specious stuff that says No rational being
    Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
    That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
    Nothing to love or link with,
    The anasthetic from which none come round.

    And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
    A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
    That slows each impulse down to indecision.
    Most things may never happen: this one will,
    And realisation of it rages out
    In furnace-fear when we are caught without
    People or drink. Courage is no good:
    It means not scaring others. Being brave
    Lets no one off the grave.
    Death is no different whined at than withstood.

    Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
    Have always known, know that we can't escape,
    Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
    Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
    Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
    The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
    Work has to be done.
    Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

    © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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    Bells For John Whiteside's Daughter

    There was such speed in her little body,
    And such lightness in her footfall,
    It is no wonder her brown study
    Astonishes us all.

    Her wars were bruited in our high window.
    We looked among orchard trees and beyond
    Where she took arms against her shadow,
    Or harried unto the pond

    The lazy geese, like a snow cloud
    Dripping their snow on the green grass,
    Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud,
    Who cried in goose, Alas,

    For the tireless heart within the little
    Lady with rod that made them rise
    From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
    Goose-fashion under the skies!

    But now go the bells, and we are ready,
    In one house we are sternly stopped
    To say we are vexed at her brown study,
    Lying so primly propped.
    by John Crowe Ransom

    © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
    **************************

    .
    Study Guide Prepared by Michael J. Cummings..© 2010
    .
    Type of Work and Date of Publication

    ......."Bells for John Whiteside's Daughter" is an elegy, a poem that reflects on a person's death or on death in general. It consists of five stanzas, each with four lines. Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., published the poem in New York in 1924 in a collection of Ransom's poems, Chills and Fever.

    Setting

    .......The action probably takes place in the rural South. (Ransom was born in the small town of Pulaski, Tennessee.) The time is the early 1920s.

    Summary of the Poem

    .......The death of a lively little girl shocks neighbors who used to observe her while she was outdoors. She was always so energetic and so full of noise and mischief. Playfully, she would make war against her shadow and sometimes rouse sleepy geese—which were no doubt dreaming of eating apples from a nearby orchard—and chase them across the green grass and into a pond. When the funeral bells toll, the neighbors are “vexed" (line 19) that a child who was only recently so full of life is now a silent, “primly propped" (line 20) corpse.
    Theme

    .......The theme of the poem is that an unexpected death jolts people into confronting the fragility of life and the inscrutability of the forces that end life. Although they may mourn the loss of the spirited presence on the grass outdoors, they also mourn for themselves in the realization that they too are mortal and that they too will one day become a “brown study" (lines 3, 23). As John Donne wrote in Meditation 17 of Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions:

    [S]end not to know
    For whom the bell tolls,
    It tolls for thee.

    What Is a Brown Study?

    ......."Brown study" (lines 3 and 23) is term that means a state of deep thought, like that of the figure depicted in Rodin's most famous sculpture, The Thinker.
    There is some controversy in what some think callousness in the way the author presents the death of this child. Yet others see a comparison made in that tho' the author cites what may be personal disdain for some of her actions, he notes the sorrow of a young and promising young life lost too soon!
    Was it intended, this comparison or a subconscious act in his composing?
    Regardless, this poem clearly shows his great poetic talent, IMHO. TYR
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; Yesterday at 10:06 AM.
    My father- "Take pride in who you are and where you came from. Life is hard, often fighting is the only option!"
    Ernest Hemingway- “In order to write about life, you must first live it.”
    http://www.lindleypoetry.com/category/a-poem-a-day/

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