Visions & Revisions of American Poetry(p)University of Arkansas Press, 1986 - 178 من الصفحات |
المحتوى
| 8 | |
| 16 | |
| 26 | |
| 36 | |
| 43 | |
The American Novelist as Poet | 57 |
The Eve of Modernism | 67 |
The Age of Pound | 79 |
A Modernist Coin | 95 |
The Suspect in Criticism | 104 |
Black Poetry | 116 |
Considering PostModernism | 133 |
Sympathetic Magic | 146 |
Books Cited | 165 |
Other Books of Historical Interest | 169 |
Index | 171 |
طبعات أخرى - عرض جميع المقتطفات
عبارات ومصطلحات مألوفة
abstract academic agonist Aiken amateur Ameri American Poets Anne Bradstreet anthology artist bards began believe Black poetry blues Bodman Bryant burden of tradition consciousness contemporary criticism Dickey Dickinson e. e. cummings early edited egopoetic Eliot Emerson Emersonian Emily Dickinson English essay experience Ezra Pound feminine Freneau Frost genre Howard Nemerov human jazz kind Kreymborg language Leaves of Grass literary literature lived Manoah Bodman Marianne Moore masculine Melville merely metaphor meter mind Modernist musical syntax Naked Poetry narrative never Nigger nineteenth perhaps person Phillis Wheatley Poe Poe Poe poem poetic Pound professional poet prose prosody published reader rhyme romantic scholar sense Singing Strength song sonnet Stevens structure style sympathetic magic T. S. Eliot Tarantara techniques theory things thought tion Transcendental true twentieth century verse viewpoint vision Waggoner Wallace Stevens Waste Land Whitman woman words write poetry written wrote York
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 76 - Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
الصفحة 75 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
الصفحة 126 - Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?
الصفحة 5 - For, it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem, — a thought so passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing.
الصفحة 55 - I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you, I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at,fhy ease observing a spear of summer grass.
الصفحة 52 - If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
الصفحة 37 - He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true ; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown ; He wore a double-breasted vest, The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert ; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.
الصفحة 52 - I smile when you suggest that I delay 'to publish,' that being foreign to my thought as firmament to fin. If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her; if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me then. My barefoot rank is better. You think my gait 'spasmodic.
الصفحة 105 - The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images or tropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long ceased to remind us of their poetic origin.