Because he writes about being a child, about being the son of a film star Hugh begat Hugo , and about having once and always been to a prep school and public school. Because he is not difficult to understand, and is enjoyable to read.
Types of Poems
And funny. His book-length debut, Symptoms of Loss , carries their tweedy whiff of iambic certainty and blokeish conservatism — forced, stuffy, effortful; it reads like a relic in the light of his later career. This trajectory gives his Collected Poems the Benjamin Button—ish feel of watching a man crawl out of premature fogyhood into what has become a much-prolonged adolescence. Still, he brings something of a French Symbolist color to the cramped, iceberg lyric. This produces the sense that Williams has surgically removed images to hold them up to another source of light, in case they can finally be understood.
The trees are emptying.
14 best poetry books | The Independent
The cold young days rush through them On their way to power. Down here We sweep the dead leaves into bonfires Lest they betray our sympathies. Some sound like letters, or are made of letters composed by his boyhood self or by his father at war. The cricket ball lingered an eternity in the patch of blue sky before returning eventually to earth.
I was standing with outstretched arms when the full force of the future hit me in the mouth. As she picks up an old blue dress and holds it against herself for a moment, I almost imagine her staring at me across London, daring me to blink. Your hair was tied up in plaits on top of your head showing the parting down the back as you marched out of the room.
I Knew the Bride also saw Williams become something of an elegist for himself. Take every single person who lessened your shine and bury their memory, without mercy under glow of everything that makes you who you are.
Billy Collins | Poetry Foundation
Talent is what they say you have after the novel is published and favorably reviewed. Beforehand what you have is a tedious delusion, a hobby like knitting. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run. I wish I could walk for a day and a night, And find me at dawn in a desolate place, With never the rut of a road in sight, Or the roof of a house, or the eyes of a face.
A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated.
I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a summer day; Sweet Love dead. There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled. Like, telling someone you love them. Or giving your money away, all of it.
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Tree you are, Moss you are, You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are, And all this is folly to the world. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls. When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. Skip to content.
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Just one beautiful line of poetry can stay with you forever. Lionmouth Door Knocker.