John Ashbery

John Ashbery is an American poet who was born during the roaring twenties into the Modernist Era.
Modernist had questions of impersonality and objectivity, which can be seen in his poem Poem of the New Year.

Poem at the New Year

Once, out on the water in the clear, early nineteenth-century twilight,
you asked time to suspend its flight. If wishes could beget more than sobs,
that would be my wish for you, my darling, my angel. But other
principles prevail in this glum haven, don't they? If that's what it is.

Then the wind fell of its own accord.
We went out and saw that it had actually happened.
The season stood motionless, alert. How still the dropp was
on the burr I know not. I come all
packaged and serene, yet I keep losing things.

I wonder about Australia. Is it anything about Canada?
Do pigeons flutter? Is there a strangeness there, to complete
the one in me? Or must I relearn my filing system?
Can we trust others to indict us
who see us only in the evening rush hour,
and never stop to think? O, I was so bright about you,
my songbird, once. Now, cattails immolated
in the frozen swamp are about all I have time for.
The days are so polarized. Yet time itself is off center.
At least that's how it feels to me.

I know it as well as the streets in the map of my imagined
industrial city. But it has its own way of slipping past.
There was never any fullness that was going to be;
you waited in line for things, and the stained light was
impenitent. 'Spiky' was one adjective that came to mind,

yet for all its raised or lower levels I approach this canal.
Its time was right in winter. There was pipe smoke
in cafés, and outside the great ashen bird
streamed from lettered display windows, and waited
a little way off. Another chance. It never became a gesture. 

At first I hated this poem because of the lack of rhyme scheme thats just boring. But as I continued reading there was one line that really stuck out to me "Can we trust others to indict us who see us only in the evening rush hour, and never stop to think? O, I was so bright about you" I loved this line because everyone is guilty of a little road rage when someone cuts you off to make that turn, someone flys through  yellow, or they ride your tail. But we always assume the worst, that they are jerks and terrible drivers, but we never think of why they are in such a hurry, It could be a life and death situation if you want to go to extremes. We never think externally, all we do is care about ourselves and this line really connected to the modernist ways of writing. Also it connects to the New York School, through  it's interactions between people in the city. I also like how he quoted Gucci Mane by saying "Burr" that was pretty dope. I thought this poem was very imaginative, thunking of what other places in the world looked like, and how they compared to what his life is like. 

Oscar Wilde

The Symbolist era of literature boasted poets ranging from W.B. Yeats to T.S. Eliot to Oscar Wilde. Symbolist poetry relied heavily on aesthetics as symbols (surprise) of the state of the writer’s soul. Initially and on the surface, symbolist poetry doesn’t  appear to have any particular deep meaning, but most symbolist poetry isn’t written merely to describe pretty flowers; it is meant to have a genuine meaning obscured behind that initial layer of crypt. Dreams or dream-like states were featured prominently in symbolist poetry and art, and themes often included a comparison between sleeping and waking life. Symbolist poetry placed beauty and form over any sort of political objective; poets often attempted to make their poems sound “mellifluous” or similar to music.

“Symphony in Yellow” – Oscar Wilde

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Oscar Wilde’s poem “Symphony in Yellow” has plenty of that aestheticism we just talked about. As far as meaning goes, I honestly don’t know. I’m sorry for copping out. 

Barbara Guest

Barbara Guest 1920-2006

Barbara Guest was a member of a group called the New York school of poets, which was heavily influenced by modern art, like surrealism and abstract expressionism. Their works were made based on impulse, much like Jackson Pollock's impulsive art works. Because the New York School poets were influenced by surrealist art, there is a sense of the dream world in Barbara Guest's poem. There are underlying meanings to her words. Her style "often utilizes space as a way to draw attention to language."

