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
The grey winds, the cold winds are in the thunder air, all strangers to one
Where I go. as the green grass glows upwards,
I hear the noise of many waters strangers in the silent garden.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing _______________________________________
To and fro.
_______________________________________ 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,
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
"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
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
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,
"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
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
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
America For a Poet
by Claude McKay By Countee Cullen
Although she feeds me bread of I have wrapped my dreams in a silken
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
Giving me strength erect against her I have wrapped my dreams in a silken
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
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.
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
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.
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,
in itself I want to wash when I meet a poet.
of itself carrying They're Reds, addicts,
'the principle What you write is rot.
of the actual' being
Mr. Hines says so, and he's a
he ought to know.
itself ((but maybe this is a love Go and find work.
Mary) ) nevertheless