A Translation & Notes on Pervigilium Veneris

Pervigilium Veneris


These two wonderful lines in an 85-line odd poem of unknown authorship written between the 1st and 4th centuries have drawn translators from Thomas Parnell to Ezra Pound to Allen Tate to any number of university professors:

Cras amet qui nunquam amati
Quique amavit tras ame.  

They seemed plain enough when I first read them:  and so “Let whoever has not loved, love tomorrow / Whoever has loved, love tomorrow,” was my translation.  Others came up with versions that seem, well, quirky:  Allen Tate’s Tomorrow may loveless, may lover tomorrow make love seems quirkiest, being so nearly incomprehensible, but close in the running is also Now learn ye to love who loved never—­now ye who have loved, love anew! by Arthur Quiller-Couch or Let the loveless love tomorrow, let the lover love again, by J. F. Pobson, M.A., a professor of Greek in the University of Bristol Cambridge.  Tate’s oddness seemed confusing for such an otherwise terrific poet.  Here is his explanation, which I read as him trying to stuff a little too much baggage into his version:  

In the fall of 1942 the refrain of the Pervigilium came back to me and for several days kept running through my head; then I suddenly knew that I ‘had’ it. I had it, that is to say, in language that somewhat resembled English and in a metre that the English language can be written in: plain iambic pentametre, with anapaestic substitutions for the frequent falling rhythms of the original. The Latin is in trochaic septenarii, seven-footed lines with, at the end, an extra syllable which is usually accented, making eight accents; the metre, in fact, of Tennyson’s Locksley Hall, which was actually used by some of the early translators of the Pervigilium. Except for certain special purposes it is an impossible metre in English, for unless the extra accented syllable at the end is managed with great skill the line will break down into units of four and three and sound like a Wesleyan hymn—a high price to pay for metrical fidelity to a foreign original.

Jeepers.  On the bright side, the explanation shows that there is room in the world of translating for many versions, born of many different considerations.  Some translators strive for word-perfect and even scansion or rhyme-perfect versions; these can be admirable, but to my ear too many are like Samuel Johnson’s description of a dog walking on his hind legs: “It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”  Here are others, more than a few at least as quirky as Tate:  

Let whoever never loved, love tomorrow,
Let whoever has loved, love tomorrow.
— Ezra Pound

Let those love now, who never loved before,
Let those who always loved, now love the more.
— Thomas Parnell

Tomorrow may loveless, may lover tomorrow make love.
— Allen Tate

He that never loved before,
Let him love to-morrow!
He that hath loved o’er and o’er,
Let him love to-morrow!
— Unknown, Blackwood magazine, June, 1843.,Vol. LIII

Now learn ye to love who loved never—­now ye who have loved, love anew!
— Arthur Quiller-Couch

Let the loveless love tomorrow, let the lover love again,
— J. F. Pobson, M.A.,

Professor of Greek in the University of Bristol Cambridge

Everyone tries because the originals are so wonderful, and thus tempting, and not just for poets.  Those two lines sent Walter Pater into a sugary overload of many pages in his Marius the Epicurean.  Here is a sample:  

…It was one of the first hot days of March—”the sacred day”—on which, from Pisa, as from [105] many another harbour on the Mediterranean, the Ship of Isis went to sea, and every one walked down to the shore-side to witness the freighting of the vessel, its launching and final abandonment among the waves, as an object really devoted to the Great Goddess, that new rival, or “double,” of ancient Venus, and like her a favourite patroness of sailors. On the evening next before, all the world had been abroad to view the illumination of the river; the stately lines of building being wreathed with hundreds of many-coloured lamps. The young men had poured forth their chorus—

Cras amet qui nunquam amavit,
Quique amavit cras amet—

as they bore their torches through the yielding crowd, or rowed their lanterned boats up and down the stream, till far into the night, when heavy rain-drops had driven the last lingerers home. Morning broke, however, smiling and serene; and the long procession started betimes. The river, curving slightly, with the smoothly paved streets on either side, between its low marble parapet and the fair dwelling-houses, formed the main highway of the city; and the pageant, accompanied throughout by innumerable lanterns and wax tapers, took its course up one of these streets, crossing the water by a bridge up-stream, and down the other, to the haven, every possible standing-place, out of doors and within, being crowded with sight-seers, of whom Marius was one of the most eager, deeply interested in finding the spectacle much as Apuleius had described it in his famous book…. 

In the expression of all this Flavian seemed, while making it his chief aim to retain the opulent, many-syllabled vocabulary of the Latin genius, at some points even to have advanced beyond it, in anticipation of wholly new laws of [114] taste as regards sound, a new range of sound itself. The peculiar resultant note, associating itself with certain other experiences of his, was to Marius like the foretaste of an entirely novel world of poetic beauty to come. Flavian had caught, indeed, something of the rhyming cadence, the sonorous organ-music of the medieval Latin, and therewithal something of its unction and mysticity of spirit. There was in his work, along with the last splendour of the classical language, a touch, almost prophetic, of that transformed life it was to have in the rhyming middle age, just about to dawn. The impression thus forced upon Marius connected itself with a feeling, the exact inverse of that, known to every one, which seems to say, You have been just here, just thus, before!—a feeling, in his case, not reminiscent but prescient of the future, which passed over him afterwards many times, as he came across certain places and people. It was as if he detected there the process of actual change to a wholly undreamed-of and renewed condition of human body and soul: as if he saw the heavy yet decrepit old Roman architecture about him, rebuilding on an intrinsically better pattern. Could it have been actually on a new musical instrument that Flavian had first heard the novel accents of his verse? And still Marius noticed there, amid all its richness of expression and imagery, that firmness of outline he had always relished so much in the composition of [115] Flavian. Yes! a firmness like that of some master of noble metal-work, manipulating tenacious bronze or gold. Even now that haunting refrain, with its impromptu variations, from the throats of those strong young men, came floating through the window.

Cras amet qui nunquam amavit,

Quique amavit cras amet!

—repeated Flavian, tremulously, dictating yet one stanza more.  


Here is some background on the poem:  The authorship is anonymous, and the dating uncertain, meaning that no one is sure who wrote it, or exactly when.  Some scholars believe it to have been written in the reign of Hadrian (A.D. 117–138) by Publius Annius Florus, who was better known as an historian and rhetorician than as a poet. This dating is somewhat wishful, as it relies on when the poem should have been written, because under Hadrian the spring ritual of the Greek cult of Venus Genetrix, whom the poem celebrates as the principle of sexual reproduction in nature, was officially encouraged and given the dignity of a state religion. (The feast survives today as May Day.)  Others see some stylistic features of the poem as similar to poems written later, such as the Eclogues of Nemesianus of Carthage (circa A.D. 285), or fragments of Tiberianus, whose “Amnis Ibat” (around A.D. 350) has a similar but not identical meter and whose subjects are the natural world and the “Pleasant Place.”  The scansion of his poem and Pervigilium is unusual, a trochaic tetrameter, much like Tennyson’s “Locksley Hall” (Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ‘t is early morn: // Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn), rather than the quantitative arrangement of long and short syllables favored by most Latin poetry at the time.  This point was also made by Alan Tate in his introduction to his translation. Others have noted that this change in metric is historic, signaling a change in sensibility so great as to be the pivot point at which Latin poetry began its change to medieval.  

The poem has survived in two MSS., both corrupt, both perhaps the work of (as one critic says) “two illiterate copyists who—­strange to say—­were both smatterers enough to betray their little knowledge by converting Pervigilium into Per Virgilium (scilicet, by Virgil’):  thus helping us to follow the process of thought by which the Middle Ages turned Virgil into a wizard.” The result of the differences in the poem’s ordering has been a lot of guesswork as to the right arrangement.  

The poem consists of ninety-three verses in trochaic tetrameter, divided into stanzas of unequal length by the refrain Cras amet qui nunquam amavit, / Quique amavit cras amet.   The time of the poem is early spring on the eve of a three-night festival of Venus (April 1–3) in what seems to be Sicily, and it describes the annual awakening of the vegetable and animal world through the intercession of Venus.  This awakening contrasts with the isolation and loneliness of the speaker.   This focus on the natural world in opposition to the corrupt world of the city is also marks a new note in Roman poetry, and is seen by some critics as more evidence of the beginning of the transition from Roman to medieval poetry.  

I have taken some liberties with the structure and arrangement of the work, dropping the goddess superstructure of the work and retaining the spring and the joy.  I have shortened the stanzas, keeping as much as it seems to me moves the poem forward, and focused the result on the refrain.  I take as my aesthetic here a notion that maybe our duty as translators is to deliver not so much a word-perfect result as a poem-perfect one, that sounds similar bells and evokes similar responses in the new culture and new language.  That may make the result less a translation than an imitation.  A great translation can be a great new poem—think of Pound’s Cathay, or Rosetti’s translations of Villon (“But where are the snows of yesteryear?”), or Robert Bly’s versions of Neruda.  I don’t claim such greatness for this translation, only greater readability compared to some of the other translations.  

Pervigilium Veneris 

Spring, & the goddess, a clear sound from the waves; 
& in the groves & hollows, the mating rains,
& in the small houses of the leaves:

Let whoever who has not loved, love tomorrow,
Whoever has loved, love tomorrow

& the blood rising & the ocean foam,
Horses & sand, violence of horses
When the goddess arrives, wave-born in the mating rain:

Let all who have not loved, love tomorrow,
& all who have loved, love tomorrow

For the year’s been like death; & now there are flowers.  
For the year’s been still & gray; & now there is wind.  
How the dew is scattered & the night wind calls,
How the tears about to fall 
Are held, & the blush begins.
Now the stars rain down on cloudless nights, 
& the stiff gestures of married women grow soft.
The rose is wed to the dew, & the pale dresses 
Of flowers open softly at morning, to ocean gems 
& flames, & to the purple of first light, 
Past responsibilities, past care, all 
But Love’s kisses & the rising blood:

Let any who have not loved, love tomorrow,
& any who have loved, love tomorrow.

Now the young girl approaches her father 
That his strictness might waver, 
& the young man at the front door does not hesitate,
& in the grove, the chorus sings, 
& in the field there is constant song.

Let whoever has not loved, love tomorrow
& whoever has loved, love tomorrow

& the goddess rules & gives commands,
That the flower shall be spent in the forest,
That no wild thing come forth but shall be loved, 
& the women seek their lovers, in her honor;
Listen, for the swans grow hoarse in the streams,
& the animals are gentle, with gentle songs.
The birds break their winter silence, & the rains begin.  

Yet there is one song a young girl sings.
& sings so beautifully,
That love seems the reason, not sorrow…
So the tradesman stops in the forest, & is silent, 
& puts down his tools, & is silent; 
& listens as she sings so beautifully 
To no one & to everyone, 
When shall my own spring come, 
& my silence end?

Let whoever has not loved, love tomorrow
& whoever has loved, love tomorrow.


On Andre Breton’s “Free Union”

Free Union (Andre Breton)

My wife with the wood-burning hair
Whose thoughts are summer lightning
Whose waist is the size of an hourglass
Like an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with a mouth of cockade-ribbons
And a bouquet of brightest stars
Whose teeth are the footprints of a white mouse on snow
Whose tongue is amber and polished glass
My wife whose tongue is a stabbed wafer
The tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With an incredible stone language
My wife whose eyelashes are stick-figures drawn by children
Whose eyebrows are the nests of swallows
My wife whose temples are the slate color of greenhouse roofs
When the windows are completely fogged-up
My wife with the champagne shoulders
And dolphin head fountains under ice
My wife with match-stick wrists
My wife with fingers of chance and the ace of hearts
With fingers of cut hay
My wife with armpits of marten and beechnut
And St. John’s Eve
Of privet and nests of angelfish
With arms of sea foam and river locks
And a mix of wheat and the mill
My wife with rocket legs
With movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with the marrow of elder calves
My wife whose feet are initials
Whose feet are key-rings and the feet of drunk steeplejacks
My wife whose neck is unpearled barley
Whose throat is a Valley of Gold
Whose bed-time encounters are torrents
Whose breasts are of the night 
My wife whose breasts are molehills under the sea
My wife whose breasts are ​​crucibles of rubies
Are ghost breasts of roses under dew
My wife whose belly is an unfolding fan of days
Whose belly is a giant claw belly
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
At the other side of the light
With a neck of worn stone and wet chalk
And of a broken glass from which we have just drunk
My wife with basket hips
Hips of luster and arrowheads
And the stems of white peacock feathers
And of insensitive scales
My wife with a backside of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with a back of swans
My wife with the buttocks of spring
With the sex of brilliant iris
My wife with the Sex of Place and Platypus
My wife with the sex of seaweed and old-time sweets
My wife of the sex of the mirror 
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of a violet panoply and magnetic needles
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water for prisoners
My wife with the eyes of forests falling under the ax
My wife with eyes that are the level equal of earth and of water and fire.

—Bob Herz, trans.

André Breton, “L’Union libre” (“Free Union”)

Andre Breton (1896-1966), a French writer, poet, and anti-fascist, deeply influenced many other French poets, including two whose work is included in this issue of the magazine, Yves Bonnefoy and Louis Aragon.  He is known as the founder of surrealism, which he saw as a successor to the revolution launched by Guillaume Apollinaire.  He wrote one of the first Surrealist Manifestos in 1924, in which he defined surrealism as

Psychic automatism in its pure state, by which one proposes to express — verbally, by means of the written word, or in any other manner — the actual functioning of thought. Dictated by thought, in the absence of any control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern.[

(The larger story in this is that Breton and his group fought for the rights to the term surrealism with another group founded by Yvon Goll.  The rivalry was so fierce that at one point the two men physically fought each other.  Though the quarrel ended with Breton’s victory, surrealism would always be marked by similar fierce fractures, resignations, and excommunications, with each succeeding surrealist having his or her own view of the issue and goals, though all accepted more or less Breton’s definitions.)

Breton’s poem, “L’Union libre” or “Free Union,” was written in the early 1920’s when Breton was developing his practices of automatic writing and “surrealist automatism.” The catalogue-poem, as it became known, was published anonymously in 1921 and later included in Breton’s limited (240 copies) dream, story, and poetry collection Clair de terre (1923, republished in 1931), a title intended to convey the reverse of a lightning strike. 

The “Free Union” title is intended to apply to not only freedom to love in all its forms of praise but also the freedom to associate words and images.  Breton celebrates his wife’s body, from top to bottom and back again, ending with her eyes, in an image train that rebels against and rebuts more conventional or sentimental descriptions as well as any logic of image relation or scene.  It is a very odd and even audacious assortment of images at work here, from wood burning fires and lighting to greenhouses, otters, sandstone, asbestos, broken glass, and many more, connected only by their focus as a description of his wife’s body.  Used in this way, the poem essentially deconstructs her body, making it part of everything, with everything equally a part of her body.  It is not really a personal poem; that it, it is strange that after so many words and images, we don’t know the woman at the end of the poem, or know her name, or even, after all this, what she looks like.  Perhaps we have a sense of the force of her and of her impact on the poet.  Her “wood-burning hair” and thoughts that are “summer lightning” tells us more about the force of her than anything to do with her actual hair or her thinking.  It is odd that these are the first two images that come to the poet’s pen as descriptions of her rather than, say, her voice or her tenderness, or her face.  

Does he love her?  Even that is hard to tell from what we see here, and indeed, the poem seems to be not so much about love or marriage to a particular person (outside the repeated use of the word “my” with “wife,” which is assertion not a showing of evidence) as it is about the use of free language to describe the other, this unnamed person who is the nominal object of the poem.  The commitment to her is there, if anywhere, in the poet’s commitment to the poem, and in the strikingly unusual and sometimes even vulgar images.  It is not a love-poem, in any usual sense; rather it is a poem in which great energy expended on behalf of the other.  Perhaps we can consider it a sort of mating dance without real end, a psalm of admiration and regard, in which the abilities of the poet are on full display in a kind of other-directed showing off, where the beloved in the act of love becomes the point of contact with the surreal unspoiled world of nature—not a person but a process, a roadway to attainment of salvation.  

I’m fascinated by the poem in a kind of push-pull way, attracted and repulsed.  I think Allen Ginsberg got it right in his description of the poem:

His list is about his wife, which should be a serious subject and should, presumably, evoke all sorts of nostalgic and sentimental, or romantic, faithful, or sincere improvisations, but what you get is a real twentieth-century dissonance and absolute reliance on the unconscious. And so it’s a portrait of his wife, sort of Cubist (in the sense of, from a lot of different angles) but, at the same time, absolutely ridiculous, and even ugly at times, and then, at other times, very romantic and exquisite. 

