Oh, my love If you were at the level of my madness, You would cast away your jewelry, Sell all your bracelets, And sleep in my eyes
Nizar Qabbani Born: 21 March 1923, Damascus, Syria Nationality: Syrian Died: 30 April 1998, London, UK
Qabbani was a diplomat, poet, writer, and publisher. His poetry is best known for combining simplicity and elegance to explore the themes of love, eroticism, feminism, Arab nationalism, and religion. Qabbani is among the most revered and respected contemporary poets from the Arab world and is considered Syria’s national poet
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer, for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.
In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields, dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats. All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;
and after noon’s heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres, gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack, and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn, three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.
Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns. Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.
When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze, one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning, led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond, and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,
and lay the shotgun’s muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear, and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave, shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you, where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.
For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground – old toilers, soil makers:
O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.
Donald Hall Born: 20 September 1928, Connecticut, USA Nationality: American Died: 23 June 2018, New Hampshire, USA
Hall was a poet, writer, editor, and literary critic. The author of over 50 books across varying genres he was a graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy, Harvard, and Oxford. He was the first poetry editor for The Paris Review and was known for interviewing poets and writers about their craft.
Xavier is a Latinx poet, author, spoken word artist, editor, and LGBT+ activist from the Bushwick area of Brooklyn. Once an underage hustler and drug dealer, through surviving hate crime, Xavier emerged from the East Village, Manhattan art scene, the ball culture scene and Nuyorican movement as a successful poet, writer, and advocate for gay youth and Latinx gay literature.
Born in Brooklyn, New York, Xavier’s father abandoned his Ecuadorian mother when he found out she was pregnant. Xavier was also a victim of child abuse by a relative. He grew up in Bushwick during the 1970s when it was mainly an immigrant community. He attended a white elementary school in Queens where he was subject to racism. Xavier was kicked out by his mother at age 16 when he came out as gay and survived as an underage hustler. With strict rules, he returned home and graduated from Grover Cleveland High School before attending St John’s University for several years receiving an associate degree in communications. Xavier worked at an LGBTQ bookstore, A Different Light, where he found his passion for writing and turned his life around.
In 1997 Xavier self-published the chapbook “Pier Queen” and in 1998, with his friend, Willi Ninja, he created the House of Xavier and the Glam Slam, an annual art event held at the Nuyorican Poets Café. The fusion of ball culture and poetry slam featured categories such as Best Erotic Poem in Sexy Underwear or Lingerie, Best Love Poem in Fire Engine Red, and Best Verbal Vogue. In 1999 Xavier’s semi-autobiographical novel “Christ Like” was published by Painted Leaf Press. Despite a limited run, it was nominated for a Lambda Literary award in the Small Press category and was reprinted in 2009 by Rebel Satori Press as a revised 10th-anniversary edition.
Xavier hosted the Lambada Literary Awards in 2001. He was one of the leading forces behind “Words of Comfort,” a poetry benefit held after 9/11. Xavier’s poem “September Song” was included as part of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum website and later appeared in his 2002 poetry collection “Americano”
In the 2000s Xavier appeared twice on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, he also guest hosted IN The Life on PBS with Laverne Cox. Xavier also appeared in the Wolfgang Busch documentary How Do I Look and co-starred in the film The Ski Trip aired on LOGO. In 2005 Xavier edited the anthology “Bullets & Butterflies: Queer Spoken Word Poetry” and earned a second Lambda Literary Award in the Anthologies category. In 2008 he edited “Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry.”
In 2017 PEN America invited Xavier to read his poem “Americano” at the Writer’s Resist rally in protest of the Trump administration. Also that year a weeklong exhibit celebrating the 20th anniversary of his collection “Pier Queen” was held.
Xavier was part of the Saks Fifth Avenue Stonewall Inn Gives It Back Initiative in 2019 for the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Inn riots. Xavier was invited to share his poetry at the United Nations in 2018 as part of The International Symposium on Cultural Diplomacy. He shared a poem about gun control and after the criticism that followed, he was uninvited back as a speaker.
Xavier was attacked by about 20 men in Bushwick, Brooklyn in October 2005. Among the rumours about the attack, some suggested it stemmed from his giving permission to the Latin Kings gang to publish his poem on the subject of police brutality “Waiting for God.” Xavier was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma following the attack and underwent surgery. The tumour was benign but he suffered partial facial paralysis for a time. In 2015 the neuroma returned and Xavier underwent successful radiosurgery.
The Death of Art by Emanuel Xavier
“Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.” -critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry “the death of art.”
I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family. Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.
I am not a poet. Georgia O’ Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.
I am not a poet. I do not like being called an “activist” because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.
I am not a poet. I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.
I am not a poet. I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry . . . and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.
I am not a poet. I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger. I would fuck somebody up if I had to.
I am not a poet. I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity. I believe laughter and love heals.
I am not a poet. I am not dying. I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumours, I am not positive. Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.
I am not a poet. I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.
I am not a poet. I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing. I like to go out and party. I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.
I am not a poet. I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination. I’ve been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.
I am not a poet. I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.
I am not a poet. I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.
I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom. I only write to masturbate my mind. After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.
I am not a poet. I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.”
Men loved wholly beyond wisdom Have the staff without the banner. Like a fire in a dry thicket Rising within women’s eyes Is the love men must return. Heart, so subtle now, and trembling, What a marvel to be wise., To love never in this manner! To be quiet in the fern Like a thing gone dead and still, Listening to the prisoned cricket Shake its terrible dissembling Music in the granite hill
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for “The New Yorker.”
