Hope is the thing with feathers (DOC)

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					Pre-Modernist, Modernist and                how evanescent, variegated elder, she
                                            hesitates on the green grass
Imagist Poets                               as if, in another moment, she would
                                            with all her grace of foam!
All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters
By James Joyce                              And the larch that is only a column, it
                                            goes up too tall to see:
  All day I hear the noise of waters        and the balsam-pines that are blue with
Making moan,                                the grey-blue blueness of
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going               things from the sea,
Forth alone,                                and the young copper beech, its leaves
He hears the winds cry to the water's       red-rosy at the ends
Monotone.                                   how still they are together, they stand
                                            so still
The grey winds, the cold winds are          in the thunder air, all strangers to one
blowing                                     another
Where I go.                                 as the green grass glows upwards,
I hear the noise of many waters             strangers in the silent garden.
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing     _______________________________________
To and fro.
                                            Red Slippers
_______________________________________     by Amy Lowell

Hope is the thing with feathers             Red slippers in a shop-window; and
By Emily Dickinson                          outside in the street, flaws of gray,
                                            windy sleet!
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,                   Behind the polished glass the slippers
And sings the tune without the words,       hang in long threads of red, festooning
And never stops at all,                     from the ceiling like stalactites of
                                            blood, flooding the eyes of passers-by
And sweetest in the gale is heard;          with dripping color, jamming their
And sore must be the storm                  crimson reflections against the windows
That could abash the little bird            of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their
That kept so many warm.                     claret and salmon into the teeth of the
                                            sleet, plopping their little round maroon
I've heard it in the chillest land,         lights upon the tops of umbrellas.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.                     The row of white, sparkling shop-fronts
                                            is gashed and bleeding, it bleeds red
_________________________________________   slippers. They spout under the electric
____                                        light, fluid and fluctuating, a hot rain—
                                            and freeze again to red slippers,
                                            myriadly multiplied in the mirror side of
Trees in the Garden                         the window.
By D. H. Lawrence
                                            They balance upon arched insteps like
Ah in the thunder air                       springing bridges of crimson lacquer;
how still the trees are!                    they swing up over curved heels like
                                            whirling tanagers sucked in a wind-
And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every   pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like
leaf silent                                 July ponds, flared and burnished by red
hardly looses even a last breath of         rockets.
                                            Snap, snap, they are cracker sparks of
And the ghostly, creamy coloured little     scarlet in the white, monotonous block of
tree of leaves                              shops.
white, ivory white among the rambling
They plunge the clangor of billions of               to discriminate against
vermilion trumpets into the crowd           "business documents and
outside, and echo in faint rose over the
pavement.                                   school-books"; all these phenomena are
                                            important. One must make
                                                  a distinction
People hurry by, for these are only            however: when dragged into prominence
shoes, and in a window farther down is a    by half poets, the
big lotus bud of cardboard, whose petals          result is not poetry,
open every few minutes and reveal a wax        nor till the poets among us can be
doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen          "literalists of
hair, lolling awkwardly in its flower             the imagination"--above
chair.                                               insolence and triviality and can
One has often seen shoes, but whoever saw
a cardboard lotus bud before?               for inspection, "imaginary gardens with
                                            real toads in them,"
                                                  shall we have
The flaws of gray, windy sleet beat on         it. In the meantime, if you demand on
the shop-window where there are only red    the one hand,
slippers.                                      the raw material of poetry in
_________________________________________         all its rawness and
____                                              that which is on the other hand
                                                     genuine, you are interested in
Poetry                                      poetry.
by Marianne Moore                           _______________________________________
I, too, dislike it: there are things that
are important beyond
      all this fiddle.
   Reading it, however, with a perfect
contempt for it, one
      discovers in                          somewhere i have never
   it after all, a place for the genuine.
      Hands that can grasp, eyes
                                            travelled,gladly beyond
      that can dilate, hair that can rise   by E. E. Cummings
         if it must, these things are
important not because a                     somewhere i have never travelled, gladly
high-sounding interpretation can be put     any experience, your eyes have their
upon them but because                       silence:
      they are                              in your most frail gesture are things
   useful. When they become so derivative   which enclose me,
as to become                                or which i cannot touch because they are
      unintelligible,                       too near
   the same thing may be said for all of
us, that we                                 your slightest look easily will unclose
      do not admire what                    me
      we cannot understand: the bat         though i have closed myself as fingers,
         holding on upside down or in       you open always petal by petal myself as
quest of something to                       Spring opens
                                            (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse        first rose
taking a roll, a tireless
      wolf under                            or if your wish be to close me, i and
   a tree, the immovable critic twitching   my life will shut very beautifully
his skin like a horse                       ,suddenly,
      that feels a flea, the base-          as when the heart of this flower imagines
   ball fan, the statistician--             the snow carefully everywhere descending;
      nor is it valid

