Of Poetry

Edna St. Vincent Millay

2012-02-22T12:48:00.004-07:00

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950)

Loved this girl the first time I read her! Totally dig her poems- might even have a slight crush (kidding). Anyhow, happy date of birth, lady ...

One thing I really like about Millay is that she explores a wide range of styles and meter. I’ve held on to the poem below for about the last four months because the rhythm, meter, and rhyme scheme are simply gorgeous (take the rhyme scheme for example, abaaab … totally cool, like something Poe would do).

Anyhow, check it out, you’ll dig it, I promise …

Sorrow

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain--
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
Or what shoes I wear.

Kurt Cobain

2012-02-20T09:46:00.003-07:00

Kurt Donald Cobain (1967 – 1994)

Everyone that knows me knows that I’m completely committed to your music and your style- but you shouldn’t have killed yourself, butthead.

The lyrics to every single song you sang, and the way you sung them, reminds me of the genius of insanity, Roethke's poetry, the movie Dreamscape, and the color black … and I dig the hell out of it- but you shouldn’t have killed yourself, butthead.

I wish you were still here, producing more excellent hits, doing more ‘unplugged’ concerts, and pouring more creative audacity into the mixing bowl. But you’re not. You would have been 45 years old today. It feels awkward and creepy to want to say happy birthday to you considering your death … and so, I reluctantly wont.

Really though, you shouldn’t have killed yourself …

2012-01-30T08:52:00.002-07:00

Happy Burns Day!

2012-01-25T13:12:00.003-07:00

Robert Burns (1759 – 1796), happy date of birth, lad …

I wanted to find a poem of his that I hadn’t previously read, and, coming across a few, I really enjoyed the following (hope you do too) …

*****

Love in the Guise of Friendship

Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe.

But friendship's pure and lasting joys,
My heart was form'd to prove;
There, welcome win and wear the prize,
But never talk of love.

Your friendship much can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the only, one request
You know I will deny?

Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.

Another Walcott Poem- Blues

2012-01-23T12:41:00.003-07:00

WARNING: Another poem of Walcott's that stuck with me was one where he describes himself getting jumped by some racist kids- some of the language is a little sharp, and some of the imagery used to describe the assault a bit dreadful, so be warned … still, it’s a powerful piece.

Blues

Those five or six young guys
lunched on the stoop
that oven-hot summer night
whistled me over. Nice
and friendly. So, I stop.
MacDougal or Christopher
Street in chains of light.

A summer festival. Or some
saint’s. I wasn’t too far from
home, but not too bright
for a nigger, and not too dark.
I figured we were all
one, wop, nigger, jew,
besides, this wasn’t Central Park.
I’m coming on too strong? You figure
right! They beat this yellow nigger
black and blue.

Yeah. During all this, scared
on case one used a knife,
I hung my olive-green, just-bought
sports coat on a fire plug.
I did nothing. They fought
each other, really. Life
gives them a few kicks,
that’s all. The spades, the spicks.

My face smashed in, my bloddy mug
pouring, my olive-branch jacket saved
from cuts and tears,
I crawled four flights upstairs.
Sprawled in the gutter, I
remember a few watchers waved
loudly, and one kid’s mother shouting
like “Jackie” or “Terry,”
“now that’s enough!”
It’s nothing really.
They don’t get enough love.

You know they wouldn’t kill
you. Just playing rough,
like young Americans will.
Still it taught me something
about love. If it’s so tough,
forget it.

Happy B-Day, DW

2012-01-23T12:37:00.003-07:00

I dig, dig, dig this poet! Derek Walcott, a contemporary poet of ours (born 23 January 1930), was of the first poets I read who touched deeply on race and the struggle of ethnic identity. I did a commentary on a poem of his a couple years ago titled, A Far Cry from Africa- a poem riddled with utter intensity, one that contemplates the hideous act of genocide, and to date my favorite of his. I’ll leave a link below if you think you can handle the read- seriously, brace yourself …

Happy birthday, DW …

Poe(t)

2012-01-19T09:59:00.001-07:00

Seriously though, how coincidental and funny is it that, if you simply add a T to Poe's name, you have the word Poet? Weird …

Poe's Hymn

2012-01-19T09:33:00.004-07:00

It is said that Poe was drawn to the inside of a Jesuit church by the pristine ringing of a bell. Inquiring into the significance of it, he was told by them that it was in commemoration of the annunciation by Gabriel to Mary of her son to be, and of her willingness and obedience to it (i.e. her ‘be it unto me as you say’ statement). The poem below, I am told, was inspired by this experience.