Little soul, little perpetually undressed one, Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree; Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be home soon; It behooves you to be Generous. You have not been completely Perfect either; with your troublesome body You have done things you shouldn’t Discuss in poems. Therefore Call out to him over the open water, over the bright Water With your dark song, with your grasping, Unnatural song–passionate, Like Maria Callas. Who Wouldn’t want you? Whose most demonic appetite Could you possibly fail to answer? Soon He will return from wherever he goes in the Meantime, Suntanned from his time away, wanting His grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him, You must shake the boughs of the tree To get his attention, But carefully, carefully, lest His beautiful face be marred By too many falling needles
Louise Glück Born: 22 April 1943, New York, USA Nationality: American
Glück is a poet, essayist, and winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature. While in high school she suffered from anorexia nervosa and later overcame the illness. Often described as autobiographical poet Glück’s work is best known for its emotional intensity and for drawing on mythology or nature to reflect modern life
The pillar perished is whereto I lent, The strongest stay of mine unquiet mind; The like of it no man again can find From east to west still seeking though he went. To mine unhap! for hap away hath rent Of all my joy the very bark and rind; And I, alas, by chance am thus assigned Dearly to mourn till death do it relent. But since that thus it is by destiny, What can I more but have a woeful heart, My pen in plaint, my voice in woeful cry, My mind in woe, my body full of smart, And I myself myself always to hate Till dreadful death do ease my doleful state?
Oh! Mr. Best, you’re very bad And all the world shall know it; Your base behaviour shall be sung By me, a tunefull Poet.– You used to go to Harrowgate Each summer as it came, And why I pray should you refuse To go this year the same?–
The way’s as plain, the road’s as smooth, The Posting not increased; You’re scarcely stouter than you were, Not younger Sir at least.–
If e’er the waters were of use Why now their use forego? You may not live another year, All’s mortal here below.–
It is your duty Mr Best To give your health repair. Vain else your Richard’s pills will be, And vain your Consort’s care.
But yet a nobler Duty calls You now towards the North. Arise ennobled–as Escort Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.
She wants your aid–she honours you With a distinguished call. Stand forth to be the friend of her Who is the friend of all.–
Take her, and wonder at your luck, In having such a Trust. Her converse sensible and sweet Will banish heat and dust.–
So short she’ll make the journey seem You’ll bid the Chaise stand still. T’will be like driving at full speed From Newb’ry to Speen hill.–
Convey her safe to Morton’s wife And I’ll forget the past, And write some verses in your praise As finely and as fast.
But if you still refuse to go I’ll never let your rest, Buy haunt you with reproachful song Oh! wicked Mr. Best!–
Jane Austen Born: 16 December 1775, Hampshire, England Nationality: English Died: 18 July 1817, Hampshire, England
Austen was a novelist and poet best known for her six major novels, which interpret, comment upon, and critique the English landed gentry of the late 18th century. Austen’s plots explored the dependence of women on making a good marriage in the pursuit of social standing, respectability, and economic security. Austen’s use of irony, realism, and social commentary has earned acclaim among critics and scholars alike. Her books were published anonymously in her lifetime and Austen gained greater status after her death. Her novels have rarely been out of print
Thistle and darnell and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake, While the birds went twittering by, And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and gray, Lame of leg and old, More than a score of donkey’s years He had been since he was foaled; He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, Would sometimes stoop and sigh, And turn to his head, as if he said, “Poor Nicholas Nye!”
Alone with his shadow he’d drowse in the meadow, Lazily swinging his tail, At break of day he used to bray,– Not much too hearty and hale; But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, And a clean calm light in his eye, And once in a while; he’d smile:– Would Nicholas Nye.
Seem to be smiling at me, he would, From his bush in the corner, of may,– Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray; And over the grass would seem to pass ‘Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, Something much better than words between me And Nicholas Nye.
But dusk would come in the apple boughs, The green of the glow-worm shine, The birds in nest would crouch to rest, And home I’d trudge to mine; And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew, Asking not wherefore nor why, Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post, Old Nicholas Nye
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Three and thirty birds there stood In an elder in a wood; Called Melmillo — flew off three, Leaving thirty in the tree; Called Melmillo — nine now gone, And the boughs held twenty-one; Called Melmillo — and eighteen Left but three to nod and preen; Called Melmillo — three–two–one– Now of birds were feathers none.
Then stole slim Melmillo in To that wood all dusk and green, And with lean long palms outspread Softly a strange dance did tread; Not a note of music she Had for echoing company; All the birds were flown to rest In the hollow of her breast; In the wood — thorn, elder willow — Danced alone — lone danced Melmillo
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Silver flow the streams from Colos to Erui In the green fields of Lebennin! Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea The white lilies sway, And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin In the green fields of Lebennin, In the wind from the Sea!
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”. He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings”. Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
O Germany, pale mother! How soiled you are As you sit among the peoples. You flaunt yourself Among the besmirched.
The poorest of your sons Lies struck down. When his hunger was great. Your other sons Raised their hands against him. This is notorious.
With their hands thus raised, Raised against their brother, They march insolently around you And laugh in your face. This is well known.
In your house Lies are roared aloud. But the truth Must be silent. Is it so?
Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere, The oppressed accuse you? The plundered Point to you with their fingers, but The plunderer praises the system That was invented in your house!
Whereupon everyone sees you Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody With the blood Of your best sons.