Others have noted that Breton’s method in imagery in other poems is similar to this one, characterized by yoking together different objects, suddenly shifting contexts, and by what might be called syntactic derangement.  These give his poetry the sense of being spontaneous, which it is not.  I should mention that there is a formal poetic construct to the poem.  It is a 16th century blason, a form that traditionally uses metaphors to praise different parts of a woman’s body. The word blason itself shares a root with “emblazon,” to celebrate or adorn with heraldic markings, and “blazon,” the heraldic coat of arms.  A famous and somewhat similar non-French example of such a celebratory poem is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; / Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; / If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; / If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head…” 

On Editing:  A Modest Proposal for Poetry Magazines

Here’s something I don’t believe:  That the real purpose of editorial committees is to bring fairness to the process.  I think the real purpose of editorial committees is to spread the blame for failure so that no one has to take responsibility.

Any editor knows that every issue of every magazine is a testament to failure at some level—some wonderful but odd poem not published, some deserving author overlooked, some grand opportunity for comment or article not seized.  It comes with the territory.  If you can’t bear failure, and if you can’t understand that recognizing your failure is the price you pay for improving, then you’d best pick a different occupation or avocation:  you shouldn’t be an editor, you don’t have the nerves or the vision or the stamina for it.

What prompts this reflection is a note on one of the more prominent poetry magazines publishing today, that the editors are trying to speed up their response times, and expect to be able to respond to submissions within seven months.

Seven months!  Are you kidding me?

If seven months is your idea of good editorship, then let me say again:  Go do something else.  Really.  Become a trash collector, or house painter, where the object of your attention is limited to a single object for a specified period of time, and you get to go home at night and not worry about tomorrow until tomorrow; but get the hell out of editing.

I think an editor has several important tasks and constituencies, and that to fail at achieving any one of them is to fail at all of them.

I will, for the sake of this piece, limit myself to discussing editing poetry magazines, but the points made here can apply more broadly to other publications.

There are two main groups that an editor has responsibility to.  One is the readers and one is the contributors.  That’s easy enough to understand.  There are also the funders, the private donors and the grants foundations, and their needs can sometimes be a little eccentric; but by and large while their specific needs are narrower than those of the other two groups (a project, a mission, a celebration, a remembrance are not unusual), their general needs are the same, and those are:  a good product and good treatment of the people who create the content.

So, then, the first of the major editorial goals is the obvious one:  to publish the best work you can lay your hands on.  This may not be limited to what comes over the transom, it may include things you solicit, run into accidentally, see on social media:  source matters less than effect.  Your job is to find the best.

Second goal is to be varied.  In the old old days, when I first started writing and dinosaurs still roamed the planet, it was possible to parody the poems of certain magazines, because every poem in those magazines was basically the same:  same affect, same syllable count, line length, vowel sounds, almost the same metaphors and subject matter.  Everyone knew what a Field poem was, or a Poetry Northwest poem, and to some extent, even a kayak poem.  They had gone beyond the place where magazine poem selections end; they had become genres.

I count that an editorial sin, unless there is a point to the monomania:  One might argue that Blast magazine, with its focus on vorticism, had to limit appearances.  But that magazine, like Bly’s Fifties, Sixties, and Seventies magazine, was not a magazine, it was a crusade, with important points to make.  The purpose of those magazines was not to publish poetry, or at least not merely to publish poetry; the purpose was to change the world.

Goal three is to have a personality.  I can imagine the  reader asking, Hunh?  What I mean is that blandness, sameness, and dull null predictability are the enemy of a good publication.  “It’s just boring” is a criticism I never want to hear about a mag that I edit.  Or, “It’s just like all the rest of the mags around”:  Jeepers!  No!  Be what you are, and be what you are with intention.  Quirky is good, identifiably responsive is wonderful.

Now, where goals one to three have focused on responsibility to readers, the fourth is about the responsibility editors owe to authors.  Its is a big responsibility, and no less in importance than the others, possibly more important, for it makes the others possible at the level of their supposed ethos.

Follow me on this:

I believe that many magazines treat authors like cattle:  Let them wait in line chewing their cuds for their little bit of attention, that may come in a month, two months, seven months, and then give them an acceptance, or reject them in a form letter.

After so much delay, even acceptance feels like an afterthought, like O yeah, about your poems…

This is scandal, and frankly, it is inexcusable.  Either poetry is a great art practiced by people who mean it, or it is the equivalent of doodling on paper during too long committee meetings, distractions from distraction, so that no one, least of all editors, has to take it seriously.

“Seriously,” in these terms, means that you accept that the sender of the work is a professional, who has labored to create the work, and has sent it to your publication, which he or she respects, in order to share it with the world in a proper and appropriate home.

Respect to such an author—and we assume that all authors are like this—means that the author gets a decision quickly, which means in a week if possible, and no more than a month if not.

If that’s not what you believe, then why are you editing a poetry magazine?  Your ethos is that the publication of such work is important, but your practice insults  your ethos.

I don’t suggest that publication is the most important, or any, aspect of the creation of a work—creation is, of course.  But editors need to be modest about this:  They have nothing to do with creation; they are editors, they are editing a magazine whose sole purpose is to bring creative work to a wider readership.

Editors have a responsibility to writers, to treat the works seriously, and expeditiously.  To respond on a professional’s timeline, and not to treat the work on an amateur’s basis, as if it was a matter of giving what little time I have between reading comic books for this minor activity of editing today.

In opting for speed, might you miss something?  Yes, just as in slowness you will miss something, because that’s the nature of editorship:  You will fail.  You cannot help yourself.  And spreading responsibility out through committees of readers doesn’t change that, it only spreads out the failure, and changes the causes of that failure from one person to several.

Diffusion does not solve the problems of inclusion or exclusion, of balance, of merit.  In fact, I could argue that it does the opposite, for it reduces willingness to risk, to chance, to trust one’s own odd and eccentric eureka-moment taste.  It is not too much to say that it is a moral lapse at a personal level.

Finally, this:  I believe that one or two person editorship is much to be desired over committeeship.  Not only because it is potentially faster, but also because it allows for the imprint of a personality or a character—all right, of a taste—on the magazine, identifiable to a single person, than whom if the controlling board  desires a change, it can change.  But at least the board, and the mag’s readers, know who is in charge, and what the taste is, and possibly even the reasons why this or that editorial decision is being made.  I like, that is, the look of a kayak under Hitchcock, of Bly’s multi-named mag, of the old Poetry.  And so I make this assertion:  That single person editorship in this sense is more transparent than editorship by committee.

And I think readers innately and intuitively prefer it.  Our preference in this country for ascribing guilt or blame or praise, is to single out the individual—the corporate chief, the president, the university chancellor.  We do that, I think, because of our sense that acts or failures of morality are always individualized in the end, we believe that they are committed by one person, who may order others, but one person has the responsibility in the end.  No one has to say this to us; it’s how we think, how we talk about such things.  It is an intuitive sense of how things work.  It’s what we prefer, and how we practice our preference in speech and discussion.

What strange mental and moral twist, then, got anyone to think that a committee of anonymities is a better guarantor of merit or balance than an individual?  That a bureaucracy better encapsulates merit than an individual?  That delay is virtue?  It’s a mistake in the logic of morality to think so.  There is a great old Communist era joke:  At a Moscow meeting of the Union of Socialist Writers, one regional representative gives a buoyant report: “In our region, Soviet literature has made astounding progress. Today, we have no fewer than 277 writers producing literature full-time, whereas in backward Czarist times the region could claim only one: Leo Tolstoy.”

This is a plea to dispense with the committees, take up responsibility, and pick up the speed.  The good editor will find the Tolstoy, the Hopkins, the Donne; and the committee will level taste until such notables disappear and never find publication, and we are all the poorer for it.

PS — There is one other argument I understand, which is about overwork, that there are too many submissions to refer all to one or two to three people; but there is a way to handle that problem also, which is to shut down submissions for some months every year to a level that a small group can handle expeditiously.  There.  Problem solved.  Authors still treated with respect.   You’re welcome.

Notes on the One-Line Poem


Why not a one-line poem?

Think about it:  The greatness of poetry as a medium is that it can take in anything, and anything it takes in can become good or even great poetry:  Think of the worlds of things taken in by Whitman and Dickinson, Ginsberg and Hecht and Ammons, Black Mountain, Deep Image, Auden, Gluck, Justice, Collins, Koch, Language poets…  catalogues, and mountains, galaxies of large and small, hot and cold,  and neither this nor that things…

So why not the one-line poem?  What’s the problem?

Well, says the critic in all of us, consider the objections, think of the contraries to be posited, the real distinctions to be made.

For example, consider this question:  In writing a one-line poem, how do you know when you’re done?

The easy answer is that the form tells everything you need to know: write two lines and you’ve blown your charter, and written something else; might as well go finish that sonnet.

But maybe a better answer comes from poet Marvin Bell’s wonderful statement that a poem ends when it has used up all its information.  He wasn’t specifically talking about one-line poems, but the principle applies.  Consider Ben Jonson’s beautiful and perfect

O Rare Ben Jonson

What more is there to say?  What more is needed?  Any addition would make this poem not merely different, but would lessen it, for it has in that one line used up all of its information, said as much as Jonson needed for it to say, and as much as anyone could want for it to say.

And against all arguments is the fact of the one-line poem.  That is, the fact that they exist.  Take a look at the little anthology of one line poems included at the end of this essay.  They are poems, written by poets and intended to be read as poems.  Is there any reason to think of them as not-poems?

There is of course more to discuss about this subject, about how the one-line poem is different from the aphorism, the folk-wisdom, the prophecies of bibles and men, cliches, haikus.

And it’s worth pausing for a moment to note how often we as readers treat our poems as if they were one-liners:  Slouching toward Bethlehem, Not with a bang but a whimper, The world is ugly and its people are sad, etc.  These are of course not one line poems, except by virtue of an application of memory’s razor, and except by the preference of our forms of speech and thought, which make in practice an implicit acknowledgement that the power of such lines comes not from the poem they are quoted from but from the world as it is, as we have found and live in it, which is the criteria that makes the lines detachable and great:  They touch the world, and they inform and organize reality.  Separated from their origins, they have become part of this new thing, our lives.


There’s not a lot of room in a one-line poem.  The poet can’t do much witty turning and pirouetting (that turn from one line to next being at some point in its  ancestry descended from Latin versus “a line, row, line of verse, line of writing,” the enlivening and informing metaphor lurking behind being one of plowing, of “turning” from one line to another (vertere = “to turn” as a plowman does):  the one-line poem being unable to turn, as verses do, and thus surrendering ab initio at the level of form one of the great traditional armaments of poetic strength.  In such rejection, the one line poem must have other strengths, other pleasures.

There’s also this taxonomic problem, that one-line poems are both like and unlike everything near them:  They borrow, for example, their sense of balance and tension from the aphorism, their offerings of wisdom from the folk saying, their perfection in the moment from the cliche; but they are not aphorisms, folk sayings, or cliches.  Their life is different, their purpose inclusive of these others but also broader, as all poetry is broader, else it is not poetry.

As a starting point for discussion of these differences, let us endure the shock of the obvious by positing that all poems start as one-line poems.  There is always, somewhere, a first line.  Everything begins somewhere, wherever it may ultimately end.  This rule of first-line-ness is true in poetry and in prose, and for the same reason:  Everything must begin somewhere.  Hemingway famously discussed it in A Movable Feast:

Sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say. If I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written.  

Hemingway’s stories and novels do not stop at one line, of course.  What I think is important in his description is the tremendous weight he puts on that first finding, of the “.…one true sentence…”   It is not only a beginning, in his hands, its is also the criteria by which he will judge every sentence that comes after:  “If I started to write elaborately, or like someone introducing or presenting something, I found that I could cut that scrollwork or ornament out and throw it away and start with the first true simple declarative sentence I had written.”  The one true line is thus both beginning and aesthetic, the start and the criteria, the reality of everything and the promise of more.  That’s a lot to carry; and of course it’s easier to bear if you’re a great writer like Hemingway.

Dylan Thomas, another great, described his writing process as beginning somewhere, and then becoming in effect self-created.  As I understand his description, it is a variant on the Hemingway notion of a criteria that firstness brings with it:

I make one image… let it breed another, let that image contradict the first, make of the third image bred our of the other two together, a fourth contradictory image, and let them all, within my imposed formal limits, conflict.  Each image holds within it the seed of its own destruction, and my dialectical method, as I understand it, is a constant building up and tearing down of the images that come out of the central seed, which is itself destructive and constructive at the same time.  

Got that?  You ask, perhaps, what is left after all that tearing down and building up, all that heavy-breathing Hegelian afflatus?  Well, the answer seems to be something similar to what Hemingway said:  what is left is the image, the creation that contains within itself not only everything necessary to it as an image, but also the criteria used to judge and accept our reject its warring successor.

The lesson I take from these two writers is that poems and stories begin somewhere, with a line or sentence or image that contains information enough to sustain itself, and all that is necessary to generate a next line or image.

And if it doesn’t do that?  If the information is all used upon in the first line?  Well, then you have the one-line poem.


Everyone knows, sort of, what we mean when we speak of a line of poetry, and what we mean by a poem.  But here, for the pedants in us all, are definitions of line and poem, and a brief excursion into etymology.  First, “line,” from The Poetry Archive (http://www.poetryarchive.org/glossary/line):

A line is a subdivision of a poem, specifically a group of words arranged into a row that ends for a reason other than the right-hand margin. 

This strikes me as pretty nearly perfect a definition as needed for any line in any poem, but more especially for our subject, the one-line poem.  I’m not sure any more is needed; but the discussion goes on:

This reason [for the ending of the line] could be that the lines are arranged to have a certain number of syllables, a certain number of stresses, or of metrical feet; it could be that they are arranged so that they rhyme, whether they be of equal length or not. But it is important to remember that the poet has chosen to make the line a certain length, or to make the line-break at a certain point. This line-break, where a reader has to turn back to the start of the next line, was known in Latin as the versus, which translates as “turn”, and is where the modern English term “verse” comes from. It is one of the strongest points of a line, which means that words that fall at the end of a line seem more important to a reader (an effect that rhyme can intensify); other strong points are the start of a line, and either side of a caesura.

Note that this is not so much a definition as a set of parameters intended to contain the notion of a line in poetry; the words here define the container, as the critic or reader must see it for analysis, and syllables or rhymes or stresses, but not the content, as the poet and the lover of the words must it to take and hold them.

So for the kine.  What about the poem?  The Oxford Living Dictionaries defines a poem as

A piece of writing in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by particular attention to diction (sometimes involving rhyme), rhythm, and imagery.

—a definition not especially helpful, as it could apply to what we usually think of as poetry, in stanzas and lines and rhymes, but also to any heightened piece of writing, in prose, songs, plays, or for that matter, in words shouted at no one in acts of madness on some dim street.  Yet, there is something here, that the writers of this definition thought helpful, that wonderfully avoids the can’t about little machines of words.

We should consider one more thing, origins.  This is from the Online Etymology Dictionary, the etymology of the word “poem”:

poem (n.) 1540s (replacing poesy in this sense), from Middle French poème (14c.), from Latin poema “composition in verse, poetry,” from Greek poema “fiction, poetical work,” literally “thing made or created,” early variant of poiema, from poein, poiein, “to make or compose” (see poet). Spelling pome, representing an ignorant pronunciation, is attested from 1856.

I’m fascinated by parts of all three definitions and explanations, and want to cherry-pick them a bit, in order to do a little special pleading for our one-line poem genre, thus:  A poem is a “thing made or created” (etymology) which possesses intense feelings and ideas and imagery (definition) whose ending comes typically for reasons other than facing the right-hand margin of the page (Poetry Archive).  I would add, it ends where art ends because its information is used up.  It doesn’t go any farther, because it can’t.  Back to our beginning:

O Rare Ben Jonson

That in itself is enough for our distinctions.  An aphorism, says my Merrian-Webster, is “1 : a concise statement of a principle. 2 : a terse formulation of a truth or sentiment : adage the high-minded aphorism, “Let us value the quality of life, not the quantity.”   A truth, a principle, are surely important things; but the principle business of an aphorism is in these things, not poetry.

As for folk wisdom, my Collins English Dictionary defines it as “wisdom or beliefs associated with or traditional to the common people of a country.  Folk wisdom recognizes that to forgive is divine.  A leopard’s spots are fixed for life, according to folk wisdom, but despite the saying, people do change.”  Again, wonderful; but folk wisdom’s aim is wisdom, not poetry.

In both cases, aphorism and folk wisdom, the writing can rise to the level of poetry, in  which case it becomes a one-line poem in addition to anything else it might be.  You can see countless examples of lines which are both poetry and something else through the Book of Proverbs in the bible:  “As a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.”  A haiku, of course, by entering this world in three or four lines, violates our first principle, of being a one line poem.


People keep trying to make poetry co-dependent, as if it needed criticism, or needed teachers, or books, or magazines.  But here’s the thing.  Poetry has always existed.  It was here before any of those other things, before books, magazines, the internet.  In fact, it’s likely that the only thing that is co-terminus with poetry is the critic.

