19th century poetry

37
Poetry of the 1900s American Poets

Upload: hartslides

Post on 07-May-2015

1.416 views

Category:

Documents


3 download

TRANSCRIPT

Page 1: 19th century poetry

Poetry of the 1900sAmerican Poets

Page 2: 19th century poetry

Paul Laurence Dunbar

1872-1906:He was the first African- American poet to make a living from writing. He wrote his first poem at age six and gave his first public recital at age nine.

Page 3: 19th century poetry

IoneAh, yes, ‘t is sweet still to remember, Though ‘t were less painful to forget;For while my heart glows like an ember, Mine eyes with sorrow’s drops are wet, And, oh, my heart is aching yet.It is a law of mortal pain That old wounds, long accounted well, Beneath the memory’s potent spell,Will wake to life and bleed again.

So ‘t is with me; it might be better If I should turn no look behind, --If I could curb my heart and fetter, From reminiscent gaze my mind, Or let my soul go blind – go blind!But would I do it if I could? Nay! Ease at such a price were spurned; For, since my love was once returned, All that I suffer seemth good.

I know, I know it is the fashion, When love has left some heart distressed,To weight the air with wordful passion;But I am glad that in my breast I ever held so dear a guest.Love does not come at every nod, Or every voice that calleth “hasten;”. . .

Page 4: 19th century poetry

Unexpressed

Deep in my heart that aches with the repression, And strives with plentitude of bitter pain,There lives a thought that clamors for expression, And spends its undelivered force in vain.

What boasts it that some other may have thought it? The right of thoughts’ expression is divine;The price of pain I pay for it has bought it, I care not who lays claim to it – ‘t is mine!

And yet not mine until it be delivered; The manner of its birth shall prove the test.Alas, alas, my rock of pride is shivered – I beat my brow – the thought still unexpressed.

Page 5: 19th century poetry

Longing

If you could sit with me beside the sea to-day,And whisper with me sweetest dreamings o’er and o’er;I think I should not find the clouds so dim and gray,And not so loud the waves complaining at the shore.

If you could sit with me upon the shore to-day,And hold my hand in yours as in the days of old,I think I should not mind the chill baptismal spray,Nor find my hand and heart and all the world so cold.

If you could walk with me upon the sand to-day,And tell me that my longing love had won your own,I think all my sad thoughts would then be put away,And I could give back laughter the Ocean’s moan!

Page 6: 19th century poetry

Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, Which all the day with ceaseless care have soughtThe magic gold which from the seeker flies; Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,And make the waking world a world of lies, -- Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs, -- Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;What ghostly shades in awe-creating guide Are bodies forth within the teeming gloom.What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries, And pangs of vague inexplicable painThat pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise,. . .

Page 7: 19th century poetry

Robert Frost

1874-1963Using traditional verse forms, he wrote about searching and often about dark mediations on universal themes. His work is infused with layers of ambiguity and irony.

Page 8: 19th century poetry

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo know that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.

Page 9: 19th century poetry

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake,The only other sound’s the sweepOf easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.

Page 10: 19th century poetry

November

We saw leaves go to glory,then almost migratorygo part way down the lane,and then to end the storyget beaten down and pastedin one wild day of rain.We heard “’Tis over” roaring.A year of leaves was wasted.Oh, we make a boast of storing,of saving and of keeping,but only by ignoringthe waste of moments sleeping,the waste of pleasure weeping,by denying and ignoringthe waste of nations warring.

Page 11: 19th century poetry

My November Guest

My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rainAre beautiful as days can be;She loves the bare, withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay, She talks and I am fain to list;She’s glad the birds are gone away,She’s glad her simple worsted grey Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees, The faded earth, the heavy sky,The beauties she so truly sees,She thinks I have no eye for these, And vexes me for reason why.

Now yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November daysBefore the coming of the snow,But it were vain to tell her so, And they are better for her praise.

Page 12: 19th century poetry

Langston Hughes1902-1967He lived with his grandmother in Lawrence, Kansas, until he was thirteen. He was named class poet of his eighth-grade class. He used the rhythms of African-American music, particularly blues and jazz in his poems.