Hearing the harangues which echo from your house, men laugh. But whoever sees you reaches for a knife As at the approach of a robber.
O Germany, pale mother! How have your sons arrayed you That you sit among the peoples A thing of scorn and fear!
Bertolt Brecht Born: 10 February 1898, Augsburg, Germany Nationality: German Died: 14 August 1956, East Berlin, East Germany
Brecht was a theatre practitioner, playwright, and poet. He had his first successes as a playwright in Munich during the Weimar Republic and moved to Berlin in 1924. During his time in Berlin, he wrote “The Threepenny Opera” with Kurt Weill and began a life-long collaboration with the composer Hanns Eisler
Glory be to God for dappled thing – For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim, Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings, Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) Well swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him
‘What is the world, O soldiers? It is I: I, this incessant snow, This northern sky; Soldiers, this solitude Through which we go Is I.’
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
ee cummings Born: 14 October 1894, Massachusetts, USA Nationality: American Died: 3 September 1962, New Hampshire, USA
ee cummings was a poet, painter, playwright, and author. With an oeuvre of 2900 poems, two autobiographical novels, several essays and four plays he is regarded as one of the most important American poets of the 20th century. Cummings is associated with modernist free-form poetry with much of his work composed of idiosyncratic syntax and lower-case spelling for poetic expression.
Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts to a well-known Unitarian couple. His father was a professor at Harvard University and later a well-known minister of South Congregational Church (Unitarian) in Boston. Cummings’ mother loved to spend time with her children, playing games with Cummings and his sister. From an early age, his creative gifts were supported by both his parents. He wrote poems and drew as a child as well as often playing out with the other children in the neighbourhood. Throughout his life, Cummings expressed transcendental leanings and his journals are replete with references to ‘le bon Dieu’ as well as prayers for inspiration for poetry and artwork.
Wanting to be a poet from childhood Cummings wrote poetry daily from the age of 8., exploring various forms. Graduating from Harvard University with a BA in 1915 Cummings received his MA from the university in 1916. Whilst studying at Harvard his interest in Modern poetry that ignored grammar and syntax evolved, and his aim was the use of dynamic language. After his graduation, Cummings took employment with a book dealer.
With the First World War in Europe, Cummings enlisted in the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps in 1917. He befriended William Slater Brown on the boat to France. Cummings and Brown didn’t receive an assignment for five weeks due to a clerical error so spent their time exploring Paris. Cummings fell in love with the city and would return there throughout his life. The two writers sent letters home during their service that attracted the attention of military censors. They preferred the company of French soldiers to that of fellow ambulance drivers and openly expressed anti-war opinions. Five months after Cummings started his assignment, he and William Slater Brown were arrested by the French military on suspicion of espionage and undesirable activities. For fourteen weeks the pair were held at Dépôt de Triage, a military detention centre in La Ferté-Macé, Orne, Normandy
Imprisoned with other detainees in a large room, Cummings’ father was unable to obtain his release through diplomatic channels. In December 1917 he wrote a letter to President Woodrow Wilson and was released on 19 December 1917, Brown was released two months later. Cummings used his prison experience as the basis for the novel “The Enormous Room” (1922). Cummings returned to the USA on New Year’s Day 1918. Later that year he was drafted into the army and served at Camp Devens, Massachusetts, until November 1918.
In 1921 Cummings returned to Paris and lived there for two years before returning to New York. He published his collection “Tulips and Chimneys” in 1923 and his particular use of grammar and syntax was evident. The book was heavily cut by the editor. In 1925 Cummings published “XLI Poems”. It is with these two collections that Cummings gained his reputation as an avant-garde poet. Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Cummings returned to Paris several times and travelled throughout Europe. In 1931 he travelled to the Soviet Union and wrote of his experiences in “Eimi” (1933). Cummins also travelled to North Africa and Mexico. From 1924-1927 he worked as an essayist and portrait artist for Vanity Fair
Cummings’s parents were involved in a car crash in 1926; his mother survived but was severely injured. His father’s death profoundly affected Cummings who entered a new period in his creative life focussing on more important aspects of life in his poetry. He started this new stage of his writing career with “my father moved through dooms of love,” a tribute to his father.
Cummings spent the last years of his life travelling, undertaking speaking engagements, and spending time at his home, Joy Farm, in New Hampshire. He died of a stroke in 1962
I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing a sheer sky. Everything moved, — a bell hung ready to strike, Sun and reflection wheeled by.
When the bare eyes were before me And the hissing hair, Held up at a window, seen through a door. The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead Formed in the air.
This is a dead scene forever now. Nothing will ever stir. The end will never brighten it more than this, Nor the rain blur.
The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground.
And I shall stand here like a shadow Under the great balanced day, My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind, And does not drift away.
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for 2The New Yorker.”
“Once…Once upon a time…” Over and over again, Martha would tell us her stories, In the hazel glen.
Hers were those clear gray eyes You watch, and the story seems Told by their beautifulness Tranquil as dreams.
She’d sit with her two slim hands Clasped round her bended knees; While we on our elbows lolled, And stared at ease.
Her voice and her narrow chin, Her grave small lovely head, Seemed half the meaning Of the words she said.
“Once…Once upon a time…” Like a dream you dream in the night, Fairies and gnomes stole out In the leaf-green light.