Thinking about the starting place, the first moments, it’s possible that the first poems were one-line poems:  subjective exclamations, exhortations to the sun or moon, not scattered, or unintentional, not accidental, but a necessary calling out, of gods or fire or rain. The fact of the one line poem is the fact of speech so heightened as to become poetry.

With all that as background, I offer here a brief anthology of one-line poems from many sources:



Did you move, in the sun?

The Shadow’s Song 

I am beside you, now.

The Aspen’s Song

The summer holds me here.

God Of Roads 

I, peregrine of noon.


0 living pine, be still!



Who would I show it to


Unable to endure my world and calling the failure God, I will destroy yours.


In Memory Of The Horse David,

Who Ate One Of My Poems


194 (Epigraph beneath portrait in his shroud. Deaths Duel!, 1632).

Corporis haec Animae sit Syndon, Syndon Jesu.


(May this shroud of the body be the shroud of the soul of Jesus.



(From: From A Notebook. No. 6~)

M., opening my diary, found the pages blank


Spiritual Life

to be warm, build an igloo


Insomnia, old tree, when will you shed me?



Just hope that when you lie down your toes are a firingsquad

I only keep this voice to give to anything afraid of me

Cueballs have invented insomnia in an attempt to forget eyelids


Hope… goosestep


Your nakedness:  the sound when I break an apple in half


The rain has stopped falling asleep on its crystal stems

What I love is the variety here, from the wit of Winters to the images of Charles Wright and Bill Knott, to the wisdom of Mathews.  As we said at the start, the genius of poetry is that it can engorge anything and make it poetry. The one line poem is the reminder of all beginnings of the art, what a poem is before it becomes anything else.

The Last Poems of Jules LaForgue



Here are some things we think we know about Jules LaForgue (1860 – 1887), the great 19th century French poet whose outsized influence on many 20th century Modernist English and American poets remains in evidence on poets today in tone, voice, and image:

He was young—very young:  He died of tuberculosis ether two days before or four days after his 27th birthday (sources disagree).

He never wrote in English.  Those who discovered him, or were influenced by him, read him in French, or read each other’s translations of his work.

He did not have an extensive publication history while alive.  The books of his poetry published in his lifetime were Les Complaintes, (“The Complaints”), and L’Imitation de Notre-Dame la Lune (The Imitation of Our Lady the Moon), both in 1885, both hailed today as masterpieces.  They are outshone for many readers by a posthumously published work, the more mature and fully realized Derniers Vers (Last Poems) (1890), translated here.

He came from a large but an oddly distant family:  His mother died in 1876 while giving birth to a 12th child.  LaForgue wrote that he barely knew her.  He described his father as a man whom timidity had made hard.  He did not attend his funeral.  

He was employed well for a time before giving it up:  From November 1881 until 1886, while still  in his 20’s, he served as the French reader for the Empress Augusta, a well-paying job that left him plenty of free time to read and write and gave him opportunities for travel as the German court moved from Berlin to Baden-Baden and others cities depending on season.

He fell in love, and it changed everything:  He left the court in 1886, risking the Empress’ displeasure, and married Leah Lee, an Englishwoman, about whom he said (meaning it as a compliment), “There are three sexes — the man, the woman, and the Englishwoman.”  She may also have been the model for Andromede in his story, “Persee and Andromede.”

Settled love was short-lived for him:  The marriage took place in London, in freezing weather on New Years Eve, 1886, after which the couple moved to France, living in extreme and apparently unexpected poverty.  He died a year after the marriage, in 1887, of tuberculosis.  His wife died the year after, of the same disease.  She is said to have laughed hysterically at his funeral.

He was an innovator, one of the first French poets to write in free verse.  The major poetic influence on him was Walt Whitman, whom he translated badly.  His Whitman translations are said to be “poetic,” inaccurate, sometimes nonsensical.  His major French influences were Baudelaire and Rimbaud.

He was a pessimist, a follower of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, horrified by pain, seeing the Universe as basically a mistake from which we must try to free ourselves.  At the same time he seems to have believed that art, done right, can express the never-erring Unconscious, or inner being of the Universe, making such art a direct reflection of fundamental reality.

He believed that there was a link between chastity and truth, and a difference between woman and Woman.  He thought women enslaved and enslaving, forced into that position by their treatment in society.  (More on this below.)

His English was terrible.  He could barely read it.  He picked his way in translations word by word with a French-English dictionary, and the help of Leah Lee; neither provide much aid in conquering American idioms.

His examples in style, imagery, voice, and tone helped Eliot, Pound, and Crane find their voice, as Whitman, badly understood, helped him find his.

He thought the truth of the moment as valid as Eternal Truth, and indeed that concentration on the eternal distracted from actual experience.  This aesthetic set him against high-flown rhetoric, in favor of the immediacy of slang and colloquialism, and in favor of an aesthetic that would be faithful to experience and opposed to transforming it into a category, into pre-described and accepted notions of wisdom or beauty. The marginal thus for him became philosophically the essential, the quip a sufficient and perhaps the only appropriate response to a brutal and brutalizing world.


His impact on other poets was profound.  T.S. Eliot described his tutelage to LaForgue as a “sort of possession by a stronger personality,” and you can see the debt clearly in poems such as “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” “Portrait of a Lady,” and parts of “The Wasteland,” all of them inconceivable without the influence of LaForgue.

Pound called him “an angel with whom our modern poetic Jacob must struggle“  and “perhaps the most sophisticated of all the French poets.”

Crane read him in 1920, though he was likely exposed to him second hand, via Prufrock and Other Observations, as early as 1917.  That 1920 date is the important one, though, since from October of that year until late January of the next, he wrote virtually no poetry.  This was unusual.  Something was changing for him, possibly spurred in part by his reading.  The poem that he produced in February 1921, “Black Tambourine,” is really his first mature verse.  He translated, loosely, three of LaForgue’s poems under the title “Locutions des Pierrots,” in a magazine called the Double Dealer:  “Your eyes, those pools with soft rushes…”  They were not good translations but were perhaps necessary ones.  Later, Whitman became his muse, as he had been for LaForgue.

Eliot initially discovered LaForgue through a book, The Symbolist Movement in Literature, by Arthur Symons (E. P. Dutton & Company, 1919), an extended introduction to a series of French writers, from Balzac through Rimbaud.  About LaForgue, Symons wrote:

Verse and prose are alike a kind of travesty, making subtle use of colloquialism, slang, neologism, technical terms, for their allusive, their factitious, their reflected meanings, with which one can play, very seriously. The verse is alert, troubled, swaying, deliberately uncertain, hating rhetoric so piously that it prefers, and finds its piquancy in, the ridiculously obvious. It is really vers libre, but at the same time correct verse, before vers libre had been invented. And it carries, as far as that theory has ever been carried, the theory which demands an instantaneous notation (Whistler, let us say) of the figure or landscape which one, has been accustomed to define with such rigorous exactitude. Verse, always elegant, is broken up into a kind of mockery of prose…..

Here, if ever, is modern verse, verse which dispenses with so many of the privileges of poetry, for an ideal quite of its own. It is, after all, a very self-conscious ideal, becoming artificial through its extreme naturalness; for in poetry it is not “natural” to say things quite so much in the manner of the moment, with however ironical an intention.

This was appealing to Eliot at the time, and necessary to his development as a poet. Later, he would say (in his Clark Lectures) of his one-time spiritual guide, that he was trapped by his “effusion of adolescent sentiment and he remained, for us, imprisoned within his own adolescence.”  Even so, the influence remained life-long.  You can see it in his work as late as in Four Quartets.


How bad was LaForgue’s English?  Well, his Whitman translations were titled “Brins d’Herbes (Traduit de l’étonnant poëte américain Walt Whitman),” meaning literally “Blades of Grasses (Translated from the astonishing American poet, Walt Whitman).”  Throughout there are phrases that make no sense in French.

But so what?  LaForgue took from Whitman what he needed, not the same thing as taking all that Whitman had to offer, or the essential Whitman; perhaps he only ever read an invented poet named Whitman, that is, a poet invented through his bad translation but necessary to his own development:  In other words, what he found, and needed, from Whitman, may not have been there at all.

No matter.  What he created from his selective use of invented influences was different than what had gone before in French poetry.  It was a new note, and one that translated well to the English of American writers who read him.

Here’s an interesting take on the relation between the two poets, an abstract of an article “The Body Poetic: Laforgue’s Translations of Whitman,” by Samuel Douglas Bootle, Dix-Neuf Vol. 20 , Iss. 1,2016:

This article explores Jules Laforgue’s 1886 translations of a selection of poems from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and their connections with his broader oeuvre through a thematic lens — that of corporeality. Both poets give a prominent role to embodiment, but there are significant disparities between their representations of bodily experience. Whitman’s treatment of sexuality is forthright, betraying the influence of contemporary scientific discourse, while Laforgue uses jocular periphrasis; Whitman tends to portray vigorously healthy bodies, while Laforgue’s poetry is riddled with illness and weakness. These differences are tied to their disparate conceptions of their roles as poets. Whitman sees his creative project as inherently political, his aesthetics being founded on the metaphorical equivalence between body, text, and nation; Laforgue, on the other hand, rejects this political role, focusing his attention on the suffering of the individual body. In contrast to Whitman’s expansiveness, then, Laforgue’s poetic self remains essentially bounded.

One might note that in contrast to Whitman, anyone’s poetic self would seem “essentially bounded.”  I like the comparison, however, as the use of Whitman forces the more rigid and extreme statements of their differences.  The overt can be helpful is shedding light where needed.


LaForgue’s treatment of women in his poems may be confusing at first, as he seems to be moving toward them and away, wanting and patronizing, courting and fleeing.  His most interesting, and perhaps complete, expression of his feelings about the other sex is in Melanges posthumes (1901-3),

No, woman is not our brother; by forcing her into idleness and corrupting her, we have made her a being unknown and apart, possessing no weapon except her sex — which not only leads to perpetual warfare, but is also an unfair weapon — in adoration or in hatred, but never our frank companions, closing their ranks with esprit de corps in the freemasonry of their sex — but with the mistrustfulness of the eternal little slave.  O young ladies, when will you be our brothers, our bosom friends, with no ulterior motive of exploitation!  When shall we exchange an honest handshake!

This sense of desire and exasperation are present in the poems, along with his need to break free from existing morality and his sense of enslavement and the tragedy of that enslavement.  They are all there as explicit or implicit self-dialogues throughout the Last Poems.  His reaction to women, to sex, to relations, is never simple.  It may even be regarded as rather forward-looking for his time, this notion of how society and culture corrupts the role of women and the relations between the sexes.


Published three years after LaForgue’s death,  Derniers Vers (Last Poems) (1890) is considered the first volume of free verse in French poetry (excluding the prose poems of Aloysius Bertrand, Baudelaire, and Rimbaud). It is an odd mix of old and new—new technique, new images, new concentrations, of older themes, subjects, and ideas, for example, the quest-like seeking of the ideal in the figure of woman.

What is striking throughout the poems is their sense of spontaneity, almost of improvisation, the lines seeming to appear as they occur in the mind:  This is not the “and then” construction of a story being told, but the semi-random sequence of the mind at work and play, always longing to be free, and sometimes managing it.  As he says in one of the poems, “To arms, citizens!  This has nothing to do with REASON.”

This is not quite Frank O’Hara-level spontaneous aesthetics, but as Gustave Kahn, a poet and friend of LaForgue, said of Last Poems, LaForgue sought to free himself of “every literary artifice of presentation” and this sequence of his Last Poems bears “the imprint of this strong desire to reproduce thought, to catch the heartbeat without ever sacrificing anything to symmetry or verbal redundancy.”

LaForgue spoke of this new style and of what he thought he had achieved in a letter to Kahn:  “I forget about rhyme, forget about the numbers of syllables, I forget about the break-up of stanzas, my lines begin at the margin like prose.  the old regular stanza comes back only when it can be in the form of a popular quatrain, etc.”

These poems have been called LaForgue’s last testament, a climax of sorts, and can be treated as related in their use and choice of images, for example, of the hunting horns, or of the church bells that occur throughout.  The poems are about love (or Love), the quest for it, and its difficulties.  There are the striking images of the girls in white moving at speed toward both infinity and innocence, of the passage of time, the end of a day being a death, of the sun.  Death is an obsession throughout these poems of love, appearing in roles as Ennui or as the Moon.  There are some places in these poems where he describes the process of his poem, as if he was thinking and writing it at the same time:

I’m on my back, smoking, facing the sky,
On the roof of the coach,
My body jolted as we go 
But my soul dancing like Ariel; 
Not sweet, not bitter, my lovely soul dances, 
O roads, hills, smoke, valleys, 
O my beautiful soul, let’s go over it all again:…

There is so much in these poems that is wonderful and strange — and much that now seems familiar, used as we all are to seeing versions of LaForgue’s voice and tone, his play of contradictions, absorbed in the work of others.  Having all the last poems together may give a chance to experience the real strangeness and wonder of these.


I am indebted to other translations and other work in preparing these notes and poems:  Jules LaForgue, Selected Poems (Penguin Books, 1998); Poems of Jules LaForgue, Trans. Patricia Terry (University of California Press, 1958);  “Crane and LaForgue,” Warren Ramsey, The Sewanee Review, Vol. 58, No. 3 (Jul. – Sep., 1950), pp. 439-449; “Moon Solo:  The Last Poems of LaForgue,” William Jay Smith, The Sewanee Review, Vol. 64, No. 3 (Jul. – Sep., 1956), pp. 444-458.  All have been extremely helpful in thinking about this work.  Very early on I had tremendous help from Linda Orr, Professor Emeritus of Romance Studies at Duke University; her comments made a great difference in my approach to the poems.  Any errors here, as well as the mode of translation I have chosen, are entirely my fault and responsibility.

I should also include here a not on these translations:  No poem is ever strictly “translated,” or even “transported” from one language to another.  At best it is imitated, perhaps, sometimes closely, sometimes loosely.   I have tried in these to give a sense of the work, and where a line our phrase admitted of more than one meaning for interpretation, I have tried to broaden the sense by including them.  The original French of these poems is available in many places online, and readers will have their own sense of the poems after comparing these to the originals. These translations are meant to provide only a starting point into this work.  I hope that they are helpful.


I.  The Coming Of Winter

Sentimental blockade!  Steamships from the East!
Rain!  Downpour of night!
& wind!…
All Saints, Christmas & New Year’s, all of them passing,
& in the drizzle, my chimneys of home!…
My factory chimneys….

There’s nowhere to sit, all the benches are wet;
Listen, it’s all over till next year,
All the benches are wet, the woods are rust-colored,
The hunting-horns are lost to long sad songs.

You storms in from the channel,
You’ve spoiled our last Sunday.

The drizzle continues;
In the forests, the spiderwebs
Fall under the rain, they’re ruined.
You plenipotentiary suns that have swollen
The gold rivers of our great country fairs,
Where are you buried now?
Tonight I see one of you, a spent sun dying
Helpless at the top of the hill,
He lies on his side, among the flowers,
His great-cloak under him like a litter,
He’s white as spit on the barroom floor,
& he lies there as on the litter of a yellow broom,
On the yellow broom of autumn.
While the horns call to him,
They want him to return!….
To return to himself!
But listen!  Listen!  It’s the death-call!
O sad anthem, won’t you just play & be done with!…
O music, all gone crazy!
& he lies there like a gland ripped out of a throat,
& he shivers, without friends!….

Hurry, hurry, for it is the death-call!
It’s this winter we know so well that is coming now;
On the turnings of the high roads,
That’s no sweet innocence there,
No Little Red Riding Hood coming there!…
The rut-marks from last months’ carts are still in the road,
Rising up like rails, dream-like, quixotic,
Toward the fleeing patrols of the storm-clouds
That go where the wind drives them,
To sheepfolds above the Atlantic!….

Hurry, hurry, for we know this season so well, too well.
For tonight the wind has made such beautiful clouds!
O wreckage, O nests, O modest little gardens!

O my heart & my sleep:  O echoes of hatchets!….
Green leaves still on the branches,
The underbrush no more than a heap of dead leaves;
Leaves, leaflets, let us pray that a good wind carries you
Swarming toward the pond,
Or to the fire of the gamekeeper,
Or into the mattresses of ambulances
For soldiers far from France.

It’s the season, the season, rust invades the masses,
Rust torments their little kilometric spleens,
The telegraph wires on the high roads where no one goes.

The horns, the horns—so sad!…
It is so sad!…
They are going, they are changing tone as they go,
They are changing their tone & their music,
The long sounds changing now,
The horns, the horns,
Voices gone on the North Wind.

But I cannot leave them, this poem, these sounds, these echoes!….
It’s the season, my season, good-bye grape-harvests,
Here come the rains with the vast patience of angels,
Goodbye grape-harvests, & good-bye baskets of the harvesters,
Goodbye lovely Watteau-like baskets
& skirts of the dancers under the chestnut trees,
Now is the time of coughing in high-school dormitories,
The time of medicinal tea before no familiar hearth,
Pulmonary consumption saddening the neighborhood,
The misery of all places where people live close together.

