  Poetry
This week: Marianne Moore Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| I enjoy exploring poets throughout history and sharing them with you. The poets I am going to be sharing in this newsletter are ones that I have found to have interesting lives and often write poems that have changed the way we write poetry now. Stormy Lady |
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Silence
by Marianne Moore
My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
nor the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self reliant like the cat --
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth --
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.
Poetry
by Marianne Moore
I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important
beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it,
one discovers that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not be-
cause a
high sounding interpretation can be put upon them
but because they are
useful; when they become so derivative as to
become unintelligible, the
same thing may be said for all of us – that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand. The bat,
holding on upside down or in quest of some-
thing to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll,
a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a
horse that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician – case after case
could be cited did
one wish it; nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents
and
school-books"; all these phenomena are important.
One must make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half
poets,
the result is not poetry,
nor till the autocrats among us can be
"literalists of
the imagination" – above
insolence and triviality and can present
for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads
in them, shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,
in defiance of their opinion –
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand,
genuine, then you are interested in poetry
On November 15, 1887, in St Louis Missouri, Mary Warner welcomed daughter Marianne Moore into her family. Moore’s father John Moore suffered a nervous breakdown before her birth and she never got to meet him. Moore and her mother lived with her grandfather, John Warner who was a Presbyterian pastor. In 1894 Warner passed away and Moore and her mother moved in with other relatives, the two then moved to Carlisle, Pennsylvania where Moore started college .
In 1911 Moore became a school teacher at Carlisle Indian School. She taught there for four years before moving with her mother to New York City. In New York Moore started writing poetry, as she took at a public library. While working as an assistant at the library Moore meet many influential poets. Moore would send her poetry into the Dail to be published. Eventually she served as acting editor for the magazine for several years. Moore's poems were also published in the Egoist, an English magazine. One of her most recognized poems "Poetry" was first published in 1919. Her first book of poetry was said to be published without knowledge in 1921. In 1924 Moore published Observations.
Over her lifetime Moore published many works such as: Selected Poems in 1935 followed by The Pangolin and Other Verse in 1936. In 1941 she published What Are Years. Then for several years she had publications coming out once a year, 1949 Nevertheless, 1951 Collected Poems, ending with O to Be a Dragon, in 1959. She wrote and published up all the way up to her death. A few of her last publication were: The Accented Syllable, published in 1969 Homage to Henry James, published in 1971.
Moore never married. She lived with her mother until her mother passed away in 1947. Moore was recognized for her work with many honors, Bollingen prize, the National Book Award, and the Pulitzer Prize along with a few more. Moore truly enjoyed watching baseball and shortly after throwing out the first pitch of the 1968 season Moore suffered a stroke. Over the next few years Moore’s health deteriorated and she suffered several other strokes. Moore died February 5, 1972 at 84 years old.
Nevertheless
by Marianne Moore
you've seen a strawberry
that's had a struggle; yet
was, where the fragments met,
a hedgehog or a star-
fish for the multitude
of seeds. What better food
than apple seeds - the fruit
within the fruit - locked in
like counter-curved twin
hazelnuts? Frost that kills
the little rubber-plant -
leaves of kok-sagyyz-stalks, can't
harm the roots; they still grow
in frozen ground. Once where
there was a prickley-pear -
leaf clinging to a barbed wire,
a root shot down to grow
in earth two feet below;
as carrots from mandrakes
or a ram's-horn root some-
times. Victory won't come
to me unless I go
to it; a grape tendril
ties a knot in knots till
knotted thirty times - so
the bound twig that's under-
gone and over-gone, can't stir.
The weak overcomes its
menace, the strong over-
comes itself. What is there
like fortitude! What sap
went through that little thread
to make the cherry red!
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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Each strand of hair,
Entwined with memories
Some wither with poison-
Others reborn as flaming flowers.
With roots towards the sun,
Hunger for light-
A need for gravity,
To piece all the-
Truth and warmth,
From a ruthless battle.
Dear fierce fire,
The fight is over.
What verse shall the silent poet utter?
Fingers tapping along the edge
Of a beautiful beast-
O' you, the lost one
Wandering through the gravel road
Fogs and mist
They know you are cold
Less that is known,
Is that you are never alone.
The sky has reached earth
Shattering into crystals
You walk upon a mirror
And have forgotten the dust,the soil.
Breathing slowly into her,
An existence that melts into poetry
A madness like no other-
Of a restless soul
That sees nothing but estacy.
An expression that knows no boundary.
Another splash onto that canvas
I see blood,you see vast ocean.
Alas,we both know-
Some love creeps out
From the darkest place,
They swell,they strive-
And suddenly they know not-
How to stop.
Dreamscape; a precious illusion,
Art of the divine-
Alive and twirling,
Adventure brewing silently
Seeping potion of magic-
Into her eyes.
They- the wanderer of the world
She- the lover of life
You-the noble lost soul,
Running in circle-
In this cryptic dream.
I -the silent poet-
The creator of this voyage.
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: September 17, 2014 Issue [#6557]
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