nothing which we are to perceive in this    That I may fold it round me and in
world equals                                comfort lie.
the power of your intense fragility:whose
texture                                     _________________________________________
compels me with the color of its            ___
rendering death and forever with each       THE GARDEN
breathing                                   By Ezra Pound
(i do not know what it is about you that                En robe de parade.
closes                                                              Samain
and opens;only something in me              Like a skein of loose silk blown against
understands                                 a wall
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all               She walks by the railing of a
roses)                                      path in Kensington Gardens,
nobody,not even the rain,has such small     And she is dying piece-meal
hands                                                   of a sort of emotional
____                                        And round about there is a rabble
                                            Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants
                                            of the very poor.
Futility                                    They shall inherit the earth.
By F.S Flint
                                                         In her is the end of
I HOLD the universe in my brain ;           breeding.
And I walk along the streets and laugh                   Her boredom is exquisite and
That Life has mixed with all the chaff      excessive.
So small a measure, God ! of grain.
                                                        She would like some one to
And Death is but a parfilage                speak to her,
Of precious threads of silver and gold                  And is almost afraid that I
That with the stuff of Tellus old           will commit that indiscretion
Are woven sparse from age to age.
Annihilation's Gorgon stare                 _
Will freeze the genial Earth at last
With all her gibbous face icefast,          In a Station of the Metro
Her genius vanished God knows where.
                                            by Ezra Pound
                                            The apparition of these faces in the
                                            Petals on a wet, black bough.

The Embankment
By T. E. Hulme                              At Baia
                                            by H. D.
      (The fantasia of a fallen gentleman
on a cold, bitter night.)                   I should have thought
Once, in finesse of fiddles found I         in a dream you would have brought
ecstasy,                                    some lovely, perilous thing,
                                            orchids piled in a great sheath,
In the flash of gold heels on the hard      as who would say (in a dream),
pavement.                                   "I send you this,
Now see I                                   who left the blue veins
That warmth's the very stuff of poesy.      of your throat unkissed."
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,      Why was it that your hands