And her beauty far away Would fade, as her voice ran on, Till hazel and summer sun And all were gone:–
All fordone and forgot; And like clouds in the height of the sky, Our hearts stood still in the hush Of an age gone by
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Come, let us tell the weeds in ditches How we are poor, who once had riches, And lie out in the sparse and sodden Pastures that the cows have trodden, The while an autumn night seals down The comforts of the wooden town.
Come, let us counsel some cold stranger How we sought safety but loved danger. So, with stiff walls about us, we Chose this more fragile boundary: Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak, Loosen into a little smoke.
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for 2The New Yorker.”
Michael Rosen Born: 7 May 1946, Harrow, UK Nationality: English
Rosen is a children’s author and poet; he has written over 140 books. He was the Children’s Laureate from June 2007 to June 2009. He has also worked as a political columnist and TV presenter. He was born into a Jewish family with roots in Poland, Russia, and Romania and family connections to the Arbeter Ring and the Bund. His middle name is honour of Wayne C Booth who was billeted with his father at the US army university in Shrivenham Oxfordshire.
Rosen’s father was born in Massachusetts, and from two years old grew up in the East End of London. His father was a professor of English at the Institute of Education in London and published extensively on the teaching of English to children.
Rosen’s parents met in 1935 at the age of 15 when both were members of the Young Communist League. As a young couple, they settled in Pinner, Middlesex, England. They eventually left the Communist Party of Great Britain in 1957. Rosen never joined; however, it is this background that influenced his childhood. At about eleven years old Rosen began attending Harrow Weald County Grammar School. He also attended the state schools in Pinner and Harrow and Watford Grammar School for Boys. By this time Rosen’s mother was working for the BBC, producing a programme that featured poetry, she encouraged Rosen to write for it and some of his writing was submitted.
Rosen graduated from Oxford in 1969 and became a trainee at the BBC. His work included WALRUS (write and learn, read, understand, speak), a series for BBC Schools television, and scriptwriting for a children’s reading series Sam on Boffs’ Island. He found working for the BBC frustrating and limiting to his creativity.
Rosen made no secret of his left-wing politics when originally interviewed for a post with the BBC, however in 1972 he was asked to go freelance, effectively being sacked along with several others that failed the BBC’s vetting procedures at the time. A practice only revealed in 1985 and when Rosen asked to access his files, they had been destroyed.
“Mind Your Own Business,” Rosen’s first book of children’s poetry was published in 1974. He established himself with subsequent collections of humorous verse for children such as “Wouldn’t You Like to Know,” “You Tell Me,” and “Quick, Let’s Get Out of Here.”
Rosen was influential in opening access to poetry for children, through his own work and with anthologies such as “Culture Shock.” One of the first poets to visit schools throughout the UK, Australia, and Canada his tours enthused and engaged children about poetry in our times. Rosen gained an MA in Children’s Literature in 1993 from the University of Reading, followed by a Ph.D. from the University of North London.
A well-established broadcaster, presenting a wide range of documentary features on British radio, Rosen is the presenter of BBC Radio 4’s Word of Mouth, a regular magazine programme looking at the English language and how it is used. He was given the Exceptional Award for the Best Children’s Illustrated Nooks by the English Association in 2004 for “Sad Book”. It deals with bereavement and follows “Carrying the Elephant: A Memoir of Love and Loss” (2002) after the death of his son Eddied aged 18.
Rosen collaborated with his wife, Emma Williams, in 2011 to produce the film “Under the Crates” with Rosen providing the original screenplay. It premiered at the Rio Cinema in Dalston, London in April 2011 as part of the East End Film Festival
During the Covid-19 pandemic, Rosen was admitted to hospital in March 2020. He was moved to the ICU and back to the ward. He was again moved to ICU and after 47 days he returned to the ward, finally leaving the hospital in June 2020. In the following March Rosen released the book “Many Different Kinds of Love: A Story of Life, Death, and the NHS” telling his story of being hospitalized with Covid-19 the previous year.
The News by Michael Rosen
Here is The News: ‘Two incredible shoes. Two incredible shoes. That’s The News.
When it rains they walk down drains.
They glow in the snow.
They grizzle in a drizzle.
They sneeze in a breeze.
They get warm in a storm.
They go soggy when it’s foggy.
They’ve even hissed in a mist.
But (sad to say) there came a terrible frost. This is what happened: they got lost.’
This is The News. Two incredible shoes. Two incredible shoes. That was The News.
Where now is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing? Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow; The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
In western lands beneath the Sun The flowers may rise in Spring, The trees may bud, the waters run, The merry finches sing. Or there maybe ’tis cloudless night, And swaying branches bear The Elven-stars as jewels white Amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey’s end I lie In darkness buried deep, Beyond all towers strong and high, Beyond all mountains steep, Above all shadows rides the Sun And Stars for ever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, Nor bid the Stars farewell.
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature.
Joyful, joyful we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love, Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, hail Thee as the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness, drive the dark of doubt away; Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day.
All Thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heav’n reflect Thy rays, Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise; Field and forest, vale and mountain, flow’ry meadow, flashing sea, Chanting birds and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou art giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blest, Wellspring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest. Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, all who live in love are Thine; Teach us how to love each other, lift us to the Joy Divine.