Hymn

At morn- at noon- at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe- in good and ill-
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

NOE

2012-01-17T09:14:00.010-07:00

Nap of the Earth

The threat was real enough to shun
And so, when OBL was done
The dragonflies with speed were out
Though left behind was one

They hugg’d and napp’d the moonlit earth
Like deep-blue desert winds with mirth
And low along the waypoint’s route
Return’d the ones of worth

-jwm

Of the Poem (Parameters and a Brief Note):

Stanza: Quatrain, Rubaiyat (two total)
Meter: Per stanza, lines 1 through 3 are tetrameter, the 4th a trimeter.
Rhyme Scheme: aaba ccbc (heavily influenced by the Rubaiyat model)

Note: Napping the earth is a low level flying technique utilized by pilots to elude radar or ground detection. The pilot, especially helicopter pilots, will take their craft as low as they can to the earth’s surface and will move evasively along and through the terrain.

The Abbottabad raid on Osama bin Laden took place in the dark early hours of the morning. The risk levels for the soldiers piloting the helicopters was extremely, extremely high- especially napping the earth at rapid speeds to get safely back to Bagram Airbase. That is the glimpse taken by this poem. I know- it’s different, but I hope you like it …

Ode to Sleep

2012-01-09T12:29:00.005-07:00

Thomas Warton, born on this day in 1728, was an English poet-laureate and professor of poetry. What I like about him, apart from his poetic style, is that he was a studier of the history and historical origins of poetry. I haven’t known him as well as other 18th century poets, but what I’ve read of his seems very typical to that period (one of my favorite periods in poetry’s history).

If you haven’t, you should check out a poem or two of his today, good stuff. Happy b-day, big guy!

Here, take a taste of one of his poems (the imagery of the last stanza … wow):

Ode to Sleep

On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast.

O steep my senses in oblivion's balm,
And sooth my throbbing pulse with lenient hand;
This tempest of my boiling blood becalm!
Despair grows mild at thy supreme command.

Yet ah! in vain, familiar with the gloom,
And sadly toiling through the tedious night,
I seek sweet slumber, while that virgin bloom,
For ever hovering, haunts my wretched sight.

Nor would the dawning day my sorrows charm:
Black midnight and the blaze of noon alike
To me appear, while with uplifted arm
Death stands prepar'd, but still delays, to strike.

Thomas Warton*

2012-01-09T12:23:00.004-07:00

Thomas Warton (1728 - 1790)

English poet-laureate and historian of poetry, the younger son of Thomas Warton, was born at Basingstoke on the 9th of January 1728. He was still more precocious as a poet than his brother -- translated one of Martial's epigrams at nine, and wrote The Pleasures of Melancholy at seventeen -- and he showed exactly the same bent, Milton and Spenser being his favorite poets, though he "did not fail to cultivate his mind with the soft thrillings of the tragic muse" of Shakespeare.

In a poem written in 1745 he shows the delight in Gothic churches and ruined castles which inspired so much of his subsequent work in romantic revival. Most of Warton's poetry, humorous and serious -- and the humorous mock-heroic was better within his powers than serious verse -- was written before the age of twenty-three, when he took his M.A. degree and became a fellow of his college (Trinity, Oxford). He did not altogether abandon verse; his sonnets, especially, which are the best of his poems, were written later. But his main energies were given to omnivorous poetical reading and criticism. He was the first to turn to literary account the medieval treasures of the Bodleian Library. It was through him, in fact, that the medieval spirit which always lingered in Oxford first began to stir after its long inaction, and to claim an influence in the modern world. Warton, like his brother, entered the church, and held one after another, various livings, but he did not marry. He gave little attention to his clerical duties, and Oxford always remained his home. In 1749 he published an heroic poem in praise of Oxford, The Triumph of Isis. He was a very easy and convivial as well as a very learned don, with a taste for pothouses and crowds as well as dim aisles and romances in manuscript and black letter. The first proof that he gave of his extraordinarily wide scholarship was in his Observations on the Poetry of Spenser (1754). Three years later he was appointed professor of poetry, and held the office for ten years, sending round, according to the story, at the beginning of term to inquire whether anybody wished him to lecture. The first volume of his monumental work, The History of English Poetry, appeared twenty years later, in 1774, the second volume in 1778, and the third in 1781. A work of such enormous labor and research could proceed but slowly, and it was no wonder that Warton flagged in the execution of it, and stopped to refresh himself with annotating (1785) the minor poems of Milton, pouring out in this delightful work the accumulated suggestions of forty years.