You, woolens, rubbers, medicine, dreams,
Parted curtains on balconies above the strand
Facing the ocean of roofs of the working-class suburbs,
Lamps, prints, tea, petits-four,
You will be my only loves!….
(O, & have you seen these, here beside the piano,
The sober & church-like mysteries
Of the sanitation statistics from our weekly journals?)

No!  No!  It is the season & the strange planet.
May the storm, the storm
Unravel Time’s shoddy knit slippers!
It is the season, O tearing!  O heartbreak, the season!
Every year for all my years,
Let me try to give its true choruses, & its rightful voice.

II.  The Mystery Of The Three Horns

On the plain a horn
Blown long till breath is gone,
Another, from the forest’s heart,
The one chants its own song
To the neighboring woods,
The other its responding song
To the echoing hills.

The one on the plain
Felt the veins on its its forehead
Stand out;
In the grove the other
Saved the best of its power
Till a later time.

—Where are you hiding,
My beautiful horn?
You’re really wicked!

—I’m looking for my love,
Down there, calling me
To watch the setting sun.

—I hear you!  I love you!
Hey!  Ronceveaux!

—To be in love, yes, that’s very sweet;
But look:  There’s the sun killing itself, right in front of you!

The sun puts off its pontifical stole,
Loosens the locks,
& a thousand rivers
Burning gold
Drain through the under-sky,
Rekindling in the windows
Of artistic liquor-dealers
In a hundred bottles of exotic vitriol!….
& the pond, bloody, suddenly opening, spread-out,
& the mares of the sun’s chariot drowning there,
Rearing, splashing, finally settling
In a deluge of industrial ash & alcohol!….

The hard sands & cinders of the horizon
Are quick to absorb that display of a poisons.

Yes this is it,
The song the song the song of their glories!….

Suddenly the dismayed horns
Find themselves nose to nose;

They are three!
The wind rises, it’s suddenly cold.

Can’t you hear the song, the song of their glories!….

Linking arms everyone goes
Back to their homes,
—“Can’t we stop somewhere
For a drink first?”

Poor horns!  Poor horns!
How bitter their laughter became.
(I hear them still).

The next day, the hostess at the Grand-St.-Hubert
Found them, all three of them, dead.

So someone went & got the authorities
Of that locality

Who began an investigation into the history
Of this very immoral mystery.

III.    Sundays

My original plan was to say just once but extremely well, “I Love You,”
But I couldn’t say it without pain,
I have no patience for such self-possession.

(C’mon, Self, this is all just Galatea dazzling Pygmalion again;
Some things never change).

So what then, you poor pale pitiful Self,
Who never believes in yourself
Except for in a few lost moments,
I see how your love disappears,
Yes I see exactly how it disappears,
Carried off by the flow of things, I see it
The way thorns see petals fall
From their best roses under pretext of night.

This is the anniversary night of the failed good Love,
When all the Valkyries of the wind
Come back roaring under the crack of my door:
Vae soli!
What’s it mean?
It stuns me, I stagger around!
(Maybe it should have stunned me before)….
Too late!  Any hope for madness is quite gone now.
Yes, ok, but what’s it mean, Vae soli!
Sad.  Because I know:  It won’t be found again.  (Another good- bye).

Then the great wind gets suddenly quiet, gets dignified,
Dressed in its Sunday best under the beautiful morning sky.
Go ahead, announce it,
Do it with a thousand bells, for it’s the Sunday of our goodness.
Put on the diapers & the stiff collars & white dresses,
Think of yourselves walking under the rustling of lavender & thyme,
Toward the incense & just-baked cakes!
All this for the family!  This!  Vae soli!
Yes, we know it, it’s what counts ….

The young girl with her ivory prayer-book
Modestly enters her house again.
I see her, that little body made innocent again,
& it pleases me, knowing she is part of
A whole other past that’s not mine!

But what about my body, my own poor little sister,
It has an ache in its tough-minded soul….

Here that old piano
Begins in me again, trying to find some tune to keep birthdays going,
& the heart, ignorant of its own foolish stammerings
In the burlesque of low dance-halls you have come to,
& your poor flesh, which has committed every sin,
Hurting itself again & again….
Ah, Valkyries!
Valkyries of hypochondria, & of real slaughter!

I confess it, I disfigured you with pleasure,
O my jewel of a body, O my true pure tenor’s heart,
How often you have tried to make me do right,
Speaking out to me in a rage,
In fact speaking out with rage enough for two.
(If only you had wanted to be a little like the others afterward.)

No, no!  It is the sweetness of the body surrounded by one chosen heart,
Adored by these incurable organs of ours, look at them,
They want to visit one another, to be this close then fade,
They are monomaniacs, they want to be like two recluses huddled together.

But really, it is not the body.  I have perfect self-control.
It is not that I possess such a great heart for some woman either.
But there are other things, madnesses that come suddenly
In the history of relationships!
(I have already forgotten her).
Ah, soul & body, body & soul—
Look at them, everywhere, these spirits Edenic & proud
Of being, for a little while, a man with a woman.

But wait a minute.  Let’s be a little careful about this.
It’s already like taking a serious blow to the head.
Put away that old complaining spinning-wheel song, pray & stay honest.
Do what’s right.

—Think of yourself for a change, you, least of the poets.
Always shut up like this, you’ll get sick.
Look:  the weather is lovely, there’s a whole world out there, waiting, undiscovered, unexplored, all yours.
Go & buy not one, but two hellbores, those
Classical purges for madness, & try & take a little walk.

IV.   Sundays

It is autumn, autumn, the autumn
Of the great wind & its full sequel
Of reprisals!  & falling musics….
Of curtains drawn, annual closings,
The falling of leaves & old prints, of Antigones & Philomelas!
My gravedigger:  Alas, poor Yorick!
Who then turns a few well-chosen spadefulls….

Long Live Love, & all other short blazes!….

The young girls so inviolable & so fragile
Walk down toward the little chapel
While the chimerical bells
Of this lovely lovely Sunday
That is so hygienic & elegant call to them.

As if everything were perfect around them!
As if everything were Sunday!

As if you could be so hard & sullen at their approach….

But yes, that’s me alright.  I’m the Great White Polar Bear,
I walk out on the ice-floes that are more pure
Than even these little communicants in their whites….
Yes that’s me, who does not go to church,
Who is the Grand Chancellor of Analysis,
Who is (why fight it?) whatever anyone says I am.

I say so, & yet—& yet what is there about all this that is so anemic?
C’mon, tell your problems to an old friend….

Really?  Really & truly?
So then I turn toward the sea, the elements,
All that is part of the vast black grumbling around us….

Yes, this is the real sacred!
It gives us everything we need (whether we ask for it or not).
It gives us an enormous roaring insomnia!

But how poor the colors of these attractions are….

But us, what about us,
Drunk, drunk to the gills with astonishment,
So astonished that one of us is on his knees even now!….

Think how we trembled
That first grand night
When in the pure blossom of despair
We suddenly wanted only to die together!

O poor burning martyred miracle,
Where do you hide now!
Miracle one does not even attempt to touch
Except in this blinding, divine delirium.

Yes you, miracle, I’m speaking to you,
You must stay hidden, like some violet-colored ideal,
The Universe sleepless because of you,
The generations of planets already at your breast like infants,
The funerals beginning, & the long days of church-going with all the other women.

But all this is really much higher
Than even God & even than this thought!
Truthfully, nothing holds me anymore but those sweet eyes on high,
Totally unconscious, full of the deep colors of real thought,
So frail, so fragile,
& all the mortal atoms waiting,
All, all that living womb & hearth in her….

O pardon her if, in spite of herself,
In spite of everything that maybe is good for her,
Sometimes her eyes half-shut, just a little,
As if to ask you, just a little,
Just to move you to pity her a little.

She is so frail, so fragile, & always giving herself
To these masses, until the act itself seems a kind of game,
She turns her head slightly toward you, come,
Look at these bunches of first violets,
& her eyes are downcast & her head tilts back toward you….
O innocence, it is not the restlessness of conquests with me, not any more,
But a genuine interest in the Afterlife.

O if we could only leave this life
Together, now, during High Mass,
Sickened as we are by our own species,
Which even now yawns, glutted & farting,
At the very doors….

V.  Petition

Absolute love:  crossroads without a single fountain.
But at every turn, the dizzying fury of fairgrounds & holidays.

No one is free,
Everyone stands around with their hands on their hips:
Everywhere, love changes hands simply & with about as much real commitment & belief
As people show when saying “Good Morning” to each other.

The bouquet of orange-blossoms, armor-plated in satin,
Is fading, it is fading,
The rose-colored windows of the church
That have seen so many weddings served up by the fat woman of circumstance,
As couples begin the great waltz, rushing toward the common grave….  Such a sad race!

Nothing is left, everything is compromised;
Nothing remains, everything is permitted.

And yet on these nights you come to me, you Circes,
Dark-hooded figures to your Titus,
Enormous grief showing in your eyes like a real thought!
I want you to pass,
Venus after Venus, all beautiful,
Lips open, smiles so broad that the gums show, like dead royalty,
Stretching & yawning in your drowsiness, arms lifted to the sun,
& the air filled with the huge sound of cicadas.
Then suddenly taking on the tall violet-color of poppies,
As if some domestic sacrilege had been committed,
Raising a forefinger:  Silence!

They pass, they pass, they have the eyes of virgins,
Eyes with the blue-tints of sun-dials,
You can hear the hour of desire strike for them,
The hour kept safe for them, for the Eternal Female,
The hour of their immortality.
At the first word
Their eyes will half-close,
They will seem to swoon, there will be singing,
& the virgins will come, in their flowered robes,
That will not have real flowers on them, but only flowers
Of the skin, as if their nerves had penetrated right there, through everything,
But their destiny, O Lord, is to get in the way of everything.

O history of slaves!
Look at their little rooms!
You can almost watch them descend
Toward the next stage, going down floor by floor,
The sophistication of feeling welling up in them until they reach the cellar
(Talk about mixing good food with bad!),
Where they are watched over by the least likely guardian angel of good housekeeping!

Then comes the great suicide, the cold soullessness sets in,
The enormous Amen is said, & there is nothing feminine in it,
& the vacancy begins, the time of secrets & superiority sets in,
It comes with this eternal distraught air,
A grand manner of saying, “For what?
Speak to me!  What is it for? What is there more than this?”

My God, it is the whole ideal of becoming angels
That has stripped them of their wings & halos!
If only the Ideal had stripped them of these angel roles instead!
If only a woman could accept a man as an equal,
If only the Ideal could be banished forever from their eyes,
If only we could get down to real human exchanges,
& become true brothers & sisters in the heart,
If only the whole notion of lovers & fiancees could be totally passe,
& we could be united for eternity,
With simple, human, infinite exchanges of love
Filling our days to the end of our days,
Our arms taking equally whatever is offered,
& the love-drums & the love-trumpets
Sounding a retreat from this current war,
So that when we walked out, there on the steps before each house
We would toast the health of all the old bad dead years
Thrown out,
& we would feel no regrets,
There would be a new knowledge of things covering all of our part of the  country,
An entirely new & different song that at first would be only regional perhaps,
But it could spread,
& since this is the only world we’re going to be able to live in,
The only one we have ever lived in,
Come, my friends, let us try that new song, let us at least try.

VI.  Simple Agony

O pariah!—& here they come again, those May-feelings.
You just want to go on repeating yourself, it’s shameful.
You’re all filled up with yourself, a pod that never burst.
You know very well what it means to be like this,
Caught up in the pride of your own strength, pariah,
Just as you know that it is not everything.

O you,
Prophecy of the instant when we are completely alone
With our true natures—& song, my song,
You are everything & you are unique, ascending again & again
Into the night-sky, doing everything you can,
Speaking of things as they really are,
Falling, then recovering
Making something completely new of the pain inflicted,
Traveling alone among huge crying,
Recovering, then falling,
According to the tasks which are incumbent upon you to fulfill.
O may this music of mine
Be crucified, sacrificed,
Like in some old religious photograph
Leaning back on the posts, head in hands, & so sad….

I’m going to find other themes,
Themes more mortal & more sublime.
O hell, given a world like this one
I’m going to make myself a world more human.

The souls in my world will be made of pure music,
& all these puerile carnal interests that occupy us now,
This long fanfare of nights,
Will be recognized as what they are:  barbarism,
Acts wholly without hope.

Inquiries!  Inquiries!
Will be the only festivals…
Who’s going to stop me?
On my bed I pile up all the scandal sheets, dirty underwear,
Fashion designs, all kinds of photographs,
All the best, everything that makes Paris Paris,
Until this is a regular womb of society.
Such a nothingness gathered here,
& even if no one intercedes & no protest is ever spoken,
It will never be enough,
Because there is only one thing that offers hope for cure,
& that is to destroy everything.

O fanfares of all the nights!
All that barbarism,
All these goings-on without hope,
In vain we’ll stamp our feet,
But we’ll never be more cruel than life,
There will always be animals unjustly beaten
& women never beautiful enough….
What nothingness is gathered here,
Let no one try to stop us,
For we must destroy everything.

Rejoice, Earthly Pariah.
You will go on, without hope.
You will see dawn come down to the night
When to have nothing is to have everything,
Because there’s always a little more more
When nothing’s left,
There, at the end, when dawn comes down to the night.
Rejoice, Pariah of this world!
The artistic ones
Keep saying, “Really, all this just comes too late.”
It’s not reasonable
To press so hard toward this ending.

To arms, citizens!  This has nothing to do with REASON.

He caught at cold the end of autumn,
Hanging behind the pain of those horns
At the end of a beautiful day.
It happened because of the horns,
& because of the beautiful days of autumn,
He showed us what it means to die for love,
& one day perhaps we’ll wake up too
& be just like the others, lovers of death,
No one will observe the national holidays anymore,
Everyone will be locked in history & drawing the bolt,
It’s all going to happen soon, & so I say this with no desire to hurt:
All of you who can hear me now, go home, & hide.

VII.  Alone With Moonlight

I’m on my back, smoking, facing the sky,
On the roof of the coach,
My body jolted as we go
But my soul dancing like Ariel;
Not sweet, not bitter, my lovely soul dances,
O roads, hills, smoke, valleys,
O my beautiful soul, let’s go over it all again:

We loved each other crazily, she & I,
& parted wordlessly,
My temper, the way I am, kept me exiled,
My temper that was roused by everything.  Just so.

Her eyes asked, “Do you understand?
But why don’t you understand?”
But neither of us would ever take that first step,
The idea was, we had to fall to our knees together
At the exact same instant.  (Do you understand?)

Where is she now?
Maybe she’s crying…
Where is she now?
O take care of yourself, I beg you.

O coolness of the woods along this route,
This shawl of melancholy, the soul’s guardedness
That never quite abandons us—
Everyone feels it, but how much those others ask
Of my life!  How jealous they must be!
For here I am & the roof of this coach is magical.

Let’s pile up all the irreparable things in one place!
Let’s do better than our fates ever expected or allowed!
There are more stars tonight than the sand
Of seas where others may have seen her body as she bathes;
But you know, it doesn’t matter, not in the end,
For everything moves toward Death,
There’s no safe haven.

Years will pass,
We’ll all grow harder, each of us separate from the other,
& often say to ourselves (I already see myself doing it),
“If only I’d known…” or even married say, “If only I’d know, if only…”
O cursed rendezvous, O heart grown sterile…
I’ve behaved badly.

Maniacs for happiness, wanting so much,
What shall we do?  I with my soul,
She with her fallible youth!
O aging sinner,
How many nights I’ll be untrue to myself
From now on, in your honor!

Her eyes winked, “Do you understand?
But why don’t you understand?”
But neither of us could take that first step
To fall to our knees together.  Ah!….

The Moon is rising.
O high road of the great lost dreams….

We’ve passed the cotton mills, the saw mils,
There’s nothing out there now but the milestone markers,
Like little clouds of confectioner’s rose,
While the slender crescent of the moon rises,
O road of dreams, O music that never was….

In this pine wood that has been dark forever
How many clean deep hidden bedrooms!
O for an evening’s elopement there!
Already I see myself there,
There are lovers, I can see them together, a beautiful pair,
Gesturing toward each other, lawless, wild gestures.

& I pass & leave them behind,
& lie down facing the sky,
& the road turns, & I am Ariel,
& no one waits for me, I am going nowhere,
I have only the sad friendship of hotel rooms.

The Moon rises,
O high road of great dreams,
O road without end,
Here is the Inn
Where they light the lanterns,
& we paused to drink a glass of milk,
& then begin again,
With the sounds of the crickets all around,
Under the stars of July.

