Enjoying Imagism with Amy Lowell
Wow. Why didn't anyone tell me to read some of Amy Lowell's poetry before now? Pound? Williams? No. Amy Lowell is the best imagist poet. What beauty in these lines!
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
Let us pause on the absolute exquisiteness of this line. This is one of the most perfect lines I've ever encountered. Just in and of itself as a simple image, it does everything a line of poetry should do (in America during the Modernist period, that is). Particular to imagism, it is perfect because one cannot read it without populating the landscape oneself. Moreover, it is an immediate line that strikes one with its surface yet conjours depth through personal associations. This line is imagism. It sure beats the hell out of the wheelbarrow and the white chickens.
But she continues. (These are the opening lines.)
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Yes! The rhythm is so nice, the images so delicately crafted. And if we add the title of the poem, "September 1918," we know that these lines are not as innocent as they appear to be.
And then this - this delightful turn in the poem's middle:
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
Yes yes yes! How I miss poetry that makes me ecstatic! Where has Amy Lowell been hiding all my life?!
I won't spoil the ending - perhaps the best part - for those who are interested. Here is the full text.
And the next poem I read I will quote in full because it too is beautiful in so many ways - the level of the line, the level of the individual image, how exact each one is, the metaphor derived from each image and built as poem goes on, and the raw, horrible yearning at the end. This poem bleeds.
"The Letter"
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
Umph, makes me wish poetry was my specialty rather than fiction.
I had taken her off of my list. For shame. Back on it she goes.
In the course, still, of reading my friend's exams list (for which I just encountered Amy Lowell), I also re-read E.A. Robinson, whom I had not read since 11th grade English. I was very much impressed by him.
Take these lines from "Mr. Flood's Party":
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
But even better, these two from "Luke Havergal":
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
I understand the first and love what it means, but the second's meaning still eludes me.
Then there's these two, which I adore for the image and because it's so damn depressing and thereby indicative of Robinson's naturalism:
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven.
(from "Eros Turannos")
Oh, how I love 20th century American poetry. My favorite!
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
Let us pause on the absolute exquisiteness of this line. This is one of the most perfect lines I've ever encountered. Just in and of itself as a simple image, it does everything a line of poetry should do (in America during the Modernist period, that is). Particular to imagism, it is perfect because one cannot read it without populating the landscape oneself. Moreover, it is an immediate line that strikes one with its surface yet conjours depth through personal associations. This line is imagism. It sure beats the hell out of the wheelbarrow and the white chickens.
But she continues. (These are the opening lines.)
This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Yes! The rhythm is so nice, the images so delicately crafted. And if we add the title of the poem, "September 1918," we know that these lines are not as innocent as they appear to be.
And then this - this delightful turn in the poem's middle:
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
Yes yes yes! How I miss poetry that makes me ecstatic! Where has Amy Lowell been hiding all my life?!
I won't spoil the ending - perhaps the best part - for those who are interested. Here is the full text.
And the next poem I read I will quote in full because it too is beautiful in so many ways - the level of the line, the level of the individual image, how exact each one is, the metaphor derived from each image and built as poem goes on, and the raw, horrible yearning at the end. This poem bleeds.
"The Letter"
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
Umph, makes me wish poetry was my specialty rather than fiction.
I had taken her off of my list. For shame. Back on it she goes.
In the course, still, of reading my friend's exams list (for which I just encountered Amy Lowell), I also re-read E.A. Robinson, whom I had not read since 11th grade English. I was very much impressed by him.
Take these lines from "Mr. Flood's Party":
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below--
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.
But even better, these two from "Luke Havergal":
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
I understand the first and love what it means, but the second's meaning still eludes me.
Then there's these two, which I adore for the image and because it's so damn depressing and thereby indicative of Robinson's naturalism:
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven.
(from "Eros Turannos")
Oh, how I love 20th century American poetry. My favorite!