Louise Bogan (1897–1970)
Autor de The Blue Estuaries: Poems: 1923-1968
Sobre El 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 mostrar más poetry critic for the New Yorker magazine. Bogan died in 1970. (Bowker Author Biography) mostrar menos
Créditos de la imagen: Louise Bogan, ca. 1920 [source: Curt Alexander (dies 1920), her husband]
Obras de Louise Bogan
Emily Dickinson: three views 3 copias
Conversation Piece 2 copias
Dark Summer 2 copias
Poems and New Poems 2 copias
Sleeping Fury 1 copia
July Dawn 1 copia
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American Poetry: The Twentieth Century, Volume Two: E. E. Cummings to May Swenson (2000) — Contribuidor — 407 copias
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Writing Women's Lives: An Anthology of Autobiographical Narratives by Twentieth-Century American Women Writers (1994) — Contribuidor — 121 copias
The Poet's Work: 29 Poets on the Origins and Practice of Their Art (1979) — Contribuidor — 88 copias
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Etiquetado
Conocimiento común
- Fecha de nacimiento
- 1897-08-11
- Fecha de fallecimiento
- 1970-02-04
- Género
- female
- Nacionalidad
- USA
- Lugar de nacimiento
- Livermore Falls, Maine, USA
- Lugar de fallecimiento
- New York, New York, USA
- Lugares de residencia
- Boston, Massachusetts, USA
New York, New York, USA
Panama Canal Zone
Vienna, Austria - Educación
- Girls' Latin School
Boston University - Ocupaciones
- poet
poetry reviewer
translator
autobiographer
poet laureate - Organizaciones
- American Academy of Arts and Letters (Literature ∙ 1952)
The New Yorker - Premios y honores
- 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) - Biografía breve
- 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.
Miembros
Reseñas
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]… (más)
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]… (más)
Beautiful poetry. Sometimes quite challenging, even austere at times, but Bogan's poetry deserves the resurgance in interest it has received
Listas
Premios
También Puede Gustarte
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Estadísticas
- Obras
- 20
- También por
- 32
- Miembros
- 464
- Popularidad
- #53,001
- Valoración
- 3.9
- Reseñas
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- ISBNs
- 16
- Idiomas
- 1
- Favorito
- 5
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.… (más)