Amy Lowell
A leader of the imagists, American poet Amy Lawrence Lowell wrote several volumes, including
Sword Blades and Poppy Seed
(1914).
A mother bore Amy into a prominent family. Percival Lowell, her brother and a famous astronomer, predicted the existence of the dwarf planet Pluto; Abbott Lawrence Lowell, another brother, served as president of Harvard University.
The Lowell family deemed not proper attendance at college for a woman, who instead compensated with her avid reading to nearly obsessive book collecting. She lived as a socialite and traveled widely; a performance of Eleonora Duse in Europe inspired her, who afterward turned in 1902. In 1910, Atlantic Monthly first published her work.
She published
A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass
, apparently first collection, in 1912. In 1912, rumors swirled that supposedly lesbian Lowell reputedly lusted for actress Ada Dwyer Russell, her patron. Her more erotic work subjected Russell. The two women traveled together to England, where Lowell met Ezra Pound, a major influence at once and a major critic of her work. Mercedes de Acosta romantically linked Lowell despite the brief correspondence about a memorial for Duse that never took place, the only evidence that they knew each other.
Lowell, an imposing figure, kept her hair in a bun and wore a pince-nez. She smoked constantly and claimed that cigars lasted longer than cigarettes. A glandular problem kept her perpetually overweight, so that Witter Bynner once called her a "hippopoetess," and Ezra Pound repeated this cruel comment. Her works also criticized French literature, and she penned a biography of John Keats.
People well record fetish of Lowell for Keats. Pound thought merely of a rich woman, who ably assisted financially the publication and afterwards made "exile" towards vorticism. Lowell early adhered to the "free verse" method.
Lowell died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the age of 51 years. In the following year of 1926, people awarded her the posthumous Pulitzer Prize for
What's O'Clock
. People forgot her works for years, but focus on lesbian themes, collection of love, addressed to Ada Dwyer Russell, and personification of inanimate objects, such as in
The Green Bowl
,
The Red Lacquer Music Stand
, and
Patterns
caused a resurgence of interest.
“The TaxiWhen I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted starsAnd shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyesSo that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?”
“You are ice and fire,The touch of you burns my hands like snow.You are cold and flame.You are the crimson of amaryllis,The silver of moon-touched magnolias.When I am with you,My heart is a frozen pondGleaming with agitated torches.”
“Christ! What are patterns for?”
“All books are either dreams or swords.”
“I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.”
“Apples of HesperidesGlinting golden through the trees,Apples of Hesperides!Through the moon-pierced warp of nightShoot pale shafts of yellow light,Swaying to the kissing breezeSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,Apples of Hesperides!.Far and lofty yet they glimmer,Apples of Hesperides!Blinded by their radiant shimmer,Pushing forward just for these;Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred,Always thinking soon to seizeAnd possess the golden-glisteningApples of Hesperides!.Orbed, and glittering, and pendent,Apples of Hesperides!Not one missing, still transcendent,Clustering like a swarm of bees.Yielding to no man's desire,Glowing with a saffron fire,Splendid, unassailed, the goldenApples of Hesperides!”
“You lie upon my heart as on a nest,Folded in peace, for you can never knowHow crushed I am with having you at restHeavy upon my life. I love you soYou bind my freedom from its rightful quest.In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.”
“Venus Transiens"Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver? For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet.Amy Lowell, Imagist Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Bob Blaisdell (Dover Publications; Later Printing edition, March 17, 2011)”
“Taking us by and large, we're a queer lotWe women who write poetry. And when you thinkHow few of us there've been, it's queerer still.I wonder what it is that makes us do it,Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise,The fragments of ourselves. Why are weAlready mother-creatures, double-bearing,With matrices in body and in brain?I rather think that there is just the reasonWe are so sparse a kind of human being;The strength of forty thousand AtlasesIs needed for our every-day concerns.There's Sapho, now I wonder what was Sapho.I know a single slender thing about her:That, loving, she was like a burning birch-treeAll tall and glittering fire, and that she wroteLike the same fire caught up to Heaven and held there,A frozen blaze before it broke and fell.Ah, me! I wish I could have talked to Sapho,Surprised her reticences by flinging mineInto the wind. This tossing off of garmentsWhich cloud the soul is none too easy doingWith us to-day. But still I think with SaphoOne might accomplish it, were she in the moodto bare her loveliness of words and tellThe reasons, as she possibly conceived themof why they are so lovely. Just to knowHow she came at them, just watchThe crisp sea sunshine playing on her hair,And listen, thinking all the while 'twas sheWho spoke and that we two were sistersOf a strange, isolated little family.And she is Sapho -- Sapho -- not Miss or Mrs.,A leaping fire we call so for convenience....”
“Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.”
“Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.”
“Everything mortal has moments immortal”
“Underneath my stiffened gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.”
“The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.”
“A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume...”
“For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.”
“You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow”
“Even Pain pricks to livelier living.”
“All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words. ”