Mortals, join the mighty chorus which the morning stars began, Father love is reigning o’er us, brother love binds man to man. Ever singing, march we onward, victors in the midst of strife; Joyful music lifts us sunward, in the triumph song of life
Henry Van Dyke Born: 10 November 1852, Pennsylvania, USA Nationality: American Died: 10 April 1933, New Jersey, USA
Van Dyke was an author, educator, diplomat, clergyman, and poet. Various religious themes are often expressed in his poetry, hymns, and essays. Van Dyke composed the lyrics of the hymn ‘Joyful, Joyful! We Adore Thee’
an order of instinct prevails through all accidents of circumstance, though possibility is high along the peripheries of spider webs: you can go all around the fringing attachments
and find disorder ripe, entropy rich, high levels of random, numerous occasions of accident:
2) the possible settings of a web are infinite:
how does the spider keep identity while creating the web in a particular place?
how and to what extent and by what modes of chemistry and control?
it is wonderful how things work: I will tell you about it because
it is interesting and because whatever is moves in weeds and stars and spider webs and known is loved: in that love, each of us knowing it, I love you,
for it moves within and beyond us, sizzles in to winter grasses, darts and hangs with bumblebees by summer windowsills:
I will show you the underlying that takes no image to itself, cannot be shown or said, but weaves in and out of moons and bladderweeds, is all and beyond destruction because created fully in no particular form:
if the web were perfectly pre-set, the spider could never find a perfect place to set it in: and
if the web were perfectly adaptable, if freedom and possibility were without limit, the web would lose its special identity:
the row-strung garden web keeps order at the center where space is freest (intersecting that the freest “medium” should accept the firmest order)
and that order diminishes toward the periphery allowing at the points of contact entropy equal to entropy
A. R. Ammons Born: 18 February 1926, North Carolina, USA Nationality: American Died: 21 February 2001, New York, USA
Ammons was a poet and winner of the Annual Book Award for Poetry in 1973 and 1993. He wrote about humanity’s relationship to the natural world in both comic and solemn tones. Ammons’ poetry uses religious and philosophical ideas with natural scenes in a transcendental fashion
Not like the brazen giant of Greek’s fame, With conquering limbs, astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome, her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. ‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me: I life my lamp beside the golden door!’
Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen, Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron! Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier Mi oromardi lissë-miruvóreva Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar Nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni Omaryo airetári-lírinen. Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?
An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo Ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë Ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë Ar sindanóriello caita mornië I falmalinnar imbë met, Ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë. Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!
Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar! Nai elyë hiruva! Namárië!
Translation by JRR Tolkien
Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, Long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts Of the sweet mead in lofty halls Beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda Wherein the stars tremble In the voice of her song, holy and queenly. Who now shall refill the cup for me?
For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the stars, From Mount Everwhite has uplifted her hands like clouds And all paths are drowned deep in shadow; And out of a grey country darkness lies On the foaming waves between us, And mist covers the jewels of Calacirya for ever. Now lost, lost to those of the East is Valimar!
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
Madam, withouten many words Once I am sure ye will or no … And if ye will, then leave your bourds And use your wit and show it so, And with a beck ye shall me call; And if of one that burneth alway Ye have any pity at all, Answer him fair with & {.} or nay. If it be &, {.} I shall be fain; If it be nay, friends as before; Ye shall another man obtain, And I mine own and yours no more.
Thomas Wyatt Born: 1503, Kent, England Nationality: English Died: 11 October 1542. Dorset, England
Wyatt was a16th century politician and lyric poet. He is credited with bringing the sonnet to English literature. Following his father into the court of Henry VIII after his education at St. John’s College, Cambridge Wyatt was entrusted by the king with many important diplomatic missions. Thomas Cromwell was his principal patron in public life. Following the death of Cromwell Wyatt was recalled from abroad and imprisoned for treason. Ultimately, he was acquitted and released shortly before his death in 1542. Wyatt’s poetry may have been published anonymously during his lifetime, however, none was published and printed under his name until some 15 years after his death
Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows, The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes. ‘What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?’ ‘I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey. I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more. The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.’ ‘O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.’
From the mouths of the sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones; The wailing of the gulls it hears, and at the gate it moans. ‘What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve!’ ‘Ask me not of where he doth dwell–so many bones there lie On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky; So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea. Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!’ ‘O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south, But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea’s mouth.’
From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls; And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls. ‘What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.’ ‘Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought. His cloven sheild, his broken sword, they to the water brought. His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest; And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.’ ‘O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.’
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
The dead abide with us! though stark and cold Earth seems to grip them; they are with us still: They have forged our chains of being for good or ill And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. Our perishable bodies are the mould In which their strong imperishable will, Mortality’s deep yearning to fulfil, Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold, Vibrations infinite of life in death, As a star’s travelling light survives its star! So may we hold our lives, that when we are The Fate of those who then will draw this breath, They shall not drag us to their judgment bar, And curse the heritage which we bequeath.
The British Army now carries two rifles, one with rubber rabbit-pellets for children, the other’s of course for the Provisionals…. ‘When they first showed me the boy, I thought oh good, it’s not him because he’s blonde— I imagine his hair was singed dark by the bomb. He had nothing on him to identify him, except this box of joke trick matches; he liked to have them on him, even at mass. The police were unhurried and wonderful, they let me go on trying to strike a match… I just wouldn’t stop—you cling to anything— I couldn’t believe I couldn’t light one match— only joke matches… Then I knew he was Richard.’
Robert Lowell Born: 1 March 1917, Massachusetts, USA Nationality: American Died: 12 September 1977, New York, USA
Lowell was a poet, born into a Boston Brahmin family, he could trace his ancestry back to the Mayflower. Past and present, his family were important subjects and influences for his poetry as was his New England upbringing
We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.
Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what he saw– Edith Wharton’s obfuscating older brother. . .