In 1785 he became Camden professor of history, and was made poet-laureate in the same year. Among his minor works were an edition of Theocritus, a selection of Latin and Greek inscriptions, the humorous Oxford Companion to the Guide and Guide to the Companion (1762); The Oxford Sausage (1764); an edition of Theocritus (1770); lives of Sir Thomas Pope and Ralph Bathurst, college benefactors; a History of the Antiquities of Kiddington Parish, of which he held the living (1781); and an Inquiry into the Authenticity of the Poems attributed to Thomas Rowley (1782). His busy and convivial life was ended by a paralytic stroke in May 1790.

Warton's poems were first collected in 1777, and he was engaged at the time of his death on a corrected edition, which appeared in 1791, with a memoir by his friend and admirer, Richard Mant. They were edited in 1822 for the British Poets, by S. W. Singer.

The History of English Poetry from the close of the 11th to the Commencement of the 18th Century, to which are prefixed two Dissertations: I. On the Origin of Romantic Fiction in Europe; II. On the Introduction of Learning into England (1774-81) was only brought down to the close of the 16th century. It was criticized by J. Ritson in 1782 in A Familiar Letter to the Author. A new edition came out in 1824, with an elaborate introduction by the editor, Richard Price, who added to the text comments and emendations from Joseph Ritson, Francis Douce, George Ashby, Thomas Park and himself. Another edition of this, stated to be "further improved by the corrections and additions of several eminent antiquaries", appeared in 1840. In 1871 the book was subjected to a radical revision by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt. He cut out passages in which Warton had been led into gross errors by misreading his authorities or relying on false information, and supplied within brackets information on authors or works omitted. Warton's matter, which was somewhat scattered, although he worked on a chronological plan, was in some cases rearranged and the mass of profuse and often contradictory notes was cut down, although new information was added by the editor and_ his associates, Sir Frederick Madden, Thomas Wright, W. Aldis Wright, W. W. Skeat, Richard Morris and F. J. Furnivall. When all criticism has been allowed for the inaccuracies of Warton's work, and the unsatisfactory nature of his general plan, the fact remains that his book is still indispensable to the student of English poetry. Moreover, much that may seem commonplace in his criticism was entirely fresh and even revolutionary in his own day. Warton directed the attention of readers to early English literature, and, in view of the want of texts, rendered inestimable service by transcribing large extracts from early writers. Of the poets of the 16th century he was an extremely sympathetic critic and has not been superseded.

Biography from NNDB

Dedicated to KG

2012-01-06T09:58:00.005-07:00

Triple Stage Darkness

I

First there comes a gentle flirt
That passes unaware
To darker chambers of the mind
And dwells without a care

II

Next there comes affinity
Where flesh conjoins to flesh
Like lapping waters of a lake
Whose scent of fish is fresh

III

Then there comes the sacred lie
That soul might touch with soul
But lust corrupts where loving lacks
And sin destroys the whole

-jwm

2012-01-06T09:48:00.004-07:00

By far the most popular Lebanese poet ever, I first began to read Khalil Gibran as a kid without really knowing I was reading poetry (albeit, cryptic and didactic poetry). Most people I know are totally familiar with his main work, The Prophet- if you haven’t read this book I promise you you are missing out. It’s a must read.

Anyhow, he was born this day in 1883 and I wanted to give him props. Props KG ...

btw: the above link 'The Prophet' is his actual work online, I must must must read at least a subject ...

Weakness

2012-01-03T10:07:00.003-07:00

My eyes cannot escape your shape;
Your beauty has me mesmerized-
Your gorgeous curves, the way you walk,
Your sexy lips, the way you talk …
The way your hair just dangles there-
I swear to you it mystifies!
And how your lips move when you speak-
O darling, how you make me weak.

