(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night )
Once, in finesse of fiddles I found ecstasy,
In a flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth`s the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star – eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.
~~ T.E. Hulme ~~
T.E. Hulme was born in 1883, and was one of those edgy bohemian types, along with, Ezra Pound, F.S. Flint and Edward Storer who changed the face of poetry for good. They were fledgling imagists who rebelled against set metres and rhyme, which had been established in English poetry since the 16th century; for them, Romanticism was sliding down the greasy pole of yesterday`s news, and they wanted something new, fresh and invigorating. And so “The School…
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For one of my poetry classes, we have been reading John Felstiner’s Can Poetry Save the Earth. In preparation for a Skype session with Felstiner on Monday night, he sent us a list of poems he wanted us to consider, along with some questions about each. In regards to William Carlos Williams’ infamous “The Red Wheelbarrow,” he asked the simple question: “How much depends, and why?” I’m a ramble-thinker. I blab & (attempt to) condense, so welcome—my process of figuring out the answer to that question.
The choice of the word “glazed” in particular strikes me as it positions the reader in a very specific relation to both time & weather—two things completely out of our control. The wheelbarrow is not “dripping” or “drenched,” as it would be if it were currently raining, yet it’s not “dry” or even just “damp” as though the rain’s been over for…
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