Poetry in Our Time: The Poet, Publisher, Reader, and Reviewer
A very timely and apt critical review of the poetry 'scene', delightful and informative demythologising of the present 'corporate poetry culture'. Wainwright's equivalent of Joyce's 'cultic twalette' critique brought up to date.
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actually Astrud Gilberto Auden autobiographical aware better biography Birthday Letters can’t certainly claim complex concerned conscious course creative writing critical current poetry difficult editors Eliot Envoi experience extent extract fact feel human Independent on Sunday inevitably insights instance John Ashbery John Burnside kind language Larkin least listening literary literature look mean merely mind never notion nowadays obscure obviously offer one’s performance poetry perhaps Peter Redgrove Philip Larkin piece poem poem’s poet poet’s poetry magazine poetry matters poetry writing poetry’s possible problem prose publication published question reader realise reasons rhyme s/he seems self-evident sense Simon Armitage sometimes sonnet sort stuff subconscious suggest surely surreal T.S. Eliot things thought Thumbscrew truth trying U.A. Fanthorpe unintelligible value judgements verse volumes W.B. Yeats W.H. Auden wish words Wordsworth worse write poetry written
Page 63 - For I have learned To look on Nature not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man...
Page 101 - Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
Page 100 - And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away...
Page 7 - Then, Sir, what is poetry?" JOHNSON: "Why, Sir, it is much easier to say what it is not. We all know what light is; but it is not easy to tell what it is.
Page 56 - We can only say that it appears likely that poets in our civilization, as it exists at present, must be difficult. Our civilization comprehends great variety and complexity, and this variety and complexity, playing upon a refined sensibility, must produce various and 275 complex results. The poet must become more and more comprehensive, more allusive, more indirect, in order to force, to dislocate if necessary, language into his meaning.
Page 40 - The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Page 99 - I saw eternity the other night Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright; And round beneath it, time in hours, days, years, Driv'n by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled...
Page 99 - Then, reascending the bare common, saw A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, The beacon on the summit, and, more near, A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head, And seemed with difficult steps to force her way Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth, An ordinary sight ; but I should need Colours and words that are unknown to man, To paint the visionary dreariness Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide, Invested moorland waste, and naked pool.