-jwm

Poetic Parameters:

Stanza: Octet
Meter: Tetrameter (i.e. eight syllables per line)
Rhyme Scheme: x.x.a.a.x.x.b.b (where ‘x’ represents unrhymed lines)

Sleep

2011-12-27T15:11:00.009-07:00

Sleep

A thousand angels watch'd him sleep
(His slumbers, ah, were ever deep)
And she, with gazing eyes as they
Approaching softly where he lay
Did ever silent keep

She touch’d his cold and pallor’d clay
And wept (her weary tears were gray)
And as she stood there sad and bleak
She bent to kiss his lifeless cheek
And curs’d the light of day

-jwm

Of the Poem (Inspiration):

The inspiration for the poem above came from a short, albeit quite shocking, poem I read some two to three years ago called, Another (Here a Pretty Baby Lies). It was written by a 17th century Cavalier poet, Robert Herrick (a poet that I hadn’t really studied much until recently).

Here it is in its entirety is as follows:

Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her.

In the first three lines of his poem one imagines a baby asleep in a crib; but then, shockingly, one comes to realize that the poem speaks of the burial of a child. In my poem 'sleep' as symbolic of death isn’t openly articulated until the second stanza (much like the fourth line in Herrick’s piece).

Anyhow, although Herrick's poem is much more intense, I'm utterly satisfied with the finished work. Hope you are as well ...

A Cavalier Poet

2011-12-21T13:12:00.004-07:00

The 17th century Cavalier poets were somewhat secular poets who sided with Charles I while England was in civil war, and who were opponents of the Metaphysical poets. These guys- and there are about twelve of them- are pretty kick ass writers, and although the intellectual depth of Metaphysical poets like Donne is much more apparent, I still respect these poets as poets. I can’t wait to share more about these poets with all my Blogspot buddies …

Now, I’ve already read quite a bit by the figurehead of this group, Ben Jonson, and was hooked by this poem below, check out the talent …

His Excuse for Loving

Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have, my peers.
Poets, though divine, are men;
Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune gives the grace,
Or the feature, or the youth;
But the language and the truth,
With the ardor and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then would hear the story,
First, prepare you to be sorry
That you never knew till now
Either whom to love or how;
But be glad as soon with me
When you hear that this is she
Of whose beauty it was sung,
She shall make the old man young,
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing hide decay,
Till she be the reason why
All the world for love may die.

Καλλιόπη

2011-12-12T12:53:00.004-07:00

Calliope

Let not my tongue the Muse defile
Nor let my words ill gotten be
But let the thoughts that I compile
Be worthy both of her and me

-jwm

Up-Hill with Rossetti

2011-12-05T11:35:00.003-07:00

Christina Rossetti is one of the first female poets I began to read. For the longest time- even prior to a refined interest in poetry- I’ve known her name (her brother established my favorite period in the history of art, the Pre-Raphaelite period). It wasn't until later in life, however, that I began to read her works. In fact, she’s the very first poet I posted on in my blog. I love her works dearly, deeply, a lot …

I just want to acknowledge and thank her for her works … happy birthday, my Victorian poet-friend

*****

Here, check out one of her works- a poem about life as a journy up a tough, tough hill ... but with hope at the end ...

Up-Hill

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

Props to Rilke

2011-12-05T10:38:00.007-07:00

Gotta give props to Rilke- one of the most gifted German poets I’ve come to know (way better, in my opinion, than Hölderlin). His works are bleak, raw, ethereal, and astonishingly simple in their complexity. If ever a poet were to be called existential, it would be him.

Happy belated birthday, brotha ...

*****

There’s a poem of his that I keep with me in my wallet- it’s called the Ninth Elegy. There’s a specific quote in it that I always try to remember while I’m writing a poem:

"Praise this world to the angel, not the unsayable one; you can't impress him with glorious emotion; in the universe where he feels more powerful, you are a novice. Show him something simple which, formed over generations, lives as our own, near our hand and within our gaze."

Love's Secret

2011-11-28T14:03:00.003-07:00

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.

Of the Poem:

Love that is desperate is deplorable- it crowds out the emotional rapture that gentle affection evokes. That seems to be the point of Blake's poem here … let me explain.

Advice goes out in the first stanza: Never seek to tell thy love / Love that never told can be. As we’ll see in the following stanza, the ‘telling’ Blake refers to is that unduly adulation that suffocates the beloved; it is that almost servile disposition that begs and begs the for the love of the beloved. Never do this, says Blake’s voice. In modern day terms: desperation is a turn off.