He fled the demons of Manhattan for fear they would devour his inner ones (the ones who wrote the books) & silence the stifled screams of his protagonists.
To Europe like a wandering Jew– WASP that he was– but with the Jew’s outsider’s hunger. . .
face pressed up to the glass of sex refusing every passion but the passion to write the words grew more & more complex & convoluted until they utterly imprisoned him in their fairytale brambles.
Language for me is meant to be a transparency, clear water gleaming under a covered bridge. . . I love his spiritual sister because she snatched clarity from her murky history.
Tormented New Yorkers both, but she journeyed to the heart of light– did he?
She took her friends on one last voyage, through the isles of Greece on a yacht chartered with her royalties– a rich girl proud to be making her own money.
The light of the Middle Sea was what she sought. All denizens of this demonic city caught between pitch and black long for the light.
But she found it in a few of her books. . . while Henry James discovered what he had probably started with: that beast, that jungle, that solipsistic scream.
He did not join her on that final cruise. (He was on his own final cruise). Did he want to? I would wager yes.
I look back with love and sorrow at them both– dear teachers– but she shines like Miss Liberty to Emma Lazarus’ hordes, while he gazes within, always, at his own impenetrable jungle.
Erica Jong Born: 26 March 1942, New York, USA Nationality: American
Jong is a novelist, satirist, and poet particularly known for her novel “Fear of Flying” (1973). The book was famously controversial for its attitudes on female sexuality and became prominent in the development of second-wave feminism.
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.
Louise Bogan Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA Nationality: American Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA
Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for 2The New Yorker.”
That they lasted only till the next high tide bothered me, not him whose labour was to make sugar lattices demolished when the bride, with help from her groom’s hand, first cut the cake.
His icing hand, gritty with sandgrains, guides my pen when I try shaping memories of him and his eyes scan with mine those rising tides neither father nor his son could hope to swim.
His eyes stayed dry while I, the kid, would weep to watch the castle that had taken us all day to build and deck decay, one wave-surge sweep our winkle-stuccoed edifice away.
Remembrance like ice cake crumbs in the throat, remembrance like windblown Blackpool brine overfills the poem’s shallow moat and first, ebbing, salts, then, flowing floods this line.
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve; For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife, What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife, To prove the pride of thine inheritance In this fair land of freedom and romance? I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,– Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,– Make answer in a noble utterance: “I give France all I have, and all she asks. Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,– My feet to run her errands through the dark,– My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,– And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d’Arc!”
Henry Van Dyke Born: 10 November 1852, Pennsylvania, USA Nationality: American Died: 10 April 1933, New Jersey, USA
Van Dyke was an author, educator, diplomat, clergyman, and poet. Various religious themes are often expressed in his poetry, hymns, and essays. Van Dyke composed the lyrics of the hymn ‘Joyful, Joyful! We Adore Thee’
At midnight, when suddenly you hear an invisible procession going by with exquisite music, voices, don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now, work gone wrong, your plans, all proving deceptive – don’t mourn them uselessly: As one long prepared, and full of courage, say goodbye to her, to Alexandria who is leaving. Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say it was a dream, your eyes deceived you: don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these. As one long prepared, and full of courage, as is right for you who were given this kind of city, go firmly to the window and listen with deep emotion, but not with whining, the pleas of a coward; listen – your final pleasure – to the voices, to the exquisite music of that strange procession, and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing
Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended, Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?
Sickness broke him. Impatient, he cursed at first, but mended Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!
This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears, My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears, Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;
How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years, When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers, Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal!
In my smoochy corner take me on a cloud I’ll wrap you round and lay you down in smoky tinfoil rings and records sheets of whisky and the moon alright old pal all right the moon all right
Mercy for the rainy tyres and the violet thunder that bring you shambling and shy from chains of Easterhouse plains of lights make your delight in my nest my spell my arms and my shell my barn my bell
I’ve combed your hair and washed your feet and made you turn like a dark eel in my white bed till morning lights a silent cigarette throw on your shirt I lie staring yet forget forget
I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be when winter comes without a spring that I shall never see.
For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago, and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before, I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.
JRR Tolkien Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa Nationality: English Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England
Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings.” He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings.” Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature
Cleopatra: His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear’d arm Crested the world. His voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in’t, an autumn t’was That grew the more from reaping. His delights Were dolphin-like: they show’d his back above The element they liv’d in. In his livery Walk’d crowns and crownet, realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart; And as the last slow sudden drops are shed From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart. Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start Of married flowers to either side outspread From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red, Fawned on each other where they lay apart. Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams, And their dreams watched them sink and slid away. Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day; Till from some wonder of new woods and streams He woke and wondered more; for there she lay
Hear me out: that which you call death I remember.
Overhead noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface.
It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.
Then it was over; that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs.
You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:
from the corner of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure seawater
Happy the lab’rer in his Sunday clothes! In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn’d hose, Andhat upon his head, to church he goes; As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws A glance upon the ample cabbage rose That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose, He envies not the gayest London beaux. In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close
Jane Austen Born: 16 December 1775, Hampshire, England Nationality: English Died: 18 July 1817, Hampshire, England
Austen was a novelist and poet best known for her six major novels, which interpret, comment upon, and critique the English landed gentry of the late 18th century. Austen’s plots explored the dependence of women on making a good marriage in the pursuit of social standing, respectability, and economic security. Austen’s use of irony, realism, and social commentary has earned acclaim among critics and scholars alike. Her books were published anonymously in her lifetime and Austen gained greater status after her death. Her novels have rarely been out of print
Poet: Charles Bukowski Born: 16 August 1920, Andernach, Germany Nationality: German-American Died: 9 March 1994, California, USA
Bukowski was a poet, novelist, and short story writer. The influences on his writing were the social, cultural, and economic ambiance of Los Angeles, his hometown. In his work, he addressed the lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, relationships with women, the drudgery of work, and alcohol. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories, and six novels, eventually publishing over 60 books. The FBI kept a file on him, a result of his column Notes of a Dirty Old Man.