(that never took mine),                     Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
your hands that I could see                 Memory and desire, stirring
drift over the orchid-heads                 Dull roots with spring rain.
so carefully,                               Winter kept us warm, covering
                                            Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
your hands, so fragile, sure to lift        A little life with dried tubers.
so gently, the fragile flower-stuff--       Summer surprised us, coming over the
ah, ah, how was it                          Starnbergersee
                                            With a shower of rain; we stopped in the
You never sent (in a dream)                 colonnade,
the very form, the very scent,              And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
not heavy, not sensuous,                    And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
but perilous--perilous--                    Bin gar kine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt
of orchids, piled in a great sheath,        deutsch.
                                            And when we were children, staying at the
and folded underneath on a bright scroll,   archduke's,
some word:                                  My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
                                            And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
"Flower sent to flower;                     Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
for white hands, the lesser white,          In the mountains, there you feel free.
less lovely of flower-leaf,"                I read, much of the night, and go south in the
                                               What are the roots that clutch, what
                                            branches grow.
"Lover to lover, no kiss,                   Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
no touch, but forever and ever this."       You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
                                            A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
_________________________________________   And the dead tree gives no shelter, the
_________                                   cricket no relief,
                                            And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
Nomad Exquisite                             There is shadow under this red rock,
                                            (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
by Wallace Stevens                          And I will show you something different from
As the immense dew of Florida               Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Brings forth                                Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
The big-finned palm                         I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
And green vine angering for life,                          Frisch weht der Wind
                                                           Der Heimat zu,
                                                           Mein Irisch Kind,
As the immense dew of Florida                              Wo weilest du?
Brings forth hymn and hymn                  "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
From the beholder,                          "They called me the hyacinth girl."
Beholding all these green sides             –Yet when we came back, late, from the
And gold sides of green sides,              Hyacinth garden,
                                            Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
And blessed mornings,                       Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Meet for the eye of the young alligator,    Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
And lightning colors                        Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
                                            Oed' und leer das Meer.
So, in me, come flinging
Forms, flames, and the flakes of flames.       Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
                                            Had a bad cold, nevertheless
                                            Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
                                            With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
                                            Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
                                            (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
                                            Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
                                            The lady of situations.
                                            Here is the man with three staves, and here
                                            the Wheel,
Excerpts from The Wasteland                 And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this
By T. S. Eliot                              card
                                            Which is blank, is something he carries on his
I..The Burial of the Dead                   back,
                                            Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
April is the cruellest month, breeding      The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a       Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room
ring.                                            enclosed.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,        Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:           Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
One must be so careful these days.               Spread out in fiery points
                                                 Clawed into words, then would be savagely
   Unreal City,                                  still.
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,      "My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay
I had not thought death had undone so many.      with me.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,       "Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.        "What are you thinking of? What thinking?
Flowed up the hill and down King William         What?
Street,                                          "I never know what you are thinking. Think."…
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him,
crying: "Stetson!
"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"That corpse you planted last year in your
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
"Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to
"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable—mon

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of seven branched
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled,
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by
the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood-fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the
coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed.
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world
"Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms

Poets of the Harlem
Renaissance                                 _________

America                                     For a Poet
by Claude McKay                             By Countee Cullen

Although she feeds me bread of              I have wrapped my dreams in a silken
bitterness,                                 cloth,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's        And laid them away in a box of gold;
tooth,                                      Where long will cling the lips of the
Stealing my breath of life, I will          moth,
confess                                     I have wrapped my dreams in a silken
I love this cultured hell that tests        cloth;
my youth!                                   I hide no hate; I am not even wroth
Her vigor flows like tides into my          Who found earth's breath so keen and
blood,                                      cold;
Giving me strength erect against her        I have wrapped my dreams in a silken
hate.                                       cloth,
Her bigness sweeps my being like a          And laid them away in a box of gold.
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,      ______________________________________
I stand within her walls with not a         _______
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.      Song
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,          By Gwendolyn Bennett
And see her might and granite wonders
there,                                          I am weaving a song of waters,
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring            Shaken from firm, brown limbs,
hand,                                           Or heads thrown back in irreverent
Like priceless treasures sinking in         mirth.
the sand.                                       My song has the ush sweetness
                                                Of moist, dark lips
_________________________________________       Where hymns keep company
                                                With old forgotten banjo songs.
                                                Abandon tells you
Dream Variations
                                                That I sing the heart of race
by Langston Hughes                              While sadness whispers
                                                That I am the cry of a soul. . . .
To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
                                                A-shoutin' in de ole camp-meeting-
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
                                                A-strummin' o' de ole banjo.
Then rest at cool evening
                                                Singin' in de moonlight,
Beneath a tall tree
                                                Sobbin' in de dark.
While night comes on gently,
                                                Singin', sobbin', strummin' slow .
    Dark like me--
                                            . .
That is my dream!
                                                Singin' slow, sobbin' low.
                                                Strummin', strummin', strummin'
To fling my arms wide
                                            slow . . .
In the face of the sun,
                                                Words are bright bugles
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
                                                That make the shining for my song,
Till the quick day is done.
                                                And mothers hold down babies
Rest at pale evening . . .
                                                To dark, warm breasts
A tall, slim tree . . .
                                                To make my singing sad.
Night coming tenderly
    Black like me.
    A dancing girl with swaying hips        When his wing is bruised and his
    Sets mad the queen in the harlot's   bosom sore,--
eye.                                     When he beats his bars and he would be
            Praying slave                free;
            Jazz-band after              It is not a carol of joy or glee,
            Breaking heart                  But a prayer that he sends from his
            To the time of laughter .    heart's deep core,
. .                                      But a plea, that upward to Heaven he
    Clinking chains and minstrelsy       flings--
    Are wedged fast with melody.         I know why the caged bird sings!
            A praying slave
            With a jazz-band after . .   _________________________________________
.                                        _________
            Singin' slow, sobbin' low.
    Sun-baked lips will kiss the         Reconnaissance
earth.                                   By Arna Bontemps
    Throats of bronze will burst with
mirth.                                   After the cloud embankments,
            Sing a little faster,        the lamentation of wind
            Sing a little faster,        and the starry descent into time,
            Sing!                        we came to the flashing waters and
                                         shaded our eyes
Sympathy                                 from the glare.
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
                                         Alone with the shore and the harbor,
I know what the caged bird feels,        the stems of the cocoanut trees,
alas!                                    the fronds of silence and hushed
   When the sun is bright on the         music,
upland slopes;                           we cried for the new revelation
When the wind stirs soft through the     and waited for miracles to rise.
springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of     Where elements touch and merge,
glass;                                   where shadows swoon like outcasts on
   When the first bird sings and the     the sand
first bud opes,                          and the tried moment waits, its
And the faint perfume from its chalice   courage gone--
steals--                                 there were we
I know what the caged bird feels!
                                         in latitudes where storms are born.
I know why the caged bird beats its
wing                                     ______________________________________
   Till its blood is red on the cruel    _______
For he must fly back to his perch and    People
cling                                    By Jean Toomer
When he fain would be on the bough a-
swing;                                        To those fixed on white,
   And a pain still throbs in the old,   White is white,
old scars                                To those fixed on black,
And they pulse again with a keener       It is the same,
sting--                                  And red is red,
I know why he beats his wing!            Yellow, yellow-
                                         Surely there are such sights
I know why the caged bird sings, ah      In the many colored world,
me,                                      Or in the mind.
                                         The strange thing is that

