Imatge de l'autor

Louise Bogan (1897–1970)

Autor/a de The Blue Estuaries: Poems: 1923-1968

20+ obres 464 Membres 3 Ressenyes 5 preferits

Sobre l'autor

The cowinner with Leonie Adams of the Bollingen Prize in poetry (1954), Louise Bogan also won the Academy of American Poets Fellowship (1959) and the Brandeis Prize for poetry (1961). Her Achievement in American Poetry, 1900-1950 (1950) is a spirited book of criticism. For many years Bogan was the mostra'n més poetry critic for the New Yorker magazine. Bogan died in 1970. (Bowker Author Biography) mostra'n menys

Inclou el nom: BOGAN LOUISE

Crèdit de la imatge: Louise Bogan, ca. 1920 [source: Curt Alexander (dies 1920), her husband]

Obres de Louise Bogan

Obres associades

L'educació sentimental (1869) — Introducció, algunes edicions4,249 exemplars
The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms (2000) — Col·laborador — 1,267 exemplars
Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, and Drama (1995) — Col·laborador, algunes edicions926 exemplars
The Glass Bees (1957) — Traductor, algunes edicions491 exemplars
World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time (1998) — Col·laborador — 450 exemplars
A Pocket Book of Modern Verse (1954) — Col·laborador, algunes edicions446 exemplars
Written by Herself, Volume I: Autobiographies of American Women (1992) — Col·laborador — 429 exemplars
Cries of the Spirit: A Celebration of Women's Spirituality (2000) — Col·laborador — 373 exemplars
The Penguin Book of Women Poets (1978) — Col·laborador — 298 exemplars
The 40s: The Story of a Decade (2014) — Col·laborador — 277 exemplars
The Sorrows of Young Werther / Novella (1971) — Traductor, algunes edicions225 exemplars
Short Stories from The New Yorker, 1925 to 1940 (1940) — Col·laborador — 202 exemplars
American Religious Poems: An Anthology (2006) — Col·laborador — 163 exemplars
A Comprehensive Anthology of American Poetry (1929) — Col·laborador — 129 exemplars
No More Masks! An Anthology of Poems by Women (1973) — Col·laborador — 124 exemplars
Twentieth-Century American Poetry (1777) — Col·laborador — 98 exemplars
The Poet's Work: 29 Poets on the Origins and Practice of Their Art (1979) — Col·laborador — 89 exemplars
The Everyman Anthology of Poetry for Children (1994) — Col·laborador — 72 exemplars
Gods and Mortals: Modern Poems on Classical Myths (1684) — Col·laborador — 69 exemplars
American Sonnets: An Anthology (2007) — Col·laborador — 66 exemplars
The Vintage Book of American Women Writers (2011) — Col·laborador — 57 exemplars
An American Omnibus (1933) — Col·laborador — 31 exemplars
60 Years of American Poetry (1996) — Col·laborador — 28 exemplars
Poetry in Crystal (1963) — Col·laborador — 15 exemplars
Gender in Modernism: New Geographies, Complex Intersections (2007) — Col·laborador — 12 exemplars
Twenty-Three Modern Stories (1963) — Col·laborador — 4 exemplars