Bukowski extensively published in small literary magazines and with small presses from the 1940s through to the 1990s. Due to his antics and deliberate clownish performances, he was considered the king of the underground. Since his death, he has been the subject of critical articles and books about his work and life, despite his work receiving little attention from US academia in his lifetime. However, Bukowski enjoyed fame in Europe, especially in his home country of Germany
Bukowski, born Heinrich Karl Bukowski, was born in Andernach, Rhine Province, The Free State of Prussia, Weimar Republic. His father was a German-American in the US Army of Occupation after World War I who remained in Germany after his military service. Bukowski’s grandfather emigrated to the US from the German Empire in the 1880s.
Bukowski’s parents met in Andernach, Germany, after World War I. His father was in the US Army serving in Germany after the war and had an affair with Katharina, a German friend’s sister, resulting in her becoming pregnant. Bukowski repeatedly claimed he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, but records show the couple were married one month before his birth. His father became a building contractor and moved the family to Pfaffendorf. The post-war stagnant German economy and high inflation meant Henry Bukowski could not make a living and the family moved to Baltimore in 1923.
In 1930, the family moved to Los Angeles, the city where Bukowski’s father and grandfather had previously lived. The young Bukowski spoke English with a German accent and was taunted by his peers. During his youth, he was shy and socially withdrawn, and in his teens, this was exacerbated by extreme acne. After graduating from Los Angeles High School, Bukowski attended City College for two years studying art, literature, and journalism. At the start of World War II, he left college and moved to New York to work as a financially squeezed blue-collar worker with his dreams of becoming a writer.
With the Second World War ongoing Bukowski, a suspect of draft evasion was arrested by the FBI in July 1944. The USA was at war with Germany, and many Germans and German-Americans in the USA were suspected of disloyalty, Bukowski’s German birth troubled the US authorities and he was held 17 days in Moyamensing Prison in Philadelphia for seventeen days, He failed a psychological examination that formed part of the mandatory military entrance physical test and was declared unfit for military service just sixteen days later.
At 24 Bukowski’s short story ‘Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip’ was published in Story magazine. Two years later ’20 Tanks from Kasseldown’ was published by the Black Sun Press. Bukowski grew disillusioned by the publication process and quit writing for nearly a decade. These ‘lost years’ formed the basis for the semibiographical chronicles. During this time Bukowski continued to live in Los Angeles and for a short time worked in a pickle factory. He also spent some time roaming the United States, sporadically working, and staying in cheap rooming houses.
Bukowski took a job as a fill-in letter courier with the USPO, Los Angeles in the early 1950s, however, he resigned before reaching three years of service. In 1955, after suffering from a near-fatal bleeding ulcer, Bukowski began writing poetry and married Barbara Frye a Texas poet. Following their divorce in 1958 resumed drinking and continued writing poetry. Several of Bukowski’s poems were published during the late 1950s in the poetry magazine Gallows published by Jon Griffith. However, it was the small avant-garde magazine Nomad, published by Anthony Linick and Donald Factor, that offered Bukowski’s early work a home, featuring two of his poems in the inaugural issue in 1959. A year later Bukowski’s essay, “Manifesto: A Call for Our Own Critics,” was published in the magazine.
By 1960 Bukowski returned to Los Angeles and the post office where he worked as a letter filing clerk for over a decade. In 1962 the death of his first serious girlfriend, Jane Cooney Baker, left him distraught, a devastation Bukowski turned into a series of poems and stories. In 1964 his live-in girlfriend, Frances Smith, gave birth to their daughter Marina Louise Bukowski.
Bukowski’s first printed publication, “His Wife, the Painter,” was published by Kearse Press in June 1960. In October 1960, Hearse Press also published “Flower, Fist, and Bestial Wall,” Bukowski’s first chapbook of poems. “His Wife, the Painter,” “The Paper on the Floor,” “The Old Man on the Corner,” and “Waste Basket” formed the centrepiece of Hearse Press’ “Coffin 1,” a small poetry publication in the form of a pocketed folder containing 42 broadsheets and lithographs, published in 1964. Hearse Press continued to publish Bukowski’s poetry throughout the 1960s to the early 1980s.
In 1963/65 Jon and Louise Webb, publishers of The Outsider literary magazine, featured Bukowski’s poems “It Catches My Heart in Its Hands” and “Crucifix in a Deathhand” In 1967 Bukowski wrote a column “Notes of a Dirty Old Man” for Los Angeles’ Open City, an underground newspaper. When the newspaper was shut down in 1969, the column was picked up by the Los Angeles Free Press and the hippie underground paper NOLA Express in New Orleans. That same year Bukowski and Neelie Cherkovski launched the short-lived literary magazine, “Laugh Literary and Man the Humping Guns.”