Page 13: 19th century poetry

Silence

I catch the patternOf your silenceBefore you speak.

I do not needTo hear a word.

In your silenceEvery tone I seek Is heard.

Page 14: 19th century poetry

Refugee

Loneliness terrific beats on my heart,Bending the bitter broken boughs of pain.Stunned by the onslaught that tears the sky apartI stand with unprotected head against the rain.

Loneliness terrific turns to panic and to fear.I hear my footsteps on the stairs of yesteryear,Where are you? Oh, where are you?Once so dear.

Page 15: 19th century poetry

Girl

She lived in sinful happinessAnd died in pain.She danced in sunshineAnd laughed in rain.

She went one summer morningWhen flowers spread the plain,But she told everybody She was coming back again.

Folks made a coffinAnd hid her deep in earth.Seems like she said:My body Brings new birth.

For sure there grew flowersAnd tall young treesAnd sturdy weeds and grassesTo sway in the breeze.

And sure she lived In growing thingsWith no painTo laugh in sunshineAnd dance in rain.

Page 16: 19th century poetry

Love Song for Antonia

If I should singAll of my songs for youAnd you would not listen to them,If I should buildAll of my dream houses for youAnd you would never live in them,If I should giveAll of my hopes to youAnd you would laugh and say: I do not care,Still I would give you my loveWhich is more than my songs,More than any houses of dreams,Or dreams of houses—I would still give you my loveThough you never looked at me.

Page 17: 19th century poetry

Troubled Woman

She stands In the quiet darkness,This troubled womanBowed byWeariness and painLike anAutumn flowerIn the frozen rain,Like a Wind-blown autumn flowerThat never lifts its headAgain.

Page 18: 19th century poetry

Edna Millay

1892-1950She was the first woman to receive the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. She ranks today as a major figure in twentieth century American literature.

Page 19: 19th century poetry

Ebb

I know what my heart is like

Since your love died;

It is like a hollow ledge

Holding a little pool

Left there by the tide,

A little tepid pool,

Drying inward from the edge.

Page 20: 19th century poetry

Two Sonnets in Memory

IIWhere can the heart be hidden in the groundAnd be at peace, and be at peace forever,Under the world, untroubled by the soundOf mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,If death be deeper than the churchmen say, --Gone from this world indeed what’s graveward carried,And laid to rest indeed what’s laid away.Anguish enough while yet the indignant breatherHave blood to spurt upon the oppressor’s hand;Who would eternal be, and hand in etherA stuffless ghost above his struggling land,Retching in vain to render up the groanThat is not there, being aching dust’s alone?

Page 21: 19th century poetry

Pity Me Not Because the Light of Day

Pity me not because the light of dayAt close of day no longer walks the sky;Pity me not for the beauties passed awayFrom field and thicket as the year goes by;Pity me not the waning of the moon, Nor that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,Nor that a man’s desire is hushed so soon,And you no longer look with love on me.This have I known always: Love is no moreThan the wide blossom which the wind assails,Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales;Pity me that the heart is slow to learnWhat the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Page 22: 19th century poetry

The Dream

Love, if I weep it will not matter, And if you laugh I shall not care;Foolish am I to think about it, But it is good to feel you there.

Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking, -- White and awful the moonlight reachedOver the floor, and somewhere, somewhere There was a shutter loose, -- it screeched!

Swung in the wind, -- and not wind blowing! – I was afraid, and turned to you,Put out my hand to you for comfort, -- And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew,

Under my hand the moonlight lay! Love, if you laugh I shall not care,But if I weep it will not matter, -- Ah, it is good to feel you there!

Page 23: 19th century poetry

Sylvia Plath

1932-1963She published her first poem at eight years old. She was described as sensitive, intelligent, and a perfectionist. She committed suicide at the age of thirty.