"The Blue Stairs" 

There is no fear

in taking the first step

or the second

or the third

                                 having a position

                                 between several Popes

In fact the top

can be reached

without disaster

                                 precocious

The code

consists in noticing

the particular shade

of the staircase

                                 occasionally giving way

                                 to the emotions

It has been chosen

discriminately

To graduate

the dimensions

ease them into sight

                                 republic of space

Radiant deepness

a thumb

passed over it

                                 disarming

                                 as one who executes robbers

Waving the gnats

and the small giants

aside

                                 balancing

How to surprise

a community

by excellence

somehow it occurred

                                 living a public life

The original design

was completed

no one complained

In a few years

it was forgotten

                                 floating

It was framed

like any other work of art

not too ignobly

                                 kicking the ladder away

Now I shall tell you

why it is beautiful

Design: extraordinary

color:    cobalt blue

                                 secret platforms

Heels twist it

into shape

It has a fantastic area

made for a tread

that will ascend

Being humble

i.e. productive

Its purpose

is to take you upward

On an elevator

of human fingerprints

of the most delicate

fixity

Being practical

and knowing its denominator

To push

one foot ahead of the other

Being a composite

which sneers at marble

                                 all orthodox movements

It has discovered

in the creak of a footstep

the humility of sound

Spatially selective

using this counterfeit

of height

To substantiate

a method of progress

Reading stairs

as interpolation

in the problem of gradualness

                                 with heavy and pure logic

The master builder

acknowledges this

As do the artists

in their dormer rooms

                                 eternal banishment

Who are usually grateful

to anyone who prevents them

from taking a false step

And having reached the summit

would like to stay there

even if the stairs are withdrawn

Sorry sorry sorry I know that was long. But as mentioned previously, one of the first outstanding features of the poem is its structure. We can see the impulsivity in her work with the seemingly random arrangement of words. But the words do appear to be in a sort of stair shape, like each new stanza takes a step down, which I think we can assume to be intentional what with the title being "The Blue STAIRS" and all. The influence of abstract expressionism is also very evident in this poem with the sporadic placement of words. It seems like Barbara is just flinging words onto the page randomly just as Pollock would do with his paint. 

So for the poem itself, I think Barbara is mainly just talking about the symbolism of a staircase. Of how it symbolizes progress and ascension to better things in life. I'm sure it goes much deeper than that, but I may have been just the slightest bit thrown off by all the random words and phrases from the right-hand stanzas. 

http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/barbara-guest

Also here's a bit of a Jackson Pollock-the famous Abstract Expressionist- since I mentioned him so many times in this. (Also note the handprints on the top).

Gwendolyn Brooks

SADIE AND MAUD

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.

She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.

Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.

When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)

Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.


Gwendolyn Brooks was an African American poet and a member of the Black Arts Movement. Much of her poetry deals with civil rights issues and involves politically charged energy and intensity characteristic of this particular era. In this poem, entitled "Sadie and Maud," we see the spontaneous, life-living woman contrasted with her sister (presumably), the live-by-the-books woman who ends up "living all alone/In this old house." This could be inferred to represent the various sides of society--Sadie as the modern, independent, and possibly somewhat rebellious end of society as compared to the traditional, more easily scandalized end. Brooks clearly condoned the independence and motivation of the Sadies of society, and likely considered herself one--particularly in regard to civil rights issues.

Ferlinghetti

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/don-t-let-that-horse/

For my poet I basically just chose the person with the coolest sounding name and that happened to be Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He was an American poet born in 1919. His poetic movement was beat poetry. 

Don't let that horse

Don't let that horse
eat that violin

cried Chagall's mother

But he
kept right on
painting

And became famous

And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth

And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across


And there were no strings
attached 

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I think that this poem was talking about how Chagall didn’t listen to what others said and how they said not to do it and he became a successful artist. The poem has not structure or even rhyme scheme. It also feels like a thought straight out of his head, unchanged, unedited. Which I feel is what he thinks people should be. 

Emily Dickinson

She does not look very hopeful.

In the sixth grade Mrs. Sims called me Emily Dickinson because I refused to read my poetry out loud. I was utterly offended but ever since then I have had a small fondness for Emily Dickinson. My sophomore year I was forced to memorize a poem in German but I rebelled and memorized one in English (too). I memorized Hope by Emily Dickinson. Although she wrote most of her poems during the Transcendentalist period, most of her poetry, including Hope, takes the form of the metaphysical period. Metaphysical poets like Andrew Marvel and others enchanted her, and she copied their style with her own “compressed wit and irony.”

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Much of her poetry was influenced by her upbringing in a Puritan New England town that encouraged Calvinist religions. Just like the Calvinist religion, her style tended to be preachy because of the influence the Bible and hymns had on her poetry. This poem also adheres to that structure. She preaches that hope is like a bird that remains at her side through the toughest times, and yet requires nothing of her. Dickinson’s wit shines through with her distinct word choice, especially with the word “abash” in the second stanza—a rather rough choice to describe the bird.