Bukowski accepted an offer from Black Sparrow Press publisher John Martin, in 1969 and quit his office job to dedicate his career to full-time writing. less than a month after quitting the postal service he finished his first novel “Post Office.” As a mark of respect to Martin Bukowski published almost all his major works through Black Sparrow Press, which became a highly successful enterprise. However, as a supporter of the small independent presses he submitted poems and short stories to innumerable small publications throughout his career.
Bukowski had a series of love affairs and one-night trysts. One of these relationships was with Linda King, a poet, and sculptor. They were seen performing a stage reading of the first act of King’s play “Only a Tenant” in a one-off performance at the Pasadena Museum of the Artist.
Bukowski met Linda Lee Beighle in 1976. Two years later he moved from the East Hollywood area where he had lived for most of his life to San Pedro, a harbourside community. Beighle followed him and they lived together off and on for the next two years. They eventually married in 1985.
Bukowski collaborated with Robert Crumb on a series of comic books in the 1980s with Bukowski providing the writing and Crumb the artwork. Crumb also illustrated several of Bukowski’s stories during the 1990s including “The Captain Is Out to Lunch” collection.
Bukowski died in March 1994 of leukaemia in San Pedro. His funeral rites were conducted by Buddhist monks and he is buried at Green Hills Memorial Park, Rancho Palos Verdes.
the night I was going to die I was sweating on the bed and I could hear the crickets and there was a cat fight outside and I could feel my soul dropping down through the mattress and just before it hit the floor I jumped up I was almost too weak to walk but I walked around and turned on all the lights and then I went back to bed and dropped it down again and I was up turning on all the lights I had a 7-year-old daughter and I felt sure she wouldn’t want me dead otherwise it wouldn’t have mattered but all that night nobody phoned nobody came by with a beer my girlfriend didn’t phone all I could hear were the crickets and it was hot and I kept working at it getting up and down until the first of the sun came through the window through the bushes and then I got on the bed and the soul stayed inside at last and I slept. now people come by beating on the doors and windows the phone rings the phone rings again and again I get great letters in the mail hate letters and love letters. everything is the same again
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore – And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over – Like a syrupy sweet?
The last of last words spoken is, Good-bye – The last dismantled flower in the weed-grown hedge, The last thin rumour of a feeble bell far ringing, The last blind rat to spurn the mildewed rye.
A hardening darkness glasses the haunted eye, Shines into nothing the watcher’s burnt-out candle, Wreathes into scentless nothing the wasting incense, Faints in the outer silence the hunting-cry.
Love of its muted music breathes no sigh, Thought in her ivory tower gropes in her spinning, Toss on in vain the whispering trees of Eden, Last of all last words spoken is, Good-bye.
Walter de la Mare Born: 25 April 1873, London, England Nationality: English Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England
De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books
Billy Collins Born: 22 March 1941, New York, USA Nationality: American
Collins is a poet and was appointed as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. A Distinguished Professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York until he retired in 2016 Collins was recognized as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library in 1992 and was chosen as the New York State Poet from 2004 to 2006. He is currently a teacher in the MFA program at Stony Brook University, New York.
Collins was born in Manhattan and grew up in Queens and White Plains. An only child, his mother gave up her career in nursing to raise him, and she had the ability to recite verses on almost any subject cultivating the love of words, written, and spoken, in her young son.
A student of Archbishop Stepinac High School, White Plains, New York, Collins went on to graduate with a BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross in 1963. He later received his MA and Ph.D. in Romantic Poetry from the University of California, Riverside. Whilst at Riverside his professors included Robert Peters, a Victorian scholar, and poet. Collins also became influenced by his contemporary poets such as Karl Shapiro and Reed Whittemore. Collins founded the Mid-Atlantic Review with his friends Walter Blanco and Steve Bailey in 1975
A Distinguished Professor of English at Lehman College in the Bronx, Collins is a founding member of the Advisory Board of the CUNY Institute for Irish-American Studies. He taught and served as a visiting writer at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville and taught workshops across the US and in Ireland. Collins was the US Poet Laureate from 2001to 2003 and Poet Laureate for the State of New York from 2004 to 2006
As US Poet Laureate was asked by the Librarian of Congress to write a poem to remember the victims of the 9/11 attacks. Collins read his poem “The Names” at a joint session of the United States Congress on 6 September 2002. Also as Poet Laureate Collins instituted the program Poetry 180 for high schools and chose 180 poems, one for each day of the academic year, for the program and the accompanying book “Poetry 180: A Turning Back to Poetry”. The program is available online
Collins recorded “The Best Cigarette” in 1997, a collection of 34 of his poems that would become a bestseller. In 2005, the CD was re-released under a Creative Commons license, allowing free, non-commercial distribution of the recording. When Collins moved to Random House je received a six-figure advance for a three-book deal – a sum unheard of in poetry.
Collins has been awarded several prizes by the US magazine “Poetry” over the years in recognition of the poems they publish. The magazine also selected him as “Poet of the Year” in 1994. In 2005 Collins was the first recipient of the annual Mark Twain Prize for Humour in Poetry.
Collins’ work “Fishing on the Susquehanna in July” has been added to the preserved works of the United States Native American literary registry as a culturally significant poem. It is included in the national Advance Placement exams for high school students. Collins is on the editorial board of the Alaska Quarterly Review, and recently contributed to the 30th-anniversary edition. He is also on the advisory boards of other journals, including the Southern Review
During the Covid-19 pandemic, Collins appeared daily on Facebook Live to a worldwide audience reading poems and talking about poetry.
Introduction To Poetry by Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means
Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea, And still the sea is salt.
Jezzie G 