After the Death of Poetry: Poet and Audience in Contemporary America

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Duke University Press, 1993 - 209 pagini
In this deft analysis, Vernon Shetley shows how writers and readers of poetry, operating under very different conventions and expectations, have drifted apart, stranding the once-vital poetic enterprise on the distant margins of contemporary culture. Along with a clear understanding of where American poetry stands and how it got there, After the Death of Poetry offers a compelling set of prescriptions for its future, prescriptions that might enable the art to regain its lost stature in our intellectual life.
In exemplary case studies, Shetley identifies the very different ways in which three postwar poets--Elizabeth Bishop, James Merrill, and John Ashbery--try to restore some of the challenge and risk that characterized modernist poetry's relation to its first readers. Sure to be controversial, this cogent analysis offers poets and readers a clear sense of direction and purpose, and so, the hope of reaching each other again.
 

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Pagina 1803 - That orbed maiden with white fire laden Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees...
Pagina 1679 - Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
Pagina 1661 - The existing monuments form an ideal order among themselves, which is modified by the introduction of the new (the really new) work of art among them. The existing order is complete before the new work arrives; for order to persist after the supervention of novelty, the whole existing order must be, if ever so slightly, altered...
Pagina 1719 - Mind in its purest play is like some bat That beats about in caverns all alone, Contriving by a kind of senseless wit Not to conclude against a wall of stone. It has no need to falter or explore; Darkly it knows what obstacles are there, And so may weave and flitter, dip and soar In perfect courses through the blackest air. And has this simile a like perfection? The mind is like a bat. Precisely.
Pagina 1675 - The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world.
Pagina 1691 - I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature.
Pagina 1733 - My father, who had flown in World War I, Might have continued to invest his life In cloud banks well above Wall Street and wife. But the race was run below, and the point was to win. Too late now, I make out in his blue gaze (Through the smoked glass of being thirty-six) The soul eclipsed by twin black pupils, sex And business ; time was money in those days. Each thirteenth year he married. When he died There were already several chilled wives In sable orbit — rings, cars, permanent waves. We'd...
Pagina 1795 - The rise of capitalism parallels the advance of romanticism And the individual is dominant until the close of the nineteenth century. In our own time, mass practices have sought to submerge the personality By ignoring it, which has caused it instead to branch out in all directions Far from the permanent tug that used to be its notion of "home.
Pagina 1685 - I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world into cold, blue-black space.
Pagina 1591 - In a Station of the Metro": The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals, on a wet, black bough.

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