Love, line 2 implores, is made possible where a desperation for it lacks (i.e. love that is not desperate can be). When love is rightly expressed through the silent and invisible speech of affection it is felt much like a “gentle wind” is felt (lines 3 & 4) – indeed, it is itself gentle, and not in the least imposing. But we see the transgression of this made in lines 5 & 6.

“I told!” “I told!” “I told!” … a wearying barrage of proclamations that, as said earlier, suffocates the beloved, and is deplorable. It becomes so unbearable to the young lady that she’s finally reduced to trembling, coldness, and even fear! Invariably he scares her away (line 8).

In the following and final stanza he notices how she’s wooed by a traveler who, following the advice given in the first stanza, expresses his love for her gently- through the silent, invisible speech of affection. (Notice the parallel of words between lines 3 & 4 and lines 11 & 12, and how the ‘sighing’ of line 12 mimics the ‘wind’ of line 3.)

The title of the poem should almost be, The Secret to Attaining Love, or, How Not to Screw It Up. The first stanza is a warning; the second stanza an example of the transgressing the warning; the third, of heeding it and achieving love (all this from the perspective of the transgressor).

Let me know if you guys are digging this poem, or if you have a different take on it (and there are different takes).

Awesome poem, Blake … thanks!

Happy Date of Birth, Blake!

2011-11-28T14:00:00.003-07:00

William Blake is one of the more eccentric poets of the Romantic period- indeed, he’s sometimes so unique and so different that it’s hard for me to associate him with Romanticism (and sometimes I just don’t). There’s a strangeness and darkness about his works that I’ve never been able to quite articulate, a sort of eerie mysticism that pervades the inner life of both his poems as well as his art- he’s a sort 18th century version of Baudelaire. Yep- that’s him.

Anyhow, he was born this day in 1757, and I just wanted to thank him for leaving such great works of poetry, and give him props … happy birthday, big guy …

Her Kind - A Sexton Poem

2011-11-09T12:48:00.005-07:00

Yep, yep … it was on this day in 1928 that the beautiful Anne Sexton was born. Along with her friend Plath, she’s one of the most recognized of the Confessional poets.

Collectively speaking, her poetry is a vivid reflection of her personal struggles internally and externally (she had a very troubled life).

What I learned from Sexton was that poetry doesn’t have to revolve around flowers and bumblebees and golden suns … no, poetry can touch the dark, deep internal recesses of one’s own writhing pains and struggles … but I also learned, after having learned she killed herself, that it can be very, very dangerous to do so.

Anyhow, with that said, I celebrate the poet’s birth, not death.

Now it’s very rare to find poems written by the Confessional generation that are written with a rhyming format. Needless to say, I was shocked, and utterly delighted, to find that Sexton had such a poem- it’s call Her Kind.

In it Sexton expresses, indirectly, of course, three aspects of her life that she seems unhappy with: that some have deemed her to be crazy like a witch (1st stanza); that others have tried to enslave her as a house wife (2nd stanza); and then there’s the life of adultery. Though a tragic reflection of self, it’s a great poem. Check it out.

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Of the Poem (Poetic Parameters)

Stanza: Septet (i.e. 7 lines per stanza)

Meter: Mixed
1st stanza’s syllable count: 8 9 9 9 9 11 5
2nd stanza’s syllable count: 9 9 9 9 10 10 5
3rd stanza’s syllable count: 9 11 9 7 8 11 5

Rhyme Scheme: ababcba (per stanza); and, of course, the refrain I have been her kind.

If you'd like to hear Sexton read this piece, click this link ...

End Time

2011-11-07T08:02:00.009-07:00

The vultures, circling and soaring,
Marveled at how Gog was warring
Brutal on the sons of man
Whose mortal blood kept pouring, pouring.

That northern king, blood-thirsting, killing-
Drunk from blood he kept on spilling-
Sacked the sacred temple stones …
The sight was something chilling, chilling.

When one third fell by heavy brawling
Blood soaked grounds to God came calling:
Will you turn a deafened ear? …
Jerusalem is falling, falling!

-jwm

Of the Poem (Poetic Parameters)

I totally enjoyed working with this poem. The structure, especially when read aloud, flows gorgeously … almost sing-songy.

