Others for 1919: An Anthology of the New Verse

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Alfred Kreymborg
N. L. Brown, 1920 - American poetry - 190 pages

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Page 131 - ... elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the baseball fan, the statistician— nor is it valid to discriminate against 'business documents and school-books'; all these phenomena are important.
Page 37 - MENDING WALL Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping...
Page 132 - ... literalists of the imagination' — above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.
Page 43 - And stood the axe there on its horse's hoof, Erect, but not without its waves, as when The snake stood up for evil in the Garden,— Top-heavy with a heaviness his short, Thick hand made light of, steel-blue chin drawn down And in a little— a French touch in that. Baptiste drew back and squinted at it, pleased; 'See how she's cock her head!
Page 132 - ... business documents and school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination...
Page 38 - I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as...
Page 171 - VI If men at forty will be painting lakes The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one, The basic slate, the universal hue. There is a substance in us that prevails. But in our amours amorists discern Such fluctuations that their scrivening Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
Page 174 - I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs, No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits. But, after all, I know a tree that bears A semblance to the thing I have in mind. It stands gigantic, with a certain tip To which all birds come sometime in their time. But when they go that tip still tips the tree. XI If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.

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