Planet News, City Lights, For the Soul of the Planet Is Wakening A Poem, Grabhorn-Hoyem, Open Head, Sun Books Melbourne , The Fall of America: Poems of These States, , City Lights, The Gates of Wrath: Poems, , City Lights, Poems All over the Place: Two Rhymes, Red Ozier Press, Many Loves, Pequod Press, Old Love Story, Lospecchio Press, White Shroud, Harper, Selected Poems, , HarperCollins, National Student Association, Author of introduction John A.
Declaration of Independence for Dr. Timothy Leary, Hermes Free Press, Author of introduction William Burroughs Jr.
Contributor of interview Donald M. Allen, editor, Robert Creeley, Contexts of Poetry: Chicago Trial Testimony, City Lights, The Dream of Tibet, City Moon, With Neal Cassady, and author of afterword As Ever: Author of introduction Ernesto Cardenal, Ergo! The Bumbershoot Literary Magazine, Bumbershoot, The Poetry Project at the St. Author of introduction Sharkmeat Blue, King Death: Editor, with Peter Orlovsky Francesco Clemente: Contributor and author of foreword The Beat Book: Author of foreword Ko Un, Beyond Self: With Louis Ginsberg Family Business: Studies in American Underground Poetry since , Oyez, Concise Dictionary of American Literary Biography: Contemporary Poets, sixth edition, St.
James Press Detroit , Dictionary of Literary Biography, Gale, Volume 5: Literary Bohemians in Postwar America, , Volume Gay and Lesbian Biography, St.
Gay and Lesbian Literature, St. McNally, Dennis, Desolate Angel: Poetry Criticism, Volume 4, Gale, Rather, Lois, Bohemians to Hippies: Reference Guide to American Literature, third edition, St. Schumacher, Michael, Dharma Lion, St. Martin's New York City , Stepanchev, Stephen, American Poetry since , Harper, Sutton, Walter, American Free Verse: Widmer, Kingsley, The Fifties: American Poetry Review, September, Antioch Review, spring, , p. Ariel, October, , pp. Atlanta Journal and Constitution, November 19, , p. Art Press, Number , , pp.
Best Sellers, December 15, Black Mountain Review, autumn, Bloomsbury Review, March, , p.
"In A Station of the Metro" is an Imagist poem by Ezra Pound published in in the literary The poem was reprinted in Pound's collection Lustra in , and again in the anthology Personae: The Collected Poems of Ezra Colour print of a finely-dressed Japanese woman holding a lantern at night, admiring. Poetry and Place - In this collection, we examine the significance of place in Here you'll find a range of poems, commentary, and essays that revolve around what we mean by in , to the woman sitting in her parlor, candlelit, underground. It is now restoring to its shapely body its own secret light, a color of faintly.
Booklist, April 15, , p. Book World, May 25, Bulletin of Bibliography, December, , pp. Chicago Review, summer, Denver Post, July 20, Detroit News, April 18, Dionysos, winter, , pp. East West Journal, February, Economist, November 11, , p. Entertainment Weekly, October 11, , p. Globe and Mail Toronto , February 23, Hudson Review, autumn, Interview, June, , p. Journal of American Culture, fall, , pp. Journal of Popular Culture, winter, Is the poem linear, circular, a wave, or some other shape together? What do you learn about the poem from trying to visually represent its coordinates?
Look for moments of transition in the poem to see how Millay represents change. Which borders and what kind are crossed and which are maintained? How does performance change your experience of the poem? Vincent Millay is a great poet to start a multi-lesson investigation into the history of poetry and performance.
There are a few recordings of Millay reading her work online; select one and, if possible, listen to it as a class.
What sounds strange or different, or exciting and interesting, to your students? If you have time, you could assign other poets who experimented with performance from this period, including Vachel Lindsay , Carl Sandburg , and Edith Sitwell. Have students present their findings, along with Millay poems representative of the period or book to the class. At the museum, we marvel at their clothes— preserved under glass—so much smaller than our own, as if those who wore them were only children.