Etiquetat

Coneixement comú

Data de naixement
1897-08-11
Data de defunció
1970-02-04
Gènere
female
Nacionalitat
USA
Lloc de naixement
Livermore Falls, Maine, USA
Lloc de defunció
New York, New York, USA
Llocs de residència
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
New York, New York, USA
Panama Canal Zone
Vienna, Austria
Educació
Girls' Latin School
Boston University
Professions
poet
poetry reviewer
translator
autobiographer
poet laureate
Organitzacions
American Academy of Arts and Letters (Literature ∙ 1952)
The New Yorker
Premis i honors
Bollingen Prize (1955)
Fellowship of the Academy of American Poets (1959)
Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (1945-1946)
American Academy of Arts and Letters Academy Award (Literature, 1951)
Biografia breu
Louise Bogan was born in Livermore Falls, Maine. During her childhood, the family moved throughout Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts, where her father worked for paper mills and bottling factories. She was able to attend the Girls’ Latin School in Boston, which led to the opportunity to attend Boston University. In 1916, she dropped out of college after her freshman year and gave up a scholarship to Radcliffe to marry Curt Alexander, a soldier in the U.S. Army. The couple had a daughter but the marriage ended in 1918. Louise moved to New York to pursue a career in writing. She became friends with other writers such as Margaret Mead, Malcolm Cowley, Léonie Adams, William Carlos Williams, Conrad Aiken, and Edmund Wilson.
Her first book of poetry, Body of This Death: Poems, was published in 1923. That year she met Raymond Holden, a poet and novelist, whom she married in 1925; they divorced in 1937. Her second book of poetry, Dark Summer: Poems, appeared in 1929. She was hired as the poetry critic for The New Yorker, where she remained for nearly 40 years. She also translated works by Jünger, Goethe, and Renard. In 1945, she was appointed the fourth Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress. A volume of her collected works, The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968, was published shortly before her death. Her autobiography, Journey Around My Room, appeared in 1980.

Membres

Ressenyes

I don't particularly love Louise Bogan's poetry. It is often melodramatic and overlong for my tastes, and there is a very limited range of tone and imagery apparent in the poems. When the poems focus on a simple subject or something really timeless, they shine. Even though I wasn't knocked out by the collection in general, I still found myself saving many more poems from this collection than I usually do. There is often a single great line in these poems that makes an otherwise mediocre piece meaningful.

KNOWLEDGE

Now that I know
How passion warms little
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle, —

I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.

PORTRAIT

She has no need to fear the fall
Of harvest from the laddered reach
Of orchards, nor the tide gone ebbing
From the steep beach.

Nor hold to pain's effrontery
Her body's bulwark, stern and savage,
Nor be a glass, where to forsee
Another's ravage.

What she has gathered, and what lost,
She will not find to lose again.
She is possessed by time, who once
Was loved by men.

THE ROMANTIC

Admit the ruse to fix and name her chaste
With those who sleep the spring through, one and one,
Cool nights, when laurel builds up, without haste,
Its precise flower, like a pentagon.

In her obedient breast, all that ran free
You thought to bind, like echoes in a shell.
At the year's end, you promised, it would be
The unstrung leaves, and not her heart, that fell.

So the year broke and vanished on the screen
You cast about her; summer went to haws.
This, by your leave, is what she should have been, —
Another man will tell you what she was.


MY VOICE NOT BEING PROUD

My voice, not being proud
Like a strong woman's, that cries
Imperiously aloud
That death disarm her, lull her —
Screams for no mourning color
Laid menacingly, like fire,
Over my long desire.
It will end, and leave no print.
As you lie, I shall lie:
Separate, eased, and cured.
Whatever is wasted or wanted
In this country of glass and flint
Some garden will use, once planted.
As you lie alone, I shall lie,
O, in singleness assured,
Deafened by mire and lime.
I remember, while there is time.


STATUE AND BIRDS

Here, in the withered arbor, like the arrested wind,
Straight sides, carven knees,
Stands the statue, with hands flung out in alarm
Or remonstrances.

Over the lintel sway the woven bracts of the vine
In a pattern of angles.

The quill of the fountain falters, woods rake on the sky
Their brusque tangles.

The birds walk by slowly, circling the marble girl,
The golden quails,

The pheasants closed up in their arrowy wings.
Dragging their sharp tails.

The inquietudes of the sap and of the blood are spent.
What is forsaken will rest.

But her heel is lifted, — she would flee, — the whistle of the birds
Fails on her breast.


EPITAPH FOR A ROMANTIC WOMAN

She has attained the permanence
She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.
Untended stalks blow over her
Even and swift, like young men running.

Always in the heart she loved
Others had lived, — she heard their laughter.
She lies where none has lain before,
Where certainly none will follow after.


THE ALCHEMIST

I burned my life, that I might find
A passion wholly of the mind,
Thought divorced from eye and bone,
Ecstasy come to breath alone.
I broke my life, to seek relief
From the flawed light of love and grief.

With mounting beat the utter fire
Charred existence and desire.
It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
I had found unmysterious flesh —
Not the mind's avid substance — still
Passionate beyond the will.