Page 24: 19th century poetry

Pheasant

You said you would kill it this morning. Do not kill it. It startles me still,The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm’s hill.It is something to own a pheasant,Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn’tAs if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.The print of its big foot last winter,The tail-track, on the snow in our court—

The wonder of it, in that pallor,Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,A hundred, on that hill – green and red,Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

Page 25: 19th century poetry

Stillborn

These poems do not live: it’s a sad diagnosis.They grew their toes and fingers well enough,Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.If they missed out on walking about like peopleIt wasn’t for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot understand what happened to them!They are proper in shape and number and every part.They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!They smile and smile and smile and smile at me.And still the lungs won’t fill and the heart won’t start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,Though they have a piggy and a fishy air –It would be better if they were alive, and that’s what they were.But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

Page 26: 19th century poetry

Sheep in Fog

The hills step off into whiteness. People or starsRegard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.O slowHorse the color of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells –All morning theMorning has been blackening,

A flower left out.My bones hold a stillness, the farFields melt my heart.

They threaten To let me through to a heavenStarless and fatherless, a dark water.

Page 27: 19th century poetry

Carl Sandburg

1878-1967His works portray his concern for the difficulties of the American worker. His goal was to write simple poems with which people could identify.

Page 28: 19th century poetry

To a Dead Man

Over the dead line we have called to youTo come across with a word to us,Some beaten whisper of what happensWhere you are over the dead lineDeaf to our calls and voiceless.

The flickering shadows have not answeredNor your lips sent a signalWhether to love talks and roses growAnd the sun breaks at morningSplattering the sea with crimson.

Page 29: 19th century poetry

Under the Harvest Moon

Under the harvest moon,When the soft silverDrips shimmeringOver the garden nights,Death, the gray mocker,Comes and whispers to youAs a beautiful friendWho remembers.

Under the summer rosesWhen the flagrant crimsonLurks in the duskOf the wild red leaves,Love, with little hands,Comes and touches youWith a thousand memories,And asks youBeautiful, unanswerable questions.

Page 30: 19th century poetry

Monotone

The monotone of the rain is beautiful,And the sudden rise and slow relapseOf the long multitudinous rain.

The sun on the hills is beautifulOr a captured sunset sea-flung,Bannered with fire and gold.

A face I know is beautiful –With fire and gold of sky and sea,And the peace of long warm rain.

Page 31: 19th century poetry

The Road and the End

I shall foot itdown the roadway in the dusk,Where shapes of hunger wanderAnd the fugitives of pain go by.I shall foot itIn the silence of the morning,See the night slur into dawn,Hear the slow great winds ariseWhere tall trees flank the way And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the roadShall not commemorate my ruin.Regret shall be the gravel under foot.I shall watch forSlim birds swift of wingThat go where wind and ranks of thunderDrive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the traveled roadShall touch my hands and face.

Page 32: 19th century poetry

Wallace Stevens

1897-1955He is best known for his poem “The Snowman”, of which a commentator once said, it is “the best short poem in the English language”.

Page 33: 19th century poetry

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Page 34: 19th century poetry

She’s Just a Memory

But that’s not what I want her to beShe meant the world to meBut now she’s just a memory.Day after DayNight after NightI think of herRemembering the timesWe spent together andHoping someday I’ll see her again.

Page 35: 19th century poetry

A Quiet Normal Life

His place, as he sat and as he thought, was notIn anything that he constructed, so frail,So barely lit, so shadowed over and naught,

As, for example, a world in which, like snow,He became an inhabitant, obedientTo gallant notions on the part of the cold.

It was here. This was the setting and the timeOf year. Here in his house and in his room,In his chair, the most tranquil thought grew peaked

And the oldest and the warmest heart was cutBy gallant notions on the part of night –Both late and alone, above the crickets’ chords,

Babbling, each one, the uniqueness of its sound.There was no fury in transcendent forms.But his actual candle blazed with artifice.

Page 36: 19th century poetry

Gray Room

Although you sit in a room that is gray,Except for the silver Of the straw-paper,And pickAt your pale white gown;Or lift on the green beadsOf your necklace,To let it fall;Or gaze at your green fanPrinted with the red branches of a red willow;Or, with one finger,Move the leaf in the bowl –The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythiaBeside you...What is all this?I know how furiously your heart is beating.

Page 37: 19th century poetry

Themes in 1900’s Poetry:

• Relationships• Individual Identity• Social Consciousness• The Working Class• Life and Death