Tuned and Under Tension: The Recent Poetry of W.D. Snodgrass

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Philip Raisor
University of Delaware Press, 1998 - 174 ページ
Now an emeritus professor of English at the University of Delaware, W. D. Snodgrass is the author of nine books of poetry. His volume Heart's Needle won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1960.
Most of the previous critical work on W. D. Snodgrass concentrates on his early period. These new essays, by both established and emerging scholars, constitute a close reading of the later poetry, principally Midnight Carnival, The Death of Cock Robin, Each in His Season, and The Fuehrer Bunker. The collection also contains the first interview with Snodgrass conducted after the publication of the new Bunker in 1995.
The essays provide insightful and often witty responses to Snodgrass's taut, musical, and carefully formed volumes.

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目次

Foreword
9
Introduction
17
W D Snodgrasss The Death
26
The Spectacles of Wit in W D Snodgrasss Recent Poetry
43
The Artist
61
The Music of Each in His Season
72
A Poet for All Seasons
88
An Interview
105
Ordinary Evil
116
The Morality of History in The Fuehrer Bunker
137
W D Snodgrass Walt Whitman
152
Contributors
169
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152 ページ - I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
165 ページ - I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
80 ページ - Tutor'd by thee, hence poetry exalts Her voice to ages; and informs the page With music, image, sentiment, and thought, Never to die...
161 ページ - ... here. I tricked My keepers, stole my own car, my driver Jung. He tried to scold me; He was too Proud of me. Today He ordered me to leave, To go back to the mountain. I refused. I have refused to save my own life and He, In public, He kissed me on the mouth. For me to take For all the boys to see. Once more I have won, won out over Him Who spoke one word and whole populations vanished. Until today, in public, we were good friends. He is mine. No doubt I did only what He wanted; no doubt I should...
10 ページ - A POET WRITES always of his personal life, in his finest work out of its tragedy, whatever it be, remorse, lost love, or mere loneliness; he never speaks directly as to someone at the breakfast table, there is always a phantasmagoria.
10 ページ - a nerve o'er which do creep the else unfelt oppressions of this earth,' or Byron when 'the soul wears out the breast' as 'the sword outwears its sheath,' he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.
158 ページ - Magda gave each child an ampule of potassium cyanide from a spoon.) This is the needle that we give Soldiers and children when they live Near the front in primitive Conditions or real dangers; This is the spoon we use to feed Men trapped in trouble or in need, When weakness or bad luck might lead Them to the hands of strangers. This is the room where you can sleep Your sleep out, curled up under deep Layers of covering that will keep You safe till all harm's past. This is the bed where you can rest...
150 ページ - ... away; check your manicure; Pull on your gloves. Take time; make sure The hat brim curves though the hat's straight. Give her your arm. Let the fools wait; They act like they've someplace to go. Take the stairs, now. Self-control. Slow. A slight limp; just enough to see, Pass on, and infect history. The rest is silence. Left like sperm In a stranger's gut, waiting its term, Each thought, each step lies; the roots spread. They'll believe in us when we're dead. When we took "Red Berlin" we found...
49 ページ - But even their names were to be made a-new, Who could not but create them all, from you? He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat, Would call you more...
77 ページ - SNOW SONGS one. now another, one more, some again; then done, though others run down your windshield when up ahead a sudden swirl and squall comes on like moths, mayflies in a swarm against your lights, a storm of small fry, seeds, unknown species, populations — every one particular and special; each one melting, breaking, hurling on into the blank black, soon never to be seen again, most never seen, all, gone. 11. First, the exhausted, brown leaves, then the snow comes down the way a year's change...

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