The first and forth line of each stanza consists of a nine syllable count; the second line and eight syllable count (i.e. a tetrameter); and the third line, a seven syllable count.

The rhyme scheme is interesting as well: aaba per stanza (similar to a Rubaiyat stanza).

And obviously the stanza itself is a quatrain (i.e. a four lined stanza).

Side Note: Gog is the name of an ancient northern king whose kingdom, Magog, plays an important, albeit sinister, role in Ezekiel's apocalyptic vision of the last days.

Anyhow, hope you like it- let me know ... peace.

Denise Levertov*

2011-10-24T13:39:00.006-06:00

Denise Levertov (1923 – 1997)

Denise Levertov was born in Ilford, Essex, England, on October 24, 1923. Her father, raised a Hasidic Jew, had converted to Christianity while attending university in Germany. By the time Denise was born he had settled in England and become an Anglican parson. Her mother, who was Welsh, read authors such as Willa Cather, Joseph Conrad, Charles Dickens, and Leo Tolstoy aloud to the family. Denise was educated entirely at home, and claimed to have decided to become a writer at the age of five. When she was twelve, she sent some of her poetry to T. S. Eliot, who responded with two pages of "excellent advice," and encouragement to continue writing. At age seventeen she had her first poem published, in Poetry Quarterly.

During World War II, Levertov became a civilian nurse serving in London throughout the bombings. She wrote her first book, The Double Image, while she was between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one. The book, released in 1946, brought her recognition as one of a group poets dubbed the "New Romantics."

In 1947 Levertov married Mitchell Goodman, an American writer, and a year later they moved to America. They settled in New York City, spending summers in Maine. Their son Nickolai was born in 1949. She became a naturalized U. S. citizen in 1956.

After her move to the U.S., Levertov was introduced to the Transcendentalism of Emerson and Thoreau, the formal experimentation of Ezra Pound, and, in particular, the work of William Carlos Willams. Through her husband's friendship with poet Robert Creeley, she became associated with the Black Mountain group of poets, particularly Creeley, Charles Olson, and Robert Duncan,, who had formed a short-lived but groundbreaking school in 1933 in North Carolina. Some of her work was published in the 1950s in the Black Mountain Review. Levertov acknowledged these influences, but disclaimed membership in any poetic school. She moved away from the fixed forms of English practice, developing an open, experimental style. With the publication of her first American book, Here and Now (1956), she became an important voice in the American avant-garde. Her poems of the fifties and sixties won her immediate and excited recognition, not just from peers like Creeley and Duncan, but also from the avant garde poets of an earlier generation such as Kenneth Rexroth and William Carlos Williams.

Her next book, With Eyes at the Back of our Heads (1959), established her as one of the great American poets, and her British origins were soon forgotten. She was poetry editor of The Nation magazine in 1961 and from 1963 to 1965. During the 1960's of the Vietnam War, activism and feminism became prominent in her poetry. During this period she produced one of her most memorable works of rage and sadness, The Sorrow Dance (1967), which encompassed her feelings toward the war and the death of her older sister. From 1975 to 1978, she was poetry editor of Mother Jones magazine.

Levertov went on to publish more than twenty volumes of poetry, including Freeing the Dust (1975), which won the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. She was also the author of four books of prose, most recently Tesserae (1995), and translator of three volumes of poetry, among them Jean Joubert's Black Iris (1989). From 1982 to 1993, she taught at Stanford University. She spent the last decade of her life in Seattle, Washington, during which time she published Poems 1968-1972 (1987), Breathing the Water (1987), A Door in the Hive (1989), Evening Train (1992), and The Sands of the Well (1996). In December 1997, Denise Levertov died from complications of lymphoma. She was seventy-four. This Great Unknowing: Last Poems was published by New Directions in 1999.

*Biography from Poets.org

Another Arab Spring

2011-10-12T07:27:00.006-06:00

THEY REVEL in their auburn Spring
And sing the songs of Summer’s light
With wide-eyed will they oust the king
That brought them pain and Winter’s plight

But will their Summer Sun prevail
Will Winter never shed a flake
I hope so, but I cannot tell
I hope so for their freedom’s sake

For though I watch with joyous eyes
And see their cruelty meet its end
Another Winter could arise
By crude ambitions once again

-jwm