Poets From The United States

"I could never be French, I could never become German – I shall always remain American – the essence which is in me is American mysticism just as Davies declared it when he saw those first landscapes."

"What I have to express is not handled with words. It must 'come' tot the observer. It must carry its influence over the mind of the individual into that region of him which is more than the mind. The pictures must reach inwards into the deeper experiences of the beholder – and mind you they care in no sense religious tracts – there is no story to them or literature – no morals – they are merely artistic expressions of mystical states – these in themselves being my own personal motives as drawn from either special experiences or aggregate ones."

"..[Picasso had] a depth of understanding and insight into the inwardness of things.. ..doing very exceptional things of a most abstract psychic nature.."

"..by getting as close to the true idea of religion, of spirituality as it is possible for us to get.. .. we would be in possession of the only tangible relationship tot the deity in things."

"The essential of a real picture is that the things which occur in it occur to him in his peculiarly personal fashion.. ..the idea of modernity is but a new attachment of things universal – a fresh relationship to the courses of the sun and to the living swing of the earth – a new fire of affection for the living essence present everywhere."

"Every painter must traverse for himself that distance from Paris to Aix (Aix-en-Provence where Paul Cézanne frequently painted in open air] or from Venice to Toledo [where w:El Greco lived and painted for many years]. Expression is for one knowing its own pivot. Every expressor relates solely to himself – that is the concern of the individualist."

"I believe until a man has given up himself he has given up nothing - all his knowledge of accepted aesthetics are of no avail until he has stepped aside from them and given up himself – himself only through the eyes of himself. What a problem everlasting then is it not? A life time of breathless endeavor to be the thing and do the thing of his being – So easy to travel along with claques and crowds, voicing vociferously the great discoveries of each – How ineffably difficult, voicing the soul of one man – alone to himself and – then to whomever else hears.."

"..of what use is a painting which does not realize its aesthetical problem? Underlying all sensible works of art, there must be somewhere in evidence the particular problems understood. It was so with those artists of the great past who had the intellectual knowledge of structure upon which to place their emotions. It is this structural beauty that makes the old [clssical] painting valuable. And so it becomes to me a problem. I would rather be sure that I had placed two colors in true relationship to each other than to have exposed a wealth of emotionalism gone wrong in the name of richness of personal expression.. .The real artists have always been interested in this problem, and you feel it strongly in the work of [Leonardo] Da Vinci, Piero della Francesca, Courbet, Pissarro, Seurat, and Cezanne."

"Byron’s whole contribution to literature is the inculcation of an amused and amusing cynicism in regard to Human Nature. But it is a broken-hearted cynicism. He mocks because he once believed. His cynicism is the souring of a youthful love of mankind. Byron’s youth had been nourished upon eighteenth-century Utopianism. He, too, once believed in man; and his cynic humor is the in which he disguises his indignation and chagrin at the betrayal of his hopes."

"One explanation for the neglect of women's part in shaping The Masses and its content may lie in an image of the magazine constructed by its chroniclers. Indeed, the extent to which historians have neglected discussion of Masses women is quite remarkable. Daniel Aaron, in his Writers on the Left (1961), devotes some twenty pages to The Masses. He deals with Eastman, Dell, and Reed at considerable length, while mentioning the founding members Inez Haynes Irwin and Mary Heaton Vorse in a single line...More recent histories redress the balance somewhat-notably Judith Schwartz's study of women of the Greenwich Village Heterodoxy club, many of whose members had ties with The Masses, and Art for The Masses, Rebecca Zurier's 1987 anthology of the work of Masses artists. Nancy Cott's frequent allusions to Masses women in The Grounding of Modern Feminism (1987) indicate how very central to that grounding to the shaping of turn-of-the-century feminist discourse Masses women were. But in many imaginations, The Masses remains the project of Max Eastman, Floyd Dell, John Reed (journalist), Art Young, and Charles Winter."

"Two editors of the Masses, Crystal Eastman's brother Max and Floyd Dell, used that journal for vigorous advocacy of feminist issues... The Masses was the only male-edited socialist journal that consistently affirmed the importance of equality as essential for the full development of the lives of both men and women. In a satiric piece, Floyd Dell took up the arguments of the antifeminists. "I thought, you see, that [women] were persons like myself. Well, they aren't. I know better now.""

"In a word, the home is a little dull. When you have got a woman in a box, and you pay rent on the box, her relationship to you insensibly changes character. It loses the fine excitement of democracy. It ceases to be companionship, for companionship is only possible in a democracy. It is no longer a sharing of life together—it is a breaking of life apart. Half a life—cooking, clothes, and children; half a life—business, politics, and baseball. It doesn’t make much difference which is the poorer half. Either half, when it comes to life, is very near to none at all.Of course, this artificial distinction does not strictly obtain in any particular marriage. There is an attempt to break it down. It is an honourable attempt. But our civilization is nevertheless built on that distinction, In order to break down that distinction utterly, it will be necessary to break down all the codes and restrictions and prejudices that keep women out of the great world. It is in the great world that a man finds his sweetheart, and in that narrow little box outside of the world that he loses her. When she has left that box and gone back into the great world, a citizen and a worker, then with surprise and delight he will discover her again, and never let her go."

"My work embodies little visions of the great intangible.. ..Some will say he’s gone mad – others will look and say he’s looked in at the lattices of Heaven and come back with the madness of splendor on him."

"Blake would not laugh at my fantasies if he saw them [in contrary to the public in New York, as Hartley realized well, before]"

"[I was] happily contended to be climbing the heights and the clouds by the brush method.. .. rendering the God-spirit in the mountains."

"It is never difficult to see images – when the principle of the image is embedded in the soul."

"See the long pomp in gorgeous glare display'd, The tinsel'd guards, the squadron'd horse parade; See heralds gay, with emblems on their vest, In tissu'd robes, tall, beauteous pages drest; Amid superior ranks of splendid slaves, Lords, Dukes and Princes, titulary knaves, Confus'dly shine their crosses, gems and stars, Sceptres and globes and crowns and spoils of wars."

"Of these no more. From Orders, Slaves and Kings, To thee, O Man, my heart rebounding springs. Behold th' ascending bliss that waits your call, Heav'n's own bequest, the heritage of all. Awake to wisdom, seize the proffer'd prize; From shade to light, from grief