Charles Olson

I chose the poet Charles Olson (1910-1970). He was known as a part of the New American poets, among this group of poets was the Black Mountain School. Black Mountain poets were a group of poets cantered on Black Mountain College, they were also referred to as postmodern poets. The students who attended the Black Mountain College ended up being very influential later. All of the students share an interest in process over product. Olson is most famous for his collection of poems called "The Maximus Poems." There are over 300 so I chose one that I found interesting myself. This poem talks about the process of doing things, not what comes out of it. It talks more about "ingredients" of the products rather than the final product. In some stanzas, it seems as if it almost lists directions. For example, in the 2nd section, it says "the weight say, 58 carats each one of us, perforce our goldsmiths scale feather to feather added..." It is very descriptive, and so are a lot of other poems from this collection and from this time period.


I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You

Off-shore, by islands hidden in the blood
jewels & miracles, I, Maximus
a metal hot from boiling water, tell you
what is a lance, who obeys the figures of
the present dance

1
the thing you’re after
may lie around the bend
of the nest (second, time slain, the bird! the bird!
And there! (strong) thrust, the mast! flight
(of the bird
o kylix, o
Antony of Padua
sweep low, o bless

the roofs, the old ones, the gentle steep ones
on whose ridge-poles the gulls sit, from which they depart,

And the flake-racks
of my city!

2
love is form, and cannot be without
important substance (the weight
say, 58 carats each one of us, perforce
our goldsmith’s scale

feather to feather added
(and what is mineral, what
is curling hair, the string
you carry in your nervous beak, these

make bulk, these, in the end, are
the sum

(o my lady of good voyage
in whose arm, whose left arm rests
no boy but a carefully carved wood, a painted face, a schooner!
a delicate mast, as bow-sprit for

forwarding

3
the underpart is, though stemmed, uncertain
is, as sex is, as moneys are, facts!
facts, to be dealt with, as the sea is, the demand
that they be played by, that they only can be, that they must
be played by, said he, coldly, the
ear!

By ear, he sd.
But that which matters, that which insists, that which will last,
that! o my people, where shall you find it, how, where, where shall you listen
when all is become billboards, when, all, even silence, is spray-gunned?

when even our bird, my roofs,
cannot be heard

when even you, when sound itself is neoned in?

when, on the hill, over the water
where she who used to sing,
when the water glowed,
black, gold, the tide
outward, at evening

when bells came like boats
over the oil-slicks, milkweed
hulls

And a man slumped,
attentionless,
against pink shingles

o sea city)

4
one loves only form,
and form only comes
into existence when
the thing is born

born of yourself, born
of hay and cotton struts,
of street-pickings, wharves, weeds
you carry in, my bird

of a bone of a fish
of a straw, or will
of a color, of a bell
of yourself, torn

5
love is not easy
but how shall you know,
New England, now
that pejorocracy is here, how
that street-cars, o Oregon, twitter
in the afternoon offend
a black-gold loin?

how shall you strike,
o swordsman, the blue-red black
when, last night, your aim
was mu-sick, mu-sick, mu-sick
And not the cribbage game?

(o Gloucester-man,
weave
your birds and fingers
new, your roof-tops,
clean shit upon racks
sunned on
American
braid
with others like you, such
extricable surface
as faun and oral,
satyr lesbos vase

o kill kill kill kill kill
those
who advertise you
out)

6
in! in! the bow-sprit, bird, the beak
in, the bend is, in, goes in, the form
that which you make, what holds, which is
the law of object, strut after strut, what you are, what you must be, what
the force can throw up, can, right now hereinafter erect,
the mast, the mast, the tender
mast!
The nest, I say, to you, I Maximus, say
under the hand, as I see it, over the waters
from this place where I am, where I hear,
can still hear

from where I carry you a feather
as though, sharp, I picked up
in the afternoon delivered you
a jewel,
it flashing more than a wing,
than any old romantic thing,
than memory, than place,
than anything other than that which you carry
than that which is,
call it a nest, around the head of, call it
the next second
than that which you
can do!

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176950

"Digging" by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it. 

