  Poetry
This week: Amy Lowell Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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March Evening
By Amy Lowell
Blue through the window burns the twilight;
Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.
Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.
Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.
Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.
On February 9, 1874, socialites, Augustus Lowell and his wife Katherine Lawrence welcomed daughter Amy Lowell into their family. The Lowell's were a well respected Boston family and tried to raise their daughter as such putting Amy in private schools. Teaching her manners and how to be a lady. Lowell was not the ideal student; she often terrorized her classmates and she disrespected her teachers. Amy never went to college, it was considered unacceptable for the women in her family. Lowell was able to continue her education as a socialite using her family's wealth to see the world.
Amy Lowell lost her mother in 1895 and her father five years later. After her father's death, Amy took on her father's duty and became the first female in her family to speak publicly. She became a poet in 1902 after seeing a reading by Eleonora Duse. It wasn't until 1910 that Lowell saw her first poem “Fixed Idea," published in the Atlantic. Over the next two years she continued to write.
In 1912 she published her first book of poetry, "A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass." It was also that same year that Lowell meet actress Ada Dwyer Russell. The two were said to be lovers until Lowell's death. Having become a poet in her thirties Lowell was still in search of learning her own style. She became a student of of the art, learning form of poets such as Ezra Pound. She realized her poetry followed in much the same "imagism.” Her next book "Sword Blades and Poppy Seed" was published in 1914. For the next few years, Amy was publishing about a book a year. Her titles included "Men, Women and Ghosts" in 1916, "Can Grande's Castles" in 1918, "Pictures of a Floating World" in 1919, and "Fir-Flower Tablets" in early 1921.
Her 1921 publication of “Legends,” would be her last poetry publication while she was alive. In it she used eleven legends around the globe to make up eleven poems. It was well received by the literary communities. Over the next few years Lowell worked with other authors and poets on different projects. Her health was declining rather quickly. Amy Lowell died of cerebral hemorrhage at the age of 51. A year after her death, she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for "What's O'clock" which was published postpartum along with two other works, by her lover Ada Russell. Lowell's final two books "East Wind" was published in 1926 and "Ballads for Sale" in 1927.
Dreams in War Time Related Poem Content Details
BY AMY LOWELL
I
I wandered through a house of many rooms.
It grew darker and darker,
Until, at last, I could only find my way
By passing my fingers along the wall.
Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,
And the thorn of a rose I could not see
Pricked it so sharply
That I cried aloud.
II
I dug a grave under an oak-tree.
With infinite care, I stamped my spade
Into the heavy grass.
The sod sucked it,
And I drew it out with effort,
Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight
As it came clear.
I stooped, and dug, and never turned,
For behind me,
On the dried leaves,
My own face lay like a white pebble,
Waiting.
III
I gambled with a silver money.
The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”
Were stacked in front of me.
Dry, white years slipping through my fingers
One by one.
One by one, gathered by the Croupier.
“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”
I staked on the red,
And the black won.
Dry years,
Dead years;
But I had a system,
I always staked on the red.
IV
I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.
V
I followed a procession of singing girls
Who danced to the glitter of tambourines.
Where the street turned at a lighted corner,
I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers,
But, as I grasped it, it tore,
And the purple dye ran from it
Like blood
Upon the ground.
VI
I wished to post a letter,
But although I paid much,
Still the letter was overweight.
“What is in this package?” said the clerk,
“It is very heavy.”
“Yes,” I said,
“And yet it is only a dried fruit.”
VII
I had made a kite,
On it I had pasted golden stars
And white torches,
And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,
And very long.
I flew my kite,
And my soul was contented
Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.
My friends pointed at the clouds;
They begged me to take in my kite.
But I was happy
Seeing the mirror shock of it
Against the black clouds.
Then the lightning came
And struck the kite.
It puffed—blazed—fell.
But still I walked on,
In the drowning rain,
Slowly winding up the string.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
Tornadoes are rolling, roaring across New Orleans;
While here in the west, the sky darkens with each passing hour.
Winds toss and tumble my light chairs across the patio;
Frightened, my little spaniel seeks shelter from his guardian.
A large green fir tree bends, shakes and rattles, keeps time with the wind.
Its roar scatters squirrels away from my neighbor’s feeder.
Rushing to dodge the onslaught of hovering clouds downwind,
Critters flee across rooftops, flying footsteps and fur, thin-skinned.
Fiercely spurred upward by nature’s furtive force, dirt and sand whirl
And collide, creating dry dusty devils on the ground.
It’s hard to ignore the sustained sound building strength outside,
A large sweeping vacuum, Mother Earth’s dry and porous twirl.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: March 01, 2017 Issue [#8152]
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