O light of the Moon,
Bengal lights, like the fire of weddings
Drowning my misfortunes,
Shadows of poplars along the route…
The listening mountain stream
Is singing, & listening to itself singing…
In these floodings of the river of death…

Alone in the moonlight,
Challenging me to write,
O this night of the road,
O stars, terrifying, so many,
O quickly-passing hour,
O if there was something to hold
Against the coming autumn….

It’s become cold, very cold,
What if at this hour
She too was traveling through forests
To drown her unhappiness
In these moonlight visions…
I know her, how she loves to stay out late—
I can imagine how she’ll have forgotten her scarf,
& she’ll catch cold, lost in the beauty if the hour,
Look after yourself, I beg you,
I can’t bear to hear that cough…

Why didn’t I fall at your knees when I had the chance!
Why didn’t you faint at my knees when you had the chance!
I’d have been the perfect husband, I know it,
Perfect in exactly the way that the rustle of your dress
Moving through the night is perfect.

VIII.  Legend

Heraldries of anemia!

Psalter of autumn!
Offertory chalice in which I have placed all my happiness & spirit
For a sacrifice to something so feminine
With that little dry cough, unknown,
Seen on these days when everything is completely deserted,
Held-down, ash-gray, loneliness mounted
Like a jewel on a dressing table,
In which we can already detect the final coming of winter
Fleeing past the superhuman cries of the sea.

Yes.  Grand passions, terrific stories of love:  but then what?…

More of the same:  lips with no particular shape,
Autumn lips, deflowered lips, fading, fading,
& although pretty much dead to all love-songs,
Still hungry & bitter at the hunt,
But those eyes—they are the eyes of someone good & beautiful
But utterly closed in, as if locked in a cloister.

Finally she honors me with her confidences.
These hurt me more than she thinks.

“But my most darling, given your enlightened spirit,
Given the marvelous steel stilettos of those infallible eyes,
Given all that, on that cold & miserable day, how could you not see through
That complete & total low-budget fop?”

“He came first; I was alone near the fireplace;
His horse, tied to the front gate,
Sounded so desperately, like a lost soul…”

“Yes.  That’s touching (poor girl).
Then what?
Wait.  Look.  Right there.  That sunset epilogue come just in time for bed.
Then.  Really,
Have you noticed lately that when it is autumn, it is, I mean, really autumn?
The casinos,
Which are abandoned now,
Put away their pianos;
Yesterday, the orchestra ravaged
Its last polka,
Yesterday the final fanfare
Sobbed all the way to the railroad station…”

(Oh!  But she is so thin!
What is she doing to herself?
Harden, harden,
Clots of memory!)

“Let’s go, the telephone poles
In their gray exile
Will serve as your funeral mourners;
As for me, this is the season that makes me want to get out of here,
For already winter is coming.
So ok.  Take care of yourself.  Keep well.

“Enough!  Enough!
You’re the one who started all this!

“Silence!  The least blink of your eye is a great lie
Stop!  With people like you nothing is forever.
Really, let me assure you,
I could only love you on a bet, & I have doubts about even that!

“Silence!  Shut up!
You only love once.”

Good.  Now she must have a final reckoning with me.
But look—it’s not autumn anymore, therefore
The exile is over.
Now begins the sweetness of all the legends, the age of gold,
The legends of all Antigones.
They come with a sweetness that makes you want to ask,
“Did all that really happen?  When?”

Yes, it’s all legends, it’s the lost pearls of the piano keys
That taught me as a child,
It’s nothing, it’s what we heard about, it’s those beautiful prints
& the beasts of the earth & the birds of the air
Garlanded into the capital letters of a religious Missal;
& really, there’s not enough there to make you bleed when all is said & done?

Bleed?  Me?—The one moulded from the purest slime of the Cybele,
Made to be everything that the art of all the Adams
Of all the Edens ever promised, as faithful to her
As the sun is to the farthest western horizon….


O if that one, one night, would come to me, freely,
Seeking only the chance to drink at my lips, or die…

O Baptism!
O baptism of my whole reason for being!
To give birth to one good “I Love you!”
& then travel past men & gods
Under my window,
All of them lowering their eyes.

If it would come like lightning to a magnet,
Then my sky of storms would crack & open,
& the sudden showers of light would begin & last into the dawn
& there would be enormous thunder & sudden showers all night long!
That’s the end I want!

If only she would come!  & lowering her eyes
& wiping her feet
At the threshold of our church, O ancestors,
Ministers of Compassion,
She says:
“To me, you are not like other men,
They’re only men, you have come from the skies.
Your lips make me lower my eyes
Your whole bearing carries me away
& I hold these treasures for myself!  They are mine!
I know perfectly well that my destiny is now bound up in yours
(Yes, I have already adjusted to that fact)
To following you until you turn around, toward me
& I can tell you the beautiful truth about yourself!

“Truly, I do not think about the rest; I will wait
With all the tenderness of a life made purposeful especially for this.

“But I must tell you also that I cry at night,
That my sisters are really afraid I will die.

“I weep alone in corners, I have no interest in anything,
You have no idea how much I cried last Sunday, behind my prayer-book.

“You ask me why it’s you & not another,
Just believe me, it’s you & not another.

“I know this as well as I know the empty madness of my heart,
Or as I know that terrible mockery of yours.”

So she would come, a fugitive having escaped from something else, half-dead now,
To writhe on the mat that I placed for just that purpose at my door
& she would come to me with those eyes that are absolutely mad
& she would follow me with those eyes, everywhere, everywhere!


O diaphanous geraniums, magical street-warriors & enchantments,
Monomaniacal sacrileges!
Excitements, lewdness, douches!  O wine-presses
Of certain truly terrific nights!
Diapers & barking,
Thyrsi in the deep woods!
Transfusions, reprisals,
Getting up again, cold compresses & endless potions,
Angelus!  Complete loss of will
From nuptial debacles!  & nuptial debacles!….

& then, O my loves,
Everything in her days is for me,
O my little mine, O my quotidian,
In my little interior world,
& I mean it—for it is nowhere else!
O my little quotidian….

Then what?  O some genius,
Improvisations & insomnias!

Then?  The one who watches everything,
The dreamer in the corner:
“How far she is from me!  How beautiful!
Who is she?  Whose is she?
O beautiful stranger!  To speak to her!  To take her away!”
(& actually, when the ball is done & the music ends,
She’d follow me away in a simply pure & predestined way.)

& then I would avoid her for weeks,
After having hurt her seriously,
& then give her a time to meet again,
& make up, & begin playing our house-games again.
& then lose her for months & months
Until I can no longer recognize even her voice!….

Yes Time corrupts everything,
But doesn’t get rid of anything!

& then, no longer able to wander,
Hypochondria & rain,
Alone under ancient skies,
Playing the fool
Without a fire or a place for it
(Poor poor fool without love)
& then I have to fall very low
To purify this flesh of mine
Exulting at dawn
Fleeing from myself on some train
O Belles-Lettres, O Beaux-Arts,
Like an angel apart from the others

I shall have spent my life on railroad platforms
Ready to leave
Like some character in a disastrous story
& all for love,
All because my heart is crazy for the real glories of love.

How picturesque these missed trains are….

Always I hear, “See you soon!  See you real soon!”
I think of boats
At the end of the jetty….

& of jetties so perfectly constructed
Against the sea
Like me
Against love.

XI.  On The Defunct Thing

You don’t love me anymore,
Wouldn’t love me anymore,
There’s  no more between us
Than a fraternal occasion!…

—Ah, she doesn’t love me!
Because she would not take even that first step
That would have let us fall together at each other’s feet.

But if she had met
A, B, C, or D instead of me
She’d have loved them well enough.

I see it, I can see them…

Listen!  I see her
With the noble A, B, C, or D,
She was born for each of them,
It’s him, whoever & whichever he it is,
She reflects him, as she should,
She’s in rare form, in a perfect gesture
She shakes her head & says with a little laugh,
That nothing can stop or change
This astounding destiny from her.

It’s him, & she tells him,
“O your eyes, your walk!
O the incredible sound of your voice!
How long I’ve sought you!
O it’s you, really you, & so good that you have come like this…”

He turns the light down a little,
He bends her toward his heart,
He kisses her temple,
& at the place of her orphan heart…

He lulls her to sleep with his sad kisses,
He moves her almost to pity with his little love-talk,
He has some serious motives in all this,
He speaks of Destiny,
He swears by everything that exists,
& then, the fatal hour sounds.

Perhaps I am outside during all this,
Wandering nowhere in particular with her in my heart
Astonished, perhaps,
At how dark her windows are.

Or she is at his house, where she feels at home,
& as we’ve seen, she loves him, with a wild fidelity,
With all the beauty of her nights….

I have seen them!  This is more than I can take.

She has this air of great great fidelity
With her huge eyes shining so brightly
In a face made wholly new by all this.

I’d never be anything but a last resort.

Never anything but second best,
Like my day in Time
My place in Space
& I couldn’t settle
For that kind of depravity!…

No!  No!  With her it’s all or nothing!
& so I’ll go off like a fool
Striding though the autumn
With its high wind that says everything!

I’ll tell myself, “O this time
She is very distant, she weeps,
The great autumn wind weeps also.”
& I am alone at home,
& my noble heart is chilled,
& I am without love, & without anyone,
Because everything is misery everything is autumn,
Everything is hard & without mercy.

But if I could have loved you the way you wanted
You would have thought that the highest good:

Sure. Right. No thanks!


Get thee to a nunnery:  why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?  I myself am indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things, that it were better that my mother had not borne me.  We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us.  Go thy ways to a nunnery.  — Hamlet

Black north wind, howling downpour,
& black river, closed-up houses,
& parts of town sinister as Morgues,
& someone alone, late for something, bringing with him
All the misery of the heart & of everything,
& the innocence that has been dirtied by coming here
& that now cries to the storm:  “Oh?  Water, yes, for my heart
Which is burning so, for my flesh which so obsesses me!”

O she who is my heart & my flesh, what is she doing?….

If she is out in this vile weather
From what too-human adventures is she returning?
& if she is inside,
Unable to sleep because of the great wind,
Is she thinking on Happiness,
That kind of happiness that can come at any price,
& saying:  “Anything O anything, rather than let my heart
Still be so misunderstood?”

Be careful, be careful poor desperate heart.

(Languor, debilitations, palpitations, tears,
This miserable wish to be my wife!)

O motherland, O family!
& the soul turned away
From really heroic destinies
Beyond those even of the old maids
& that’s it, all over for this year!

Black night, closed houses, great wind,
Yes, to a nunnery, to a nunnery!

A convent in my native village,
A lovely place of hardly 20,000 people,
Standing between the school & the prefect’s offices,
& facing the cathedral
With anonymous women in gray robes
Always in prayer, at housework, or sewing;
& that’s enough for them….
& to scorn without envy
All that’s not part of this life
Of a Virgin of the Provinces,
& to walk always with a cold indifferent air
& lowered eyes.

O but I don’t want to see you in this scene
That would be so fatal to your real life,
& how you face looks so wretched behind the closed doors,
& your poor sad little indistinct gestures,
Until you grow perhaps incapable even of weeping.

But it won’t happen & cannot be
Because you are not like the others
Shrinking back behind the curtains
When the bedtime sun wallows in the sunset of its own blood!
O you are not old enough,
Promise that you’ll never be old enough,
Promise to stay exactly like the real image of yourself, good as gold….

The night is forever black,
The wind is sad almost beyond comprehension,
& everything tells an old story,
That there must always be two before the chimney fire,
The story of couples,
& that everything must be secure in the house, cobbled together in a fatalistic hymn!
But you—don’t give in
To these games, they are so vile…

Or to the great pity of November!
Stay in your little room,
Or go, with a cold & indifferent air,
Your lovely eyes
Irreconcilably lowered.

But she is out there, where the night is so endlessly black,
This life is one deadening dizzying circus!
All acts are creature-acts, everything is mere habit,
Without any real meaning!

The only sure thing is, we shall all die.
But if I am to love these stories
Behind the orphan heroine’s beautiful eyes,
Nature, give me the strength & the courage
To believe that I’m old enough
Nature, let me face the truth,
Lift up my head,
Since, sooner or later, we shall all die….

Some Words of Hart Crane


It’s a mysterious process, how a poem starts and grows, what makes it take root, why this and not that.  And the writing, the building-up or building-down, from these words or those, to those finished quatrains or these couplets, to something free-form, or to some mix of all of them, all those choices guided by the inspired hand of—well, of something, art, God, intuition, “the wind that blows through me,” who knows its name?  In the end, we as writers or readers may not know exactly what happened, only that something happened, because the evidence is there before us, in the finished poem on the bounded white space of the page (or not so finished:  the poem, as Paul Valery says, is never finished, only abandoned).  

By Source, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31541611

What we don’t see so much is the start, the ur-moment, the angelic troubled mix that takes place in the “foul rag and bone shop of the heart.”  I want to talk in this essay about that process, and its costs, and about the instigation, those shards and beginnings that begin the magic, that somehow start or inspire the poem into motion.  Some of these instigators are humble, a few unsuspected words perhaps, a surprising rhythm found or heard somewhere, a haunted traction, that may lay around for days or months even years, waiting its moment to launch the journey into the dark place, to bring back the gold that, in Ezra Pound’s wonderful phrase, “gathers the light about it.” 

We have a record of the hot externals of that process of creation for one poet, Hart Crane, a poet for whom the inspired moment of composition seemed to whose who witnessed it an ecstatic Dionysian plunge, the poet obliterating all consciousness of his surroundings as he retreated to some inner place to write—but what was seen by the witnesses was only in fact half-seen, for it was actually preceded by months of waiting for the right compositional moment, and then was followed by more months of hard private labor.  The compositional moment, the lightning strike, was the important point in the process where the bits collected so painstakingly over weeks and months came finally together, and it could occur anywhere, at any time, often for Crane under copious inducements of alcohol, or anyway of some extreme condition; but it was not the final and perhaps not even the definitive moment.  

Hart Crane

Here’s how it would have looked had you been there:  Imagine that it’s the mid-1920’s and you’re an artist at a party with friends, all themselves New York City-based artists and art-interested types, away from your digs in Greenwich Village, out in the country for the summer, in Patterson, NY, just over the line from Connecticut.  You’re all staying in an old farmhouse for $10 a month, taking this long vacation, an essential part of a life lived on the cheap, intended to allow you and your group to pick your jobs selectively, taking only as much in money and giving only as much in time as you need to live and eat, but never enough to interfere with your ability to do your best work, and not ever enough to risk commodification or surrender to the workaday ethos that destroys so many talented others by drowning their visions in daily drudgery.  This is a cocooned life you’re living, in a charmed circle, and it is like living on a private island. This particular day you’ve spent the afternoon playing croquet, with a pitcher of hard cider barely hidden in the tall grass (it is Prohibition, after all), to which everyone returns between shots, and now it’s evening and you’re all gathered around a warm fire in the house as the rain begins.  Here among you is the poet Hart Crane, whom many people are talking about these days, an intense man, laughing twice as hard as the rest of you, drinking twice as much.  The rumor is that his first book is close to completion and he is looking for a publisher, that he is hoping the book will come with a foreword by Eugene O’Neill (when it comes it will have a forward by another in your group, Allen Tate, O’Neill having written it but was so dissatisfied with the result that he bowed out).  Sometime in the middle of the revelry a change comes over Crane, and with it an inner imperative for action, a call by the gods of poetry: 

Gradually he [Crane] would fall silent, and a little later he disappeared. In lulls that began to interrupt the laughter, now Hart was gone, we would hear a new hubbub through the walls of his room—the phonograph playing a Cuban rumba, the typewriter clacking simultaneously; then the phonograph would run down and the typewriter stop while Hart changed the record, perhaps to a torch song, perhaps to Ravel’s Bolero. Sometimes he stamped across the room, declaiming to the four walls and the slow spring rain. 

An hour later, after the rain had stopped, he would appear in the kitchen or on the croquet court, his face brick-red, his eyes burning, his already iron-gray hair bristling straight up from his skull. He would be chewing a five-cent cigar which he had forgotten to light. In his hands would be two or three sheets of typewritten manuscript, with words crossed out and new lines scrawled in. “R-read that,” he would say. “Isn’t that the grreatest poem ever written?”