Seamus Heaney's poems tended to combine elements from his heritage in northern Ireland and the landscape of the area in order to demonstrate what he thought it meant to be Irish or to be a writer. He reflected his identity through his use of imagery and his description of the rural areas. This can be seen in one of his most popular poems, "Digging" where the speaker talks of what his father and grandmother before him did and are doing, and how that reflects upon himself. He sees his writing as his way of continuing the hard work that his family did themselves. He uses the imagery of his father digging in the garden and the hard work that he puts into it, and then relates it to how he identifies himself, commenting of his writing that he'll "dig with it." In this way he tries to show how he is continuing in the same vein as his forebears - though what he does outwardly is different, he carries the same spirit within him to work.

(I don't suppose I wrote down what type of poet he was, so I simply pointed out what he typically wrote about and how this was one of his typical poems as said by the document, since he was included under "other notable poets" on that sheet)

Also, Seamus Heaney died last year on August 30th, so he's a fairly recent poet. (also it's really sad that he died just last year like wow he did live for 74 years but still man wow death)

Denise Levertov

The poet I chose was one I'd never heard of before (which probably isn't saying much) by the name of Denise Levertov. She was born in 1923, and wrote many books of poetry. The poem I chose is from her book O Taste And See: New Poems, which was published in 1964 and featured a lot of her more feminist writing. The poem is called "The Secret"(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178477):

The Secret

BY DENISE LEVERTOV

Two girls discover   

the secret of life   

in a sudden line of   

poetry.

I who don’t know the   

secret wrote   

the line. They   

told me

(through a third person)   

they had found it

but not what it was   

not even

what line it was. No doubt   

by now, more than a week   

later, they have forgotten   

the secret,

the line, the name of   

the poem. I love them   

for finding what   

I can’t find,

and for loving me   

for the line I wrote,   

and for forgetting it   

so that

a thousand times, till death   

finds them, they may   

discover it again, in other   

lines

in other   

happenings. And for   

wanting to know it,   

for

assuming there is   

such a secret, yes,   

for that   

most of all.

This poem was one I really liked, because it details something I actually do enjoy about poetry. Levertov uses fleeting stanzas and a motif of discovery to emphasize that the best thing about poetry is finding out an important truth over and over again. The stanzas are broken up because it relates back to her message. She enjoys the fact that as a poet, people can find messages even she didn't know were in there, and that even when they discover these truths, they are fleeting; "more than a week / later, they have forgotten / the secret" is, surprisingly, what Levertov loves about writing poetry. The repetition of the word "find" helps emphasize the message as well. The almost excessive use of "find" makes the reader believe that poetry is all about finding, about digging deeper into what subliminal messages could possibly exist. I agree with Levertov on this front, because I think it's cool to see people find things in your writing that you didn't see when you wrote it, whish is why I liked this poem so much.

Robert Creely- "America"

America

America, you ode for reality!
Give back the people you took.

Let the sun shine again
on the four corners of the world

you thought of first but do not
own, or keep like a convenience.

People are your own word, you
invented that locus and term.

Here, you said and say, is
where we are. Give back

what we are, these people you made,
us, and nowhere but you to be. 

Robert Creeley

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/america/

Picture of Robert Creely 

(http://peaceandwarpoetics.wikispaces.com/Robert+Creeley)

Robert Creely is a member of the Black Mountain movement of poetry. The only real criteria of this movement is that the poets were all taught at Black Mountain College in Black Mountain, North Carolina. Also, poems of this period have an focus of process over product. Creely's poem "America" follows along with these requirements; he criticizes the process of the United States government. Lines like "America, you ode for reality" and " People are your own word, you invented that locus and term" show the dislike of America. There are several tones throughout the poem; it is criticizing, demanding, and a little sarcastic. It especially related to the Black Mountain movement because the speaker disapproves of the process of the American government, but not necessarily the product. I believe that he still thinks America is a great country that does lots of great things, but there are fundamental errors within the government that need to be resolved.  

Howl - Allen Ginsberg

The poet I chose was Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) who was part of the Postmodern movement in poetry. His most famous poem, "Howl", I would shave included but it is far too long so you can find the link here.

Postmodernism developed in the second half of the 20th century and shared many of the same concerns and motivations of the modernists. However, they often took these principles to a much different end. Many postmodern poems often feature parody, irony, and narrative instability which inform the tone. Allusions to popular culture are just as likely to be made as allusions to classics. Traditional concepts and forms are often ignored and questioned. There is no unifying theme in the movement, ideas spread across a vast spectrum. And the surface is often more interesting to postmodern artists than any ideas of depth.