These people never see themselves
Or you, or me.

Are they not in their minds?
Are we not in the world?
This is a curious blindness
For those that are color blind.
What queer beliefs
That men who believe in sights
Disbelieve in seers.

O people, if you but used
Your other eyes
You would see beings.

The Objectivists                                    neither

Song 21                                     the power
By Louis Zukofsky                           of the self nor the racing
                                            car nor the lilly
      Snows' night's winds on the window
rattling                                            is sweet but this
Would seem to leap out of the bed-spring
What prevents a feat like that occurring    _________
Reason-but the more actual bedding
                                            What the Chairman Told Tom
Springs of steel mercurial spirallings      by Basil Bunting
making a body's night a changeable
singing                                     Poetry? It's a hobby.
                                            I run model trains.
The winged boots of the frozen seek of      Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.
it! sheltering
Safety from the window's pommelling         It's not work. You dont sweat.
                                            Nobody pays for it.
_________________________________________   You could advertise soap.
                                            Art, that's opera; or repertory--
Te Deum                                     The Desert Song.
by Charles Reznikoff                        Nancy was in the chorus.

Not because of victories                    But to ask for twelve pounds a week--
I sing,                                     married, aren't you?--
having none,                                you've got a nerve.
but for the common sunshine,
the breeze,                                 How could I look a bus conductor
the largess of the spring.                  in the face
                                            if I paid you twelve pounds?
Not for victory
but for the day's work done                 Who says it's poetry, anyhow?
as well as I was able;                      My ten year old
not for a seat upon the dais                can do it and rhyme.
but at the common table.
                                            I get three thousand and expenses,
_________________________________________   a car, vouchers,
__                                          but I'm an accountant.

                                            They do what I tell them,
Who Shall Doubt                             my company.
by George Oppen                             What do you do?

consciousness                               Nasty little words, nasty long words,
                                            it's unhealthy.
         in itself                          I want to wash when I meet a poet.

of itself carrying                          They're Reds, addicts,
                                            all delinquents.
    'the principle                          What you write is rot.
        of the actual' being
                                            Mr. Hines says so, and he's a
actual                                      schoolteacher,
                                            he ought to know.
itself ((but maybe this is a love           Go and find work.

Mary) ) nevertheless


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