We sleep in their beds, the old mansions hunkered on the bluffs, draped in flowers—funereal—a blur of petals against the river's gray. The brochure in my room calls this living history.
Relating his poetry to his interest in the spiritual, Ginsberg once said: Then, on Broadway, red wings in a storefront tableau, lustrous, the live macaws preening, beaks opening and closing like those animated knives that unfold all night in jewelers' windows. East West Journal, February, Journal of Popular Culture, winter, One of the most respected Beat writers and acclaimed American poets of his generation, Allen Ginsberg was born on June 3, in Newark, New Jersey and raised in nearby Paterson, the son of an English teacher and Russian expatriate.
The brass plate on the door reads Prissy's Room. A window frames the river's crawl toward the Gulf. In my dream, the ghost of history lies down beside me, rolls over, pins me beneath a heavy arm. Under Grand Central's tattered vault —maybe half a dozen electric stars still lit— one saxophone blew, and a sheer black scrim billowed over some minor constellation under repair.
Then, on Broadway, red wings in a storefront tableau, lustrous, the live macaws preening, beaks opening and closing like those animated knives that unfold all night in jewelers' windows. For sale, glass eyes turned outward toward the rain, the birds lined up like the endless flowers and cheap gems, the makeshift tables of secondhand magazines and shoes the hawkers eye while they shelter in the doorways of banks. So many pockets and paper cups and hands reeled over the weight of that glittered pavement, and at rd a woman reached to me across the wet roof of a stranger's car and said, I'm Carlotta, I'm hungry.
She was only asking for change, so I don't know why I took her hand. The rooftops were glowing above us, enormous, crystalline, a second city lit from within. That night a man on the downtown local stood up and said, My name is Ezekiel, I am a poet, and my poem this evening is called fall. He stood up straight to recite, a child reminded of his posture by the gravity of his text, his hands hidden in the pockets of his coat.
Love is protected, he said, the way leaves are packed in snow, the rubies of fall. God is protecting the jewel of love for us.
He didn't ask for anything, but I gave him all the change left in my pocket, and the man beside me, impulsive, moved, gave Ezekiel his watch. It wasn't an expensive watch, I don't even know if it worked, but the poet started, then walked away as if so much good fortune must be hurried away from, before anyone realizes it's a mistake. Carlotta, her stocking cap glazed like feathers in the rain, under the radiant towers, the floodlit ramparts, must have wondered at my impulse to touch her, which was like touching myself, the way your own hand feels when you hold it because you want to feel contained.
She said, You get home safe now, you hear? In the same way Ezekiel turned back to the benevolent stranger. I will write a poem for you tomorrow, he said. The poem I will write will go like this: Our ancestors are replenishing the jewel of love for us. They are walking in the woods along the coast and in a grassy meadow, wasting, they come upon two old neglected apple trees. Moss thickened every bough and the wood of the limbs looked rotten but the trees were wild with blossom and a green fire of small new leaves flickered even on the deadest branches. Blue-eyes, poppies, a scattering of lupine flecked the meadow, and an intricate, leopard-spotted leaf-green flower whose name they didn't know.
Trout lily, he said; she said, adder's-tongue. She is shaken by the raw, white, backlit flaring of the apple blossoms. He is exultant, as if some thing he felt were verified, and looks to her to mirror his response. If it is afternoon, a thin moon of my own dismay fades like a scar in the sky to the east of them. He could be knocking wildly at a closed door in a dream. She thinks, meanwhile, that moss resembles seaweed drying lightly on a dock.
Torn flesh, it was the repetitive torn flesh of appetite in the cold white blossoms that had startled her. Now they seem tender and where she was repelled she takes the measure of the trees and lets them in. But he no longer has the apple trees.
This is as sad or happy as the tide, going out or coming in, at sunset. The light catching in the spray that spumes up on the reef is the color of the lesser finch they notice now flashing dull gold in the light above the field. They admire the bird together, it draws them closer, and they start to walk again. A small boy wanders corridors of a hotel that way.
Behind one door, a maid.