Smaller sub-movements within the same time period as the postmodern movement exist but are often in conflict with the postmodern groups. One such group was the Beatniks, of which Ginsberg was part. The Beats were a post-WWII phenomenon and their specific brand of poetry focused more son hallucinogenic, visionary, anti-establishment art. They often del a deep connection to nature and their tone could be anything from satirical to angry, as well as tender and meditative. Another aspect of such poetry was the fact that politics directly informed many of these poets, either through specific references to gov. members or to issues of importance.

"Howl" is a great example of postmodern poetry because of the very fact that the US government considered this work of poetry obscene and believed that it should be kept out of public hands. Another reason as to why this poem falls under the postmodern label (although many 'postmodern' poets fervently rejected that label) is because of the topics it covers. These topics include madness, sex, drugs, politics, war, religion, and so on (making it clear as to why the gov. wanted this poem out of public eyes.) Among those topics, a strong emphasis is placed on madness. Ginsberg describes madness in such a way that it seems to be an elevated hallucinogenic state with terrifying visions. Further, it is Ginsberg's form that also enhance that theme. Howl discomposed of three sections (each focusing on a different topic)  and 112 lines, however his actual sentences form more of prose paragraphs than actual sentences. Thus, this tendency to create run-on sentences that resembles strings of thoughts also demonstrates just how postmodern this poem is. Sporadically placed about are images of dreams and madness and the destruction of "the best minds" of [his] generation -- all of which amounts to the postmodern practice of having no real center in poetry.

John Dryden

John Dryden

1631-1700

Marriage a-la-Mode

Why should a foolish marriage vow,

         Which long ago was made,

Oblige us to each other now

         When passion is decay'd?

We lov'd, and we lov'd, as long as we could,

         Till our love was lov'd out in us both:

But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:

         'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

If I have pleasures for a friend,

         And farther love in store,

What wrong has he whose joys did end,

         And who could give no more?

'Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me,

         Or that I should bar him of another:

For all we can gain is to give our selves pain,

         When neither can hinder the other.

 

John Dryden is considered one of the greatest poets and playwrights of the 17th century. As a poet he is most famous for his satirical poems, however his poem Marriage a-la-Mode fits under both categories of Augustan poetry, satire and politics. First, the title, "Marriage a-la-Mode," is satirical because we mostly use the phrase "a-la-mode" to mean without sides, or by itself when ordering a meal, however he uses it in reference to a marriage. The poem in it's entirety addresses a political and religious debate, that of marriage and divorce and why people stay together when they do not love each other.

Jesus and Pilate

Jesus was taken before the Roman governor Pontius Pilate to be judged. The people accused Jesus of calling himself the Son of God and called for his execution. Pilate interrogated Jesus, but Jesus did not respond to his questions. Jesus told Pilate he was the king of the Jews and that he had come to testify to the truth, to which Pilate responded “what is truth?” He sent Jesus to be judged by Herod, but Herod found no fault with him, so he sent Jesus back. Conflicted, Pilate asked the people what he should do with Jesus, as he had found he’d done nothing wrong. The people asked that Jesus be crucified. Pilate did not want to do this, and asked the people if they would not have him release Jesus instead of Barabbas, a murderer whom the people had asked to be released. Pilate intended to have Jesus flogged then released, but the people continued to shout, “crucify him.” Three times Pilate asked the people if crucifixion was truly what they wanted, and all three times they answered yes, so Pilate delivered Jesus to be flogged then crucified.

 

When I hear the word “judgment,” I think of the ways people judge each other by their exterior, often unfairly. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself that sometimes it seems that there’s no way any of us can escape from judgment. It’s no wonder the phrase “don’t judge me” is as ubiquitous as it is. It seems almost instinctive to human beings to put labels on people based on how they talk, how they dress, what they do for a living, etc. We take what we see on the surface to make quick generalizations about people to save the brainpower we might need to see people from a wider perspective. For example, we’re quick to judge people who might not seem as academically-oriented as us, but rarely do we stop to think about what a person’s life might be like at home or otherwise that they can’t always put academics first. We’re trained, in the true American spirit of capitalism, to judge people for not working jobs we consider respectable and high-paying. Fortunately I think with some reflection we can begin to see people for who they really are at their core rather than pass judgment on them based on external qualities.