THE CROWS

The woman who has grown old
And knows desire must die,
Yet turns to love again,
Hears the crows' cry.

She is a stem long hardened,
A weed that no scythe mows.
The heart's laughter will be to her
The crying of the crows.

Who slide in the air with the same voice
Over what yields not, and what yields,
Alike in spring, and when there is only bitter
Winter-burning in the fields.

SONG

Love me because I am lost;
Love me that I am undone.
That is brave, — no man has wished it.
Not one.
Be strong, to look on my heart
As others look on my face.
Love me, — I tell you that it is a ravaged
Terrible place.

THE CHANGED WOMAN

The light flower leaves its little core
Begun upon the waiting bough.
Again she bears what she once bore
And what she knew she re-learns now.

The cracked glass fuses at a touch.
The wound heals over, and is set
In the whole flesh, and is not much
Quite to remember or forget.

Rocket and tree, and dome and bubble
Again behind her freshened eyes
Are treacherous. She need not trouble.
Her lids will know them when she dies.

And while she lives, the unwise, heady
Dream, ever denied and driven,
Will one day find her bosom ready, —
That never thought to be forgiven.

FIFTEENTH FAREWELL

You may have all things from me, save my breath.
The slight life in my throat will not give pause
For your love, nor your loss, nor any cause.
Shall I be made a panderer to death,
Dig the green ground for darkness underneath,
Let the dust serve me, covering all that was
With all that will be? Better, from time's claws,
The hardened face under the subtle wreath.

Cooler than stones in wells, sweeter, more kind
Than hot, perfidious words, my breathing moves
Close to my plunging blood. Be strong, and hang
Unriven mist over my breast and mind.
My breath! We shall forget the heart that loves,
Though in my body beat its blade, and its fang.

I erred, when I thought loneliness the wide
Scent of mown grass over forsaken fields,
Or any shadow isolation yields.
Loneliness was the heart within your side.
Your thought, beyond my touch, was tilted air
Ringed with as many borders as the wind.
How could I judge you gentle or unkind
When all bright flying space was in your care?
Now that I leave you, I shall be made lonely
By simple empty days, — never that chill
Resonant heart to strike between my arms
Again, as though distraught for distance, — only
Levels of evening, now, behind a hill,
Or a late cock-crow from the darkening farms.

SONNET
Since you would claim the sources of my thought
Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed,
The reedy traps which other hands have timed
To close upon it. Conjure up the hot
Blaze that it cleared so cleanly, or the snow
Devised to strike it down. It will be free.
Whatever nets draw in to prison me
At length your eyes must turn to watch it go.
My mouth, perhaps ', may learn one thing too well,
My body hear no echo save its own,
Yet will the desperate mind, maddened and proud,
Seek out the storm, escape the bitter spell
That we obey, strain to the wind, be thrown
Straight to its freedom in the thunderous cloud.
… (més)
 
Marcat
wishanem | May 27, 2021 |
Louise Bogan (1897-1970) reviewed poetry and writing. Reviews that appeared in the New Yorker from 1931 through 1968 are collected and republished here. Although botn in Maine, she lived most of her adult life quietly in New York City, surrounded by books.

She reviewed major anthologies, and minor clerihews of Auden.[50] She publicized the obscure and revealed the truth about the notorious. Shen notes that recent discoveries of cave paintings has carried our knowledge back to neolithic threshholds [319], and notes that a contemporary encyclopedia of mythology has "played down" the shocking features of ancient myths--notably the homosexuality and incest. [319]

She finds the gratitude Ezra Pound expressed to the Negro soldier who secretly made him a desk out of a packing box on which he wrote the Pisan Cantos drawn out "offen th' ground". [339]
… (més)
½
 
Marcat
keylawk | Jan 7, 2013 |
Beautiful poetry. Sometimes quite challenging, even austere at times, but Bogan's poetry deserves the resurgance in interest it has received
 
Marcat
Poemblaze | Jan 2, 2007 |

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Estadístiques

Obres
20
També de
32
Membres
464
Popularitat
#53,001
Valoració
3.9
Ressenyes
3
ISBN
16
Llengües
1
Preferit
5

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