This passage and others cited in this essay are from Malcolm Cowley’s wonderful book, Exile’s Return: A Literary Odyssey of the 1920s (Penguin Twentieth Century Classics).  Cowley was a close friend and admirer of Crane, and for many years after his death, he said, he couldn’t bring himself to write about his friend’s last days.  (He finally did in his memoir of the 1930’s, The Dream of the Golden Mountains, Viking, 1980).  He knew Crane well enough to see at close hand the poet’s labor in creating his poem, the pushing and pulling and nudging that would go on for months, and continue even after a poem had been accepted and printed in one of the literary magazines.  It was never finished for him, the language was always only a temporization, approximating the vision.  That moment they all witnessed in the farmhouse, Cowley said, may have appeared to be one of the visible instances of creation, but it was more the moment of assembly than the instant of composition, and not the first nor the last moment of the poem.  Crane, as it turned out for this and for pretty much all his poems, would have been meditating over the poem for months or even years, writing notes and lines on pieces of paper that he carried always with him, waiting for the inspiration needed to tell him how to put them all together.  And then after it hit in that enormous surge of need and energy came the rest of the labor:  

As for the end of the story, it might be delayed for a week or a month. Painfully, persistently—and dead sober—Hart would revise his new poem, clarifying the images, correcting the meter and searching for the right word hour after hour. “The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise,” in the second of his “Voyages,” was the result of a search that lasted for several days. At first he had written, “The seal’s findrinny gaze toward paradise,” but someone had objected that he was using a nonexistent word. Hart and I worked in the same office that year, and I remember his frantic searches through Webster’s Unabridged and the big Standard, his trips to the library—on office time—and his reports of consultations with old sailors in South Street speakeasies. “Findrinny” he could never find, but after paging through the dictionary again he decided that “spindrift” was almost as good and he declaimed the new line exultantly…. There were many poets of the 1920s who worked hard to be obscure, veiling a simple idea in phrases that grew more labored and opaque with each revision of a poem. With Crane it was the original meaning that was complicated and difficult; his revisions brought it out more clearly. He said, making fun of himself, “I practice invention to the brink of intelligibility.” The truth was that he had something to say and wanted to be understood, but not at the cost of weakening or simplifying his original vision.  

This story verifies the careful and conscientious craftsman that Crane was, working his images hard as he developed his poem. His was not, as some have suggested, automatic writing or in any sense careless or tasteless writing; rather it was the effort to accurately portray the captured moment, words and images carefully shaped through repeated workings.  The passage also shows how he worked upward from the word to the image and to the line and the poem.  “Findrinny” is not a word, though it had a spine and a sound that Crane liked in conjunction with “gaze,” and so incorporated into his line for a time, until it was replaced by “spindrift.”  

Exile’s Return

Here, I suggest, is where we can see even more clearly how Crane worked.  His habitual mode was to find new associations between words, creating relationships of meaning that had not existed before he brought the words together.  One reads the new association in this poem—that “spindrift gaze”—and thinks, yes, ok, that’s i t, that’s right.  And it is right, but in how strange a way!  It is an odd word, “spindrift,” but it is also one of those words that we feel we know immediately when we hear it.  A little research shows that it is an old word, derived from the Scottish word spene, to sail before the wind, and the word “drift.”  It was probably first coined in the mid 1500’s.  It refers to the spray blown from cresting waves in a gale, which “drifts” in the direction of the gale.  A gale, to continue this pedantry a little farther, has a Force 8 wind speed, of 39-46 mph, equal to 34-40 knots, and produces moderately high waves of length, with the edges of the crests beginning to break into spindrift, and foam blown in well-marked streaks along the direction of the wind.  A spindrift gaze toward paradise would then be a violent, elemental, and intense view, a gaze that rides on a crest of wave as it looks toward paradise.  In the poem—this is section II of “Voyages”—it is the gaze of a seal (a seal?  Yes, it was a surprise to me too;  I discuss it below) that is being described, a gaze that has rich implications for the rest of us, who make up that anonymous collective the poet claims to speak for here, and who are at this moment in the poem in our graves:  

Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,   
And hasten while her penniless rich palms   
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,— 
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,   
Close round one instant in one floating flower. 

Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.   
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire, 
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until 
Is answered in the vortex of our grave 
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise. 

I said that that seal was a surprise to me, and remains so no matter how many times I read this poem.  It is not prepared for, it simply appears, and honestly, it would be a comical intrusion except for that adjective “wide,” and the act of gazing toward paradise.  The poetry takes over, with the vowel sounds of the “a”’s, “e”’s, and “i”’s somehow lifting the moment of this unexpected visitor to an instant of profundity.  Something has been found, or maybe better stated, something has been created, in the conjunction of the words, that did not exist before Crane put them together:  “spindift gaze.”  A new thing, aided by the music of the line that surrounds the words, and come to this juncture not feeling at all distorted or forced but independently alive, full of life, almost natural, as if you or I might say to each other one day, looking out to the ocean, a word or two about the “spindrift gaze” of those others clustered along the beach.  

As for the seal, there may be a source, though it is external to the poem, and more than a little extravagant.   I got the hint for it from Harold Bloom, a great lover of Crane’s work, who suggests that “Voyages” in its entirety is actually a poem of lost love, a requiem in eros for Crane’s one true love attachment, to Emil Opffer (this from Bloom’s terrific The Daemon Knows: Literary Greatness and the American Sublime, Random House Publishing Group).  And Bloom sees the sea’s role here as the sea of death, as the end of love, and then suggests that this section of the poem parallels in small the plot of Moby Dick, with the Pequot falling into the vortex, “the conceptual image of whirlpool that will end Crane and his lover in the yearning glance of Moby-Dick’s young seals seeking their lost mothers, a paradise unknown.”  It’s an interesting notion, and seeks to rationalize the presence of the seal as a borrowing or entrance into the poem from some images of Melville.  If it is a correct reading, it also offers a view of some of the machinery behind the poem, some movement off the staging of the words, in the back room where the poetry starts.  The scene with the seals is from Moby Dick, Chapter 126, the Life Buoy:  

Those rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great numbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or some dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and kept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of wail. But this only the more affected some of them, because most mariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not only from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the human look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen peeringly uprising from the water alongside. In the sea, under certain circumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men. 

Can this reading be right?  I don’t know for sure, or at least don’t know it for sure in the way you would know your multiplication tables; but the poem is so oddly and wonderfully put together that it is possible to accept the magical entrance of the seals looking toward paradise without necessarily needing to know their provenance.  Certainly the passage from Melville enriches the sense of why the seals should be there, but it is not wholly necessary to know about its existence at the level of the poem as presented to us, which is the level of magical entrances and exits.  In such a poem it is possible to view the image of seals looking toward paradise as not necessarily absurd, and as even acceptable.  

This is not the first time that Crane has lifted or borrowed a sense of meaning, or image, or even, as we shall see below, specific words and rhythms from Melville, whom he very much admired.  He was enraptured by Moby Dick, and said that by June 1926 he had read the novel three times.  His relationship to the book and its author was more than fan-boy admiration; he found in it many of the structures and even words that he made and incorporated into his poetry.  I am not suggesting by this that Melville “makes” Crane, or makes Crane’s poetry, but that his work is there in Crane’s imagination, occupying an honored spot in his spiritual library, and so is one of the instigators of much of his work.  I want to focus in the next sections a little more on Crane’s use of language, and on the relationship between Crane and Melville, as a way to discuss methods and sources in the creation of his poems.  


The process we have described about Crane’s mode of composition suggests something more than Wordsworth’s notion of “emotion recollected in tranquillity,” or “spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions.”  It is a heightened visionary moment of induced ecstasy, followed by the hard labor of fitting the thing seen to the words that had been accumulating, a process more Rimbaud than Wordsworth, more mosques at the bottoms of lakes than intimations of anything.  But, as we have seen, if the words he used were true to the vision, they were not always true to the language or to ordinary logic of the world as it is commonly understood by those who must get about in it.  He needed his own language, or at least, a language that could carry his own meanings, but he used the words of our common language for this purpose.  They were the only words he had, and were the only way that the poetry got to the page.  I believe that he thought in those words, and that the words created or half-created the vision, and that the meanings he ascribed to them seemed to him a perfectly normal—no:  a perfectly necessary—thing for a poet like him to do.  

As illustration, here is a 1926 exchange between Crane and Harriet Monroe, editor of Poetry magazine.  Crane at the time is still composing the poems that will occupy his first book, White Buildings, and has submitted his poem “At Melville’s Tomb” to the magazine.  Ms. Monroe reads it and responds, perhaps with some exasperation: “Take me for a hard-boiled, unimaginative, unpoetic reader, and tell me how dice can bequeath an embassy (or anything else); and how a calyx (of death’s bounty or anything else) can give back a scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph; and how, if it does, such a portent can be wound in corridors (of shells or anything else). . . . I find your image of frosted eyes lifting altars difficult to visualize. Nor do compass, quadrant and sextant contrive tides, they merely record them, I believe.”  

Crane’s response is below.  Here is the poem she was writing to him about:  

At Melville’s Tomb

Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge 
The dice of drowned men’s bones he saw bequeath 
An embassy. Their numbers as he watched, 
Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured. 

And wrecks passed without sound of bells, 
The calyx of death’s bounty giving back 
A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph, 
The portent wound in corridors of shells. 

Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil, 
Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled, 
Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars; 
And silent answers crept across the stars. 

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive 
No farther tides … High in the azure steeps 
Monody shall not wake the mariner. 
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.

Crane responded in two ways:  specifically, to her comments on the images in the poem, and also generally, giving his view of what poetry and poets must be allowed to do in language.  

Specifically, he said, “Dice bequeath an embassy, in the first place, by being ground (in this connection only, of course) in little cubes from the bones of drowned men by the action of the sea, and are finally thrown up on the sand, having ‘numbers’ but no identification. These being the bones of dead men who never completed their voyage, it seem legitimate to refer to them as the only surviving evidence of certain messages undelivered, mute evidence of certain things, experiences that the dead mariners might have had to deliver. Dice as a symbol of chance and circumstance is also implied.”  

About the calyx, he wrote, “This calyx refers in a double ironic sense both to a cornucopia and the vortex made by a sinking vessel. As soon as the water has closed over a ship, this whirlpool sends up broken spars, wreckage, etc., which can be alluded to as livid hieroglyphs, making a scattered chapter so far as any complete record of the recent ship and her crew is concerned. In fact, about as much definite knowledge might come from all this as anyone might gain from the roar of his own veins, which is easily heard (haven’t you ever done it?) by holding a shell close to one’s ear.”  

On “frosted eyes,” he says that it, “[r]efers simply to a conviction that a man, not knowing perhaps a definite god yet being endowed with a reverence for deity—such a man naturally postulates a deity somehow, and the altar of that deity by the very action of the eyes lifted in searching.” 

And finally, about the words compass, quadrant, etc., he said, “Hasn’t it often occurred that instruments originally invented for record and computation have inadvertently so extended the concepts of the entity they were invented to measure (concepts of space, etc.) in the mind and imagination that employed them, that they may metaphorically be said to have extended the original boundaries of the entity measured? This little bit of ‘relativity’ ought not to be discredited in poetry now that scientists are proceeding to measure the universe on principles of pure ratio, quite as metaphorical, so far as previous standards of scientific methods extended, as some of the axioms in Job.” 

There’s an old line about how what you see depends on where you sit, and that may be as true for Ms. Monroe’s reading of the poem as for Crane’s explanation of his use of language.  Certainly these explanations are eccentric and the definitions and associations he offered are even perhaps hermetic as he insists that his private meanings and conjunctions may be as valid in a poem’s language as more ordinary and common understandings.  In a sense, he argues against the idea that a poem can ever be about its paraphrase, and that rather it must be about its own logic of meanings, and about itself.  He does not say this in defense, but he might have noted that the setting of the poem is not Melville’s actual tomb which, title notwithstanding, is a stone slab in a cemetery in the Bronx, but is given in the poem as the sea—“This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.”  He claims a large license for his and any poet’s use of language:  “The nuances of feeling and observation in a poem may well call for certain liberties which you claim the poet has no right to take. I am simply making the claim that the poet does have that authority, and that to deny it is to limit the scope of the medium so considerably as to outlaw some of the richest genius of the past.”  

The arguments against this position are easy and vast, and have to do with the effect on intelligibility of the piece as written and about what the level of clarity and understanding an author owes his audience.  The arguments in favor of the position are the artifacts of Crane’s own poems, and those of the poets he cites in his letter to Monroe:  Blake, Eliot, and also many others, who used words in similarly constructed ways.  Genius, in its works, always claims broad scope, the right to the unfettered moment.  What is key to note in this colloquy is Crane’s way with language, the description of his building up of the poem from the words, not from their denotations, which are discarded quickly, but from connotations and fuzzy-logic associations, so that the selected meanings join as needed while the others fall away as irrelevant to the requirements of the poem, just so much specious chaff disappeared into there wind during the time of the poem.  Crane saw, or felt, those associations, and made it his labor to discern them in crafting the poem.  

Crane’s method of working also imposes a responsibility on us as readers, if we are truly to appreciate the extent of his achievement, or even for that matter to judge and denigrate it. That’s because his method calls on us to discriminate as readers the words he uses in the same way that he worked on them as writer, and to do so not just this or that piece of a poem, but the totality of the individual poem, and indeed in the totality of the poems in his book, White Buildings.  Others have pointed out that there are connections in and between the poems, and made a credible case about how they echo each other.  And we have just seen how the words work on each other, and how carefully chosen they are, how much he expects of himself, and of us.  He set a high and difficult bar to meet, and understandably, not every effort works.  When it doesn’t, we’re left with a sense of artificiality, the irresolution that attends an arbitrary parlor trick, the handkerchief that makes the egg disappear too obviously into the sleeve, where it sheds its goo.  But when the effort does its work, the effect is truly magical.  

The end of the story of the exchange of letters between Crane and Monroe was some level of acceptance on her part, or perhaps a belief that the discussion was worth sharing, for she took the poem and printed it along with their exchange of letters.  


We discussed above how the seals in Moby Dick may have entered “Voyages II.”  Here is another place where Crane’s relation to Melville helps churn something in his consciousness as it works to produce a poem.  In this case the poem is “Repose of Rivers,” written in early summer of 1926 and published in The Dial in September of that year.  Here is a sentence from Chapter 58 of Moby Dick, where Melville describes “vast meadows” of “the minute, yellow substance, upon which the Right Whale largely feeds” and continues,

As morning mowers, who side by side slowly and seethingly advance their scythes through the long wet grass of marshy meads; even so these monsters swam, making a strange, grassy, cutting sound; and leaving behind them endless swaths of blue upon the yellow sea. 

And here is the opening stanza of “Repose of Rivers”:  

The willows carried a slow sound, 
A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead. 
I could never remember 
That seething, steady leveling of the marshes 
Till age had brought me to the sea.

Note the parallel words:  “mead,” “sound,” “mowed (mowers),” “sea,” “marsh (marshy),” “slow (slowly),” and the sense or meaning of “cutting” and “scythes” with “mowed on the mead.”  Other parts of the poem draw inspiration from another piece of Melville’s, “The Encantadas.”  Those words shared by Crane and Melville did not create the poem, or the stanza, and the poem is not drawn from these words and scenes; I am not suggesting either thing.  But I can imagine the words as instigating the poem, or creating a creative mental friction that resulted in the poem, like the grain of sand in the oyster that produces the pearl.  Here perhaps were words or a sentence that Crane carried with him a long time, working on his psyche, developing into something else.  And not just the words, but also the rhythms:  There is a rhythm in the words Melville uses, as he writes “side by side slowly and seethingly advance their scythes…” Crane’s words, and more, the internal vowel and consonant echoes, and the sound echoes of the words, give us a rhythm that to the ear seem surprisingly similar:  “That seething, steady leveling of the marshes…” the “sarabande the wind mowed on the mead…”  Crane is working and reworking not just the words but the rhythms and sounds of these lines.  He has heard something in the Melville sentence, and it is profoundly moving at some level of his creative poet’s soul, and he carries it in his head and he works his works to that rhythm.  Here is the full poem:  


The willows carried a slow sound, 
A sarabande the wind mowed on the mead. 
I could never remember 
That seething, steady leveling of the marshes 
Till age had brought me to the sea. 

Flags, weeds. And remembrance of steep alcoves 
Where cypresses shared the noon’s 
Tyranny; they drew me into hades almost. 
And mammoth turtles climbing sulphur dreams 
Yielded, while sun-silt rippled them 
Asunder … 

How much I would have bartered! the black gorge 
And all the singular nestings in the hills 
Where beavers learn stitch and tooth. 
The pond I entered once and quickly fled— 
I remember now its singing willow rim. 

And finally, in that memory all things nurse; 
After the city that I finally passed 
With scalding unguents spread and smoking darts 
The monsoon cut across the delta 
At gulf gates … There, beyond the dykes 

I heard wind flaking sapphire, like this summer, 
And willows could not hold more steady sound.