H.D.

Helen

All Greece hates   

the still eyes in the white face,   

the lustre as of olives   

where she stands,   

and the white hands.   

All Greece reviles   

the wan face when she smiles,   

hating it deeper still   

when it grows wan and white,   

remembering past enchantments   

and past ills.   

Greece sees unmoved,   

God’s daughter, born of love,   

the beauty of cool feet   

and slenderest knees,   

could love indeed the maid,   

only if she were laid,   

white ash amid funereal cypresses.

 

H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), “Helen” from Collected Poems 1912-1944. Copyright © 1982 by The Estate of Hilda Doolittle. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175877#poem


All of Hilda Doolittle's poetry gets at the heart of Modernism. In fact, she and Ezra Pound founded a new strand of Modernism known as the Imagist movement. A reaction against Gregorian Romanticism, the first line of the Imagist manifesto, "To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word," sought out the economy of the word. The ideas of the Imagest movement added to the elements of Modernism in H.D.'s poetry. A champion of women's rights and lover of mythology, H.D. wrote often of Helen of Troy. Although this poem is written in the perspective of the Greeks, a longer poem by H.D., Helen of Egypt,  is written in Helen's own perspective. She tackles two of the modernist traits in this poem by taking on allusions, to the Greeks and the woman who started the Trojan War, as well as the idea of seeing the world in as many ways as possible. It is evident after reading the poem that the Greeks feel no love for "the face that launched a thousand ships", however as it explains to us that hate, the reader, feel for her. She is hated by her own country, only to be loved if she is dead, despite any remorse she may feel. The language is spare, as is the meter, as H.D. stays true to her imagist form.

A picture of H.D.

"To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word." - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5658#sthash.JXqkHpJc.dpuf

"To use the language of common speech, but to employ always the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word." - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5658#sthash.JXqkHpJc.dpuf

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 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 because 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 something 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--
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 poets 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 the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry. 

Marianne Moore

I couldn't get the document to pull up on mine so I just researched it myself. Modernist poetry was mostly in Europe and North America and was basically just a break away from traditional poetry. This poem has basically no set structure. It doesn't have any type of rhyme scheme or set rhythm. Each of the stanzas are basically shaped the same but that's about it. It also seems to just be a flow of consciousness not really being separated by sentence or thought.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marianne_Moore

William Wordsworth--Lucy

Lucy by William Wordsworth I.

 

Strange fits of passion have I known:

And I will dare to tell,

But in the lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

 

When she I loved look'd every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening moon.

 

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

 

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;

And, as we climb'd the hill,

The sinking moon to Lucy's cot

Came near and nearer still.

 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

And all the while my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

 

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof

He raised, and never stopp'd:

When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright moon dropp'd.

 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a lover's head!

'O mercy!' to myself I cried,

'If Lucy should be dead!'

 

II.

 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

 

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

 

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!

 

III.

 

I travell'd among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

 

Among the mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel

Beside an English fire.

 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd,

The bowers where Lucy play'd;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

 

IV.

 

Three years she grew in sun and shower;

Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

 

'Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse; and with me

The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

 

'She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

 

'The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

 

'The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

 

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.'

 

Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

 

V.

 

A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

 

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth's series of poems about Lucy, the girl whom he loved, most certainly qualify as poems representative of the Romantic era. The primary quality of this period was the perfection, the divinity, that could be found in the ordinary parts of life; the poets felt that they had transcended past the tedious normality of life. In this poem, Wordsworth writes lovingly and longingly about his Lucy, who evidently lived remotely enough that people rarely go to her and that "few could know when Lucy ceased to be." Through this, we understand her lack of grandeur, her simplicity, and it gives more meaning to his great love for her because he believes that she is extraordinary. Additionally, we are given much information regarding the rural environment in which she lived; Wordsworth wrote that he rode to her frequently and that "those paths [were] so dear" to him, most likely because he came to associate them with her much-loved company. The entire poem has a melancholic and awestruck tone to it, as if it was slightly painful to write of such a thing, and yet some form of closure at the same time. The sight of the extraordinary in the generally ordinary, along with the thorough description of the bucolic life, are signs that are most indicative of the Romantic era of poetry.