We know some things about Crane’s life at this time.  He had written this poem, or most of it anyway, on his brief stay in Grand Cayman, during a longer trip to the Isle of Pines.  He was deeply depressed at the time, both by the troubled passage to the island, where he had intended to stay the summer to work on The Bridge, and by his reading of Spengler’s Decline of the West, with its suggestion that western civilization was entering the final stages of its Faustian bargain for existence.  He was having a hard time writing.  The passage to the island had occurred over four unbearably hot and humid days instead of the two that had been planned, and many of the passengers were sick on board, perhaps from the heat and the vile drinking water, and there were constant mosquitos to fend off.  The experience left him deflated emotionally.  He says, in a June 26 letter to Waldo Frank, “it is absurd to say that one is battling indifference; but neither does one build out of an emptied vision… at times it seems demonstrable that Spengler is quite right.  At pres— I’m writing nothing….”  He also mentions that he is “cooking up a couple of other short poems,” among them one he calls “The Tampa Schooner,” which is the ur-name for the poem that will become “Repose of Rivers.” His unhappiness, in this case, was a gift, as was the boat journey, for they coalesced to provide an environment and a theme for the new poem.  “Repose of Rivers” at at least one level is about a journey by water to the ocean, from the smaller water to larger, and from peace to storm; but it has many moving parts, as we discuss below.  

We have seen the words and rhythms that instigated the start of it, but what else can we know about this poem?  As with the Melville poem, we note that the poet is not following rules of logic or providing words anchored to real-world descriptions:  Willows, for example, may make a sound as wind blows through, but how do they “carry” it?  And in what possible world does the wind “mow” a sarabande?   A sarabande is a older form of a slow, stately Spanish dance in triple time.  It may be possible to imagine a sort of double-pun working at the level of the language:  the mowing being a sound of the dance, and the Sarabande having a sound like something that might cut (because of that syllable, “band”); but honestly, I find these kinds of associations strained.  

We see other other odd uses of the language.  We can almost imagine marshes leveling or at least being leveled by gravity or heated evaporations of summer, for example, but how is it possible for something called “sun-silt,” whatever that may be, to “ripple” a mammoth turtle “asunder” in “sulphur dreams”?  For that matter, how is anything rippled asunder?  We have moved beyond the use of words to describe a world, to something else, to the sounds of words, to words stripped of denotation in favor of deeply eccentric connotations and private meanings, to the magic of singing willows and a world where it is possible to barter a black gorge and singular nesting of something unnamed, for something else unnamed, to visit a city with scalding unguents, to…. well, you get the idea.  The point is that these are not images so much as words and word forms that point toward images, or suggest them, placeholders of sense that hint at some apprehensible meaning about to come or that tease us into thinking that it can arrive with just a little more work on our part.  To that extent, they are almost Swinburnian, the poet about whom Eliot said, “When you take to pieces any verse of Swinburne, you find always that the object was not there—only the word.”   And yet—what words!  Beautiful and startling enough to make us want to understand their relations, and to submit to the temptation of forgiving them in belief that they point to something greater than we are seeing at first read.  

Several readers, tempted so, have concocted plots or narratives for the poem.  And so perhaps we can, with effort, join them in constructing a story, a sort of plot for the poem by first delineating its structure.  The poem centers around wind and water, and describes a movement from one place to another, from the pond to the sea from slow wind to monsoon, from the pond the poet can enter and quickly flee, to the monsoon wind that flakes the sapphire at the city dykes.  In the interim, the poem moves from mead and marsh to hot sulphur dreams, with those odd mammoth turtles presented as erotic beings whose longings or fulfillment rip them asunder in a sulphuric dreamy kind of hell.  The poem remembers something that to the poet is perhaps equally threatening, the pond’s singing willow rim, the pond he entered once and fled, coming later upon the city whose scalding unguents are spread among smoking darts while a monsoon works against the gates.  We are left with the sense of everything about to be sprung open, with the possibility of moving through this final gateway from one stage of life to another.  It is a plot with words but without firm details, a magical movement from ponds and lakes through signifiers of hell to sea and hurricane.  And we can find, if we wish, others Melvillean antecedents for the imagery.  The turtles, for example, parallel the tortoises seen in Melville’s The Piazza Tales, in the sketches called “The Encantadas”:

Meeting with no such hinderance as their companion did, the other tortoises merely fell foul of small stumbling-blocks—buckets, blocks, and coils of rigging—and at times in the act of crawling over them would slip with an astounding rattle to the deck. Listening to these draggings and concussions, I thought me of the haunt from which they came; an isle full of metallic ravines and gulches, sunk bottomlessly into the hearts of splintered mountains, and covered for many miles with inextricable thickets. I then pictured these three straight-forward monsters, century after century, writhing through the shades, grim as blacksmiths; crawling so slowly and ponderously, that not only did toad-stools and all fungus things grow beneath their feet, but a sooty moss sprouted upon their backs. With them I lost myself in volcanic mazes; brushed away endless boughs of rotting thickets; till finally in a dream I found myself sitting crosslegged upon the foremost, a Brahmin similarly mounted upon either side, forming a tripod of foreheads which upheld the universal cope.

And the “black gorge” of the poem may similarly have a source in another part of Melville, Chapter 98 of Moby Dick, “The Try-Works,” where the placement of the “blackest gorges” and of a Catskill eagle that can dive down and soar out of them may function as a sort of background music to that part of the poem, those things that the poet says he is willing to give up in barter:

…There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

Others see different and differently complete narratives in the poem.  Harold Bloom, in a brilliant reading, sees the poem as wholly erotic, and it may be, though despite his efforts I confess to having a hard time constructing an erotic plot from the text on the page. And John T. Irwin, in his very engaged reading of the poem in Hart Crane’s Poetry: “Appollinaire lived in Paris, I live in Cleveland, Ohio” (Johns Hopkins University Press) suggests that the poem is about the growth of the poet’s soul, a transit from adolescence to maturity as a poet, “from the river constrained within its banks down to the freedom of the open sea.”  To make his case, he brings in an image-dictionary’s worth of backup, seeing in Crane as poet-speaker an Orpheus just prior to being torn apart by the Dionysian women.  It’s a rich and fascinating reading.  In yet another reading of the poem, Laurence Lieberman says in his essay, “Hart Crane’s Monsoon: A Reading of While Buildings,” (American Poetry Review, March/April 2010) that the poem is a confrontation with a type of memory, and is a “self-elegy” whose images carry a weight and density that “we recognize as kindred to images we’ve all encountered in our rare life-changing dreams.”  I like this characterization of the images a lot, though I am not sure it tells us anything useful to help in reading the poem.  Happily, Lieberman continues, echoing Bloom perhaps:  “I believe that Crane has adapted to the structure of his compact lyric an experimental scenic art that approximates—by a curious mimicry—the form of Moby Dick. ‘Repose of Rivers’ is an improbable small-scale replica of the novel’s allegorical format. No other poem of Crane’s simulates the Melvillean structure in quite the same way.”  In this reading, each of the four key stanzas are like chapters in the novel, “tackling a palpably delineated segment of extrovert reality—scenic, pictorial, as in a slide show drawn from the poet’s life story.”  The pictures magically summon up the flutterings of the other world that lurk behind their silhouettes; “they function more as emblems, and they finally coalesce into an allegorical map of the author’s inner life. Those images come to strike us as final, absolutes, total in their spiritual knowing. Their gnosis… Unchallengeable, like images that leap before us in dreams, they evoke a bedrock reality masked by the world of the senses.”  The thing to take out of this part of the discussion is not only how much the poem is able to give itself over to many different readings, but how much we as readers are almost impelled too try to create that plot, to find that hidden narrative.  The poem is controlled, intense, private—and also inviting and open.  And also, utterly brilliant.  


I have written elsewhere of the cost to the poet for making poems like this. I return to Cowley’s book for an assessment of the cost to Crane of his entry into the ecstatic moments that created these visionary poems from White Buildings and others in The Bridge.  Crane sought high moments of derangement of the senses, through alcohol, in pursuit of his visions.  Cowley says: 

Hart drank to write: he drank to invoke the visions that his poems are intended to convey. But the recipe could be followed for a few years at the most, and it was completely effective only for two periods of about a month each, in 1926 and 1927, when working at top speed he finished most of the poems included in The Bridge. After that more and more alcohol was needed, so much of it that when the visions came he was incapable of putting them on paper. He drank in Village speakeasies and Brooklyn waterfront dives; he insulted everyone within hearing or shouted that he was Christopher Marlowe; then waking after a night spent with a drunken sailor, he drank again to forget his sense of guilt. He really forgot it, for the moment. By the following afternoon all the outrageous things he had done at night became merely funny, became an epic misadventure to be embroidered—“ And then I began throwing furniture out the window,” he would say with an enormous chuckle. Everybody would laugh and Hart would pound the table, calling for another bottle of wine. At a certain stage in drunkenness he gave himself and others the illusion of completely painless brilliance; words poured out of him, puns, metaphors, epigrams, visions; but soon the high spirits would be mingled with obsessions—“ See that man staring at us, I think he’s a detective”— and then the violence would start all over again, to be followed next day by the repentance

It is a sad ending, a wounding vignette about a poet with such great talent and powers, and such great promise.  We can see the end in such stories: deracination, despair, eventual suicide.  His was an emotionally compromised life from the start, and it is a miracle that he survived at all that battleground of love and hatred where his badly matched narcissistic parents, that neurotic mother and uncomprehending businessman father, fought to alienate  their son from each other.  He lived hard, as hard as he had to, and he made bad choices, and in spite of all he became a great poet, who left behind an incredible record of his brilliant engagement with the sublime; it was an engagement that cost him everything.  Others have debated whether the cost in life is worth the product in art, but I think that the terms of such debates are red herrings, and truly meaningless.  Poets of this caliber and vision really have no choice.  It is what they do.  They are poets.  Their lives are constructed around their poetry, and it is what gives them the value that they live by, and determines their relationship to the world.  

Sand in the Oyster: Auden, Eliot, & the Making of a Poem by Dylan Thomas


Let’s do a thought experiment.  Here’s the scene:  It’s 1934, a decade less and less dominated by the powerful poetic voices of the  near-50ish T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, those enfant arbiters who initiated the modernist movement in the Anni Mirabiles years of a decade ago, and more and more by the 20-something new generation of W.H. Auden, Stephen Spender, and other politically committed intellectuals of their circle.  W.B. Yeats, the 1923 Nobel Prize winner, is at age 69 an honored but increasingly distant master. Serious readers of poetry (yourself in this experiment) follow both these Modernist original and new generation writers, but their tastes are still satisfiable by the traditional formalist modes they grew up with.  These trends, old and new, show in the major published work of this year, which includes Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Wine From These Grapes and James Agee’s Permit Me Voyage, but also Auden’s Poems (2nd edition: 1933 in Britain, 1934 in the USA), and Spender’s Vienna.  The presence of the elders shows in William Carlos Williams’ Collected Poems 1921-1931, and in the unchecked and random dynamism of Ezra Pound, who publishes Homage to Sextus Propertius, and ABC of Reading, but also the often-unhealthily obsessive Eleven new Cantos: XXXI–XLI, the subjects of which include Jefferson, Adams, and other American founders, the American banking system and coinage, and various unpleasant anti-semite references; in a few years his political apocalyptic will overtake his poetry, and he will envision himself as a political theorist and world savior.  He is moving toward crackpot status, already almost but not quite dismissible.

15480817159_526de92e3c_zAnd now imagine yourself in this year of conflicted trends, buying this little 36-page book titled 18 Poems by a 20-year old Welsh poet who won a contest sponsored by The Sunday Referee newspaper. It comes in a white cover, its title in big san serif type, with the poet’s name  just below it.  Perhaps you want to know more about the poet, but at the back of the book is the postscript, “This book, the second volume of the Sunday Referee Poets series, is unaccompanied by either portrait or preface, at the author’s request.”  In other words, all you have is the book of poems, no guideposts, no blurbs from well-known poets and critics attesting to its quality, no smiling hopeful poetic face set there to convince you of the sincerity and excellence of the soul-baring venture contained within the pages.  Message:  You are on your own.  No teachers, no guides, no gurus.  You read the first stanza of the first section of the first poem:

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.  

And you think:  What is this?  Who writes like this? No one, is the answer, and no, don’t bother looking around because there is no one to tell you what this is, and there is no possible appeal to authority or precedent, because nothing like this is being published even in this poetically varied year of 1934, or 15664787091_32f69fffe1_zfor that matter in any other year in your reading experience.  Even today, 80 years on, the words of this stanza strike a reader as new, different, with images that are collage-strange, that come into these six lines from so many directions, with no direction about the psychic or geographic place or about the speaker—and so no answers to the questions, who are these boys who are referenced as the subject of the poem? what are “gold tithings”? who is speaking and what is seen?  For that matter, although so many of these words are visual nouns and adjectives—“gold,” “apples,” “soil,” “girls,” “frozen,” etc.—can they actually be said to describe a scene?  Can we visualize it?  Is it even visualizable?  There are hints that something is there, a scene, or at least, that there should be a scene, and there is a tone that suggests we should be able to see it, but… what is it?

Even in this first reading we can sense tremendous force, an intense compression of the lines, drawing in many themes and setting them off against each other, although we may still  wonder about what action is being described.  What does it mean, after all, to say that someone lays “the gold tithings barren”?  And in what sense are these boys “ruined”?  The verbiage seems to suggest that the sighting happens in present tense, that they are ruined now, and yet there are ambiguities in the phraseology:  does the speaker mean that they are ruined later as they age, or that they are ruined later in some way, that is, that they are still young and still boys of summer, but ruined ones?  As we move through the poem from unsettling image to image, from winter floods and frozen loves and girls who are fetched (different than the frozen loves?) we come to the final line about “cargoed apples,” which we can sort of understand if we take it literally, as this is the Depression, and crops were sometimes dumped to insure higher prices for the remainder at market; but then, what does the Depression crop-dumping have to do with girls and tides and gold tithings?  Nice as those auditory assonances may be (tides and tithings, girls and gold, etc.), do they tell us anything?  Move us somewhere?

The questions pile up as we notice something else, how much at the level of the images and the words is concatenated in these few first lines:  heat and cold, wet and dry, love and sterility, games (apple-bobbing, “fetching”) and death, creation and destruction.  This is not a full encyclopedic run of all available poetic and thematic possibilities, but it is certainly broader than most of what we encounter in a single stanza in a single poem.  We notice too that these lines scan like older poetry but read like new poetry, even if like poetry bitten by madness (to play a variation on Jacques Maritain’s wonderful “Art bitten by Poetry longs to be freed from Reason”).  These lines are strange, even unsettling, but our sense of confusion may be allayed somewhat by the certainty of the tone, the definitive rhetoric of the stanza that says that this is exactly what the poet means, that he is not confused, that he knows what he is saying to us, and he means to say it.  And so we think, there is sense here, there must be, the poet seems to insist on it, and so we just have to find it, to open ourselves to it to grasp it.  But it is strange!  There is no father to this, no predecessor.  Seamus Heaney has said that “Others may have written like Thomas, but it was never vice-versa.”  I would amend the first part of his statement only to say that others have tried to write like Thomas, but I know of no one who succeeded past a few lines or parts of a poem or two.

15481515017_99a1469ea1_zIt should not be surprising that none of this unavoidable perception of difference and obscurity would help sell the book.  Quite the opposite:  It took two years for that first edition of five hundred copies to sell out, making it no success, but in fairness, not a total failure either, at least in terms of poetry book sales.  Perhaps the publishers expected some such outcome, for they bound the book prudently, in two sets of 250 each, not binding the second until the first had sold out.  The good news for the poet was that the book was widely reviewed, and noticed by older established poets and critics, including T.S. Eliot, and by some of the prominent younger ones, like Stephen Spender.  Today, of course, the book is famous, a collector’s item.  You can buy a good first edition for around $900 (or $500 of you ca be content with the second binding), and you can buy an original from the second printing by its second publisher, the Fortune Press (London, 1942) for around $200.

I’ve been reading through 18 Poems, trying to recover my initial experience at encountering these poems some decades ago, and finding it surprisingly not hard at all.  When you enter their world, their power shows immediately, even aggressively:  They are meant to be experienced that way.  From the first line you read you are taken in and you live inside the poem as if there was no other world, and no other words or language but these on the page before you, for nothing else is possible in the moment of your reading.  Stepping away, putting down the book, it comes to you how stunning it is that a 20-year old could have written so many of what we now regard as masterpieces:  “I see the boys of summer,” “The force that through the green fuse,” “Before I knocked” (of which Heaney has said it “breaks the print barrier”), “Light breaks where no sun shines,” and many others.  They share an extraordinary quality, presenting themselves as sui generis, and yet also as familiar and inevitable.  The words, that is, feel inevitable, as if they have been there a long time, and yet we are conscious at the same time of how new they are, coming to us this way.  Where does this come from?  How do poems like this even get to the page?


I’ve been thinking a lot about the mysterious process of how poems come into being, and  want to talk in this essay about what I think is part of that process, the way that frictional elements can sometimes help a poem along—that is, items that are not the source of the poem or of the poetry, but are the tiny pieces, some words, or a scene, the somethings, that help in its development, which for one reason or another lodge in the imagination and work there like the bit of sand in an oyster that helps produce the pearl.  And there is also related item, a way of thinking about or validating the mode and construction of the created object, that gives license to how the thing is conceived and put together, an environmental piece that helps define and protect the final output.

Both of these pieces lurk behind and around this first poem in the book, and indeed around the book as a whole.  One of them is from W.H. Auden, and one from T.S. Eliot.  One Thomas embraced and used to strengthen and articulate his approach to his poetry, giving it a safe space in which to develop and mature; and one he also used but resisted, derogated, and denied, even as he admitted to its importance, almost as if he resented its influence.  The Eliot contribution to Thomas came in his criticism, in the early 1930’s books Selected Essays and The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism. These were so helpful to Thomas that he cited passages from them often in letters and interviews as a justification and philosophical underpinning to his methods.  They validated and created the environment in which his poems could thrive, and he recognized that and was grateful for it, for he needed it.  But with Auden he had a different and deeply conflicted relationship.  Auden’s voice, structure, and poetic is influential in this first poem and throughout the book.  Thomas tried in various ways to differentiate himself from the other poet, and to deny his influence, and I will show some ways in which he tried to do this.

(Eliot and Auden are not the only influences to be seen in these poems.  Although I don’t discuss it in this essay, there is also the significant influence of Shakespeare, particularly Hamlet, which can be seen in the scansions and rhythms of the lines, and sometimes more:  Consider a possible ancestry of “If I were ticked by the rub of love” as being Hamlet’s “Ay, there’s the rub” from the great “To be or not to be” soliloquy.)

I want to be clear about this.  These other items and authors do not create the poems, and they are not the motive or the force that makes the poem in the end definitive for its author and for us; and there is in any case no reason for them to be acknowledged, either in the poem or anywhere else, after the poem is completed.  Think of their relationship to the poem, if you will, as similar to that of the angel that appeared to Caedmon and ordered him to sing the creation of the world; after which, following the command, Caedmon sang of the glory of the world, but not of the extraordinary appearance of the angel, whose holy instigating presence we know of only because Bede, the great historian and Doctor of the Church, told us so in his Ecclesiastical History of the English People.


Alfred Janes - Dylan ThomasIt may be helpful here, before we get to the analysis, to remind ourselves of Thomas’ bona fides with respect to the language of poems in general, and then of his language as he saw it in relation to other writers.  For he was serious about his language and his choices, and the poems were not accidental in their parts.  Everything—every image, word, phrase, and syntactical connective—was meant.  Here is an example from a letter to Vernon Watkins, in which he speaks about the necessary language of poetry.  Thomas was 23 at the time of this letter, three years older than when he wrote the “boys of summer” poem.  He was critiquing a poem Watkins had sent him for comments:

All the words [in Watkins’ poem] are lovely but they seem so chosen, not struck out. I can see the sensitive picking of words, but not the strong inevitable pulling that makes a poem an event, a happening, an action perhaps, not a still life or an experience put down…They [the words] seem, as indeed the whole poem seems, to come out of the nostalgia of literature…A motive has been rarefied; it should be made common. I don’t ask you for vulgarity, though I miss it; I think I ask you for a little creative destruction, destructive creation.

I am taken by his phrase about the words needing to seem a “strong inevitable pulling that makes a poem an event, a happening, an action perhaps, not a still life or an experience put down.”  This is as good a description of the authority that a poem’s truth can command as I know, written by someone who clearly understands what that is and why it is important, and why it must always stand in opposition to the “still life or an experience put down.”  Thomas spent many hours working in the service of this vision of truth in poetry, seeking to find it and to make his poems different than those of others writing at the time; his letters are full of references to the insufficiency of the 30’s poems he read, and contain sharp asides on Auden, Spender, Cecil Day-Lewis, and others.  He said, for example, in a 1934 letter to Glyn Jones that “I like to read good propaganda, but the most recent poems of Auden and Day-Lewis seem to me neither good poetry nor propaganda.  A good propagandist needs very little intellectual appeal; and the emotional appeal in Auden wouldn’t raise the corresponding emotion in a tick.”  This is judgment functioning as differentiation, a way of creating a boundary between what he was doing and what they were doing.  Of Spender he wrote, “I find his communism unreal; before a poet can get into contact with society, he must, surely, be able to get into contact with himself, and Spender has only tickled his outside with a feather.”  Again, the judgment, if sincere, can be made only by one who has in fact been in contact with himself; for if this is not a criteria yoked to one’s own aesthetic, then it is fatuous and narcissistically self-indulgent. To say it to another who knows you is to invite rebuke and embarrassment. It may also be worth noting how odd it is to suggest that the reality of communism is only possible to a poet who is truly in contact with himself; as judgment, this overwhelms its occasion.

But Auden, it was Auden he came back to, to both praise and criticize, for Auden was the big one, the one he could measure himself against, the one he could learn from, the one he never wanted to be compared to.  He had to be different.  His vision was different, and he was charting a new way.  And for all his protestations and critiques of Auden, Thomas was influenced by him in ways which he knew and understood and so perhaps thought he must fight against. His literary relationship to the other poet was problematical, even passive-aggressive, at the same time deeply admiring and carefully distant.  You can see it in his piece in  the 1937 New Verse magazine’s salute to the poet: “I sometimes think of Mr. Auden’s poetry as a hygiene, a knowledge and practice, based on a brilliantly prejudiced analysis of contemporary disorders, relating to the preservation and promotion of health, a sanitary science and a flusher of melancholies. I sometimes think of his poetry as a great war, admire intensely the mature, religious, and logical fighter, and deprecate the boy bushranger.”  This is praising, somewhat, but also catty, something one might say of a wartime environmental engineer given to writing with a florid streak who keeps a very neat office.  He says nicer things about Auden in the following paragraph, that he is “wide and deep,” is “potentially productive of greatness” (note that “potentially”!) and that “He makes Mr. Yeats isolation guilty as a trance,” a nice two-fer of a joke.  And then he ends his short piece by congratulating Auden on his 70th birthday—another joke:  Auden at the time was 30 years old.  The young dog keeps jumping forth uninhibited from the 20-something poet and doing something not quite respectable right there in the plain sight of God and man and everyone.

There is one more bit of information that may be useful to know about Thomas’ method of writing.  It also shows his faith in Eliot, for he uses him as an external authority in an appeal to judgment.  In 1933 he wrote to ask Eliot to “corroborate or contradict” a criticism that his poems were products of automatic writing, a charge that had been leveled by Richard Rees.  He says in his cover letter that the “fluency complained of is the result of extraordinary hard work, and, in my opinion, the absence of ‘knotty or bony passages’ is again the result of much energetic labour… and many painful hours spent over the smoothing and removing of the creakiness of conflict.”  Note the distinction here:  it is not the conflict that is being removed by constant work and refinement, only its creakiness.  The high rhetoric of his syntax holds together the otherwise disjunct and warring images and words.  The technique is collage, the labor is to make it all seem both new and inevitable, or in Thomas’ words, “the strong inevitable pulling that makes a poem an event.”


And now, with that mess of conflicting emotions and scenery and explanation as backdrop, it is time to jump into it:  For the first line of “I see the boys of summer in their ruin”—the first line of the first poem of this, his first book—is more or less a mash-up of a line in Auden’s “Consider this and in our time,” from his Poems (published in 1930 with a second revised edition in 1933).  Here is the final stanza, that contains the “ruined boys” line:

Financier, leaving your little room
Where the money is made but not spent,
You’ll need your typist and your boy no more;
The game is up for you and for the others,
Who, thinking, pace in slippers on the lawns
Of College Quad or Cathedral Close,
Who are born nurses, who live in shorts
Sleeping with people and playing fives.
Seekers after happiness, all who follow
The convolutions of your simple wish,
It is later than you think; nearer that day
Far other than that distant afternoon
Amid rustle of frocks and stamping feet
They gave the prizes to the ruined boys.
You cannot be away, then, no
Not though you pack to leave within an hour,
Escaping humming down arterial roads:
The date was yours; the prey to fugues,
Irregular breathing and alternate ascendancies
After some haunted migratory years
To disintegrate on an instant in the explosion of mania
Or lapse for ever into a classic fatigue. 

At first glance, this seems an odd place to find inspiration.  Written in 1930, the poem is oddly dull for the Auden of these years, and to me reads as mechanical, even lusterless.  Auden undertakes this kind of apocalyptic and cynically urban posture so much better in so many of his other poems that this seems not only unfulfilled but unfinished, as everything here, even the cliches, seem weary and not so much placed as dropped here by someone passing by:  “where the money is made but not spent,” “the game is up,” “it is later than you think.”  And the absurdist caricatures of people who “pace in slippers on the lawns,” who are “prey to fugues, / Irregular breathing and alternate ascendancies,” and so forth, seem set here from some other place, a better poem perhaps, or from discarded lines from some other writing.  I can’t imagine that Thomas, so hungry for excellence and so quick to judge his contemporaries, found much to admire in the poem as a whole.  Auden must have agreed, as much of the poem was rewritten for its appearance in his Collected Poems (Vintage, 1991), dropping the financier and the slippers on the lawn and other distracting elements altogether.

And yet, something in this first version caught something in Thomas’ imagination, perhaps the sense in the lines of a remembered generation that judges the present waste of the financier’s world, or perhaps just the phrase.  Something clicked, in any dylan-thomas-portrait-of-welsh-poet-as-young-man-27-october-1914-9-erhc14case, about a world in which they gave “prizes to the ruined boys.”  It may be that a partially realized poem is more inviting to the hungrily creative poet than the completely realized one; one wanders through what might have been without being required to admit to full accomplishment, with the prohibitions to sharing that a finished object would bring.  From this partially realized effort, in any case, license was loosely taken to move from the “prizes to the ruined boys” to “the summer boys in their ruin,”  which may not be so great a psychic distance.  And perhaps there was something else creatively appealing in Auden’s theme of the ruin of the financier and his world, that made him think about what the prize-winning ruined boy became, or to wonder what ruined the boy to begin with.  Possibly it was this sense of a lost world in the Auden poem taken into his own language and vision that prompted the concluding lines of the poem’s first section:

I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its heats;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

There are other echoes from Auden in this poem and in this book.  Some have suggested, for example, that the line in the first stanza about cargoes apples may reflect, in addition to market practices, the influence of Auden’s line, “Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,” from the villanelle “Paysage Moralisé.” There may also be learning structural techniques from poems such as “It was Easter as I walked in the public gardens,” or “The Witnesses.”  For our purposes it is enough to say from the evidence that Thomas read Auden’s poems thoroughly and in depth, and found in one of them a line that created a response or variation—created something that was transubstantiated by the poetic imagination to the new thing.

Now I need to add this cautionary note:  That this is poetry, and involves people, and so there is no one-to-one correspondence, no argument being made that Auden’s dross became Thomas’ gold.  We are all of us more complex than that, and God knows, poetry is more complex.  Nor is this some kind of argument about Bloomian “influence,” or outright theft or even a more subtle borrowing; Auden’s ruined boys do not “become” Thomas’ “boys of summer.”  Rather the imagination of the poet encountered something that set it working on this image of ruined boys and this context or narrative of the poem until it became something else in this new poem.  To return to an earlier image I used to describe this process, the Auden line is the grain of sand that becomes the line of poetry that launches in the first line of this other poem.


As for structure and aesthetic of this and other Thomas poems, I have said that Thomas used T.S. Eliot in defining and validating his approach to poetry.  Consider these two examples from Eliot, both from The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism:

The chief use of the “meaning” of a poem, in the ordinary sense, may be (for here again I am speaking for some kinds of poetry and not all) to satisfy one habit of the reader, to keep his mind diverted and quiet, while the poem does its work upon him:  much as the imaginary burglar is always provided with a bit of nice meat for the house-dog.  This is a normal situation of which I approve…  

What I call the “auditory imagination” is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word; sinking to the most primitive and forgotten, returning to the origin and bringing something back, seeking the beginning and the end.  It works through meanings, certainly, or not without meanings in the ordinary sense, and fuses the old and obliterated and the trite, the current, and the new and surprising, the most ancient and the most civilized mentality.  

And this from Thomas, in a 1934 letter to Glyn Jones:

Remember Eliot:  “The chief use of ‘meaning’ of a poem, in the ordinary sense, may be to satisfy one habit of the reader, to keep his mind diverted and quiet, while the poem does its work upon him.”  And again:  “Some poets, asking that there are others minds like their own, become impatient of this ‘meaning’ which seems superfluous, and perceive possibilities of intensity though its elimination’….

It is interesting that these are the parts of Eliot’s writings that Thomas chooses to retain and quote to others.  I believe, as explained above, that he read deeply in Eliot and used him to justify and validate his method, that he needed Eliot because of the way he works, from the words up to the image and then to the poem as a whole:  He works, that is, at the level of the poetry, not that of the narrative or of the poem.  This methodology allows him to bind the pieces of his poem together at the syntactic or rhetorical level, finding and sometimes creating the hidden connections between the images and the lines that will exist once stated and brought into the light.  The poem is thus assembled piece by piece, collage-fashion.  Narrative, he says in “Replies to an Enquiry” (In Quite Early One Morning, New Directions, 1968), is essential:

Much of the flat, abstract poetry of the present has no narrative movement, no movement at all, and is consequently dead. There must be a progressive line, or theme, of movement in every poem. The more subjective a poem, the clearer the narrative line. Narrative, in its widest sense, satisfies what Eliot, talking of “meaning,” calls “one habit of the reader.” Let the narrative take that one logical habit of the reader along with its movement, and the essence of the poem will do its work on him. 

Note the distinction:  Narrative is the instrument that works upon the reader while the “essence of the poem” does its work on him, suggesting that narrative is not the essence.  That essence is the thing that Thomas learned from or had confirmed by Eliot, and which is described as the “auditory imagination” in the quote above.  The phrase is from Eliot’s essay about Matthew Arnold.  Eliot admired Arnold’s The Study of Poetry, but demurred from the other’s description of the “life” of a poem.  He thought that it did not go deep enough, an infirmity, as he saw it, so serious as to render judgment on the great Victorian:  “He had no real serenity, only an implacable demeanor.”  This is a devastating judgment by itself, but Eliot went further, saying that he sensed a lack of confidence and conviction in Arnold, tied to this imperfect sense of the life of a poem.  You can see why Thomas would have found the quote and the sense of poetry it offered so appealing, to say nothing of the judgment in those lines.


A quick note on the structure of the poem.  It is in three parts.  The first part is a speaker talking about the boys of summer, which ends with ice.  In the second section the boys speak, who “ring the stars,” and who after experience and thoughts of love and a description of acts of masturbation, find ability to “hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,” which is an image of birth, and who therefore view themselves as “poles of promise.”  The exuberance of the imagery in this section almost offsets the thematic images of sterility.  The final section is just one stanza, a dialogue of alternating lines that calls out the lie of all the rest pf what has gone before in two devastating lines:  “I am the man your father was. / We are the sons of flint and pitch.”

Each section is complex and rich with image and cross-talk.  Each stanza and each section is held together by various devices.  Within the stanzas we find that the lines scan and are bound aurally by half-rhymes and consonant rhymes, by a syntax that almost but never quite coheres in the kind of sentence structures we are used to, but flies off with undefined referents and apposite clauses.  Each section ends with a parallel structure:

O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.

Promise joins ruin: The boy is the promise until he becomes the man, at which point destiny limits all choices, and each person enacts the life that has gone before.  This is the point at which the poles of life kiss as they cross.

This is an incredible, masterful, wonderful poem, fun to read at the level of the “auditory imagination,” and even more fun to listen to in readings by Thomas and also, in an amazing reading by Richard Burton.  Each reading tells us something new about the poem.  Each approach releases something else in the magic of this classic poem, and of the poems in this book.  Read them yourself and experience how the power and the magic of these poems remains so fresh and overwhelming, despite many readings.  Something always comes and surprises.


I have several debts to pay for sources and authors who helped me along the way or suggested readings and interpretations for this essay.  They are John Goodby, Under the Spelling Wall (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2013); Seamus Heaney, “Dylan the Durable? On Dylan Thomas,” (Salmagundi No. 100, Fall 1993); William York Tindall, A Reader’s Guide to Dylan Thomas (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc., 1962); New Verse, “Auden Double Number,” November 1937; Adam Kirsch, “Reckless Endangerment The making and unmaking of Dylan Thomas,” The New Yorker, July 5, 2004; Andrew Lycett, Dylan Thomas: A New Life (Overlook, 2003); The Poems of Dylan Thomas, ed. and intro Daniel Jones (New Directions, 1971) and The Notebooks of Dylan Thomas, ed. and intro Ralph Maud (New Directions, 1966).  For quotes from or about Auden, I have used the wonderful The English Auden Poems, Essays and Dramatic Writings 1927-1939 ed and intro Edward Mendelson (Faber and Faber, 1977).  The T.S. Eliot quotes are from Selected Essays (Harcourt Brace 1932) and The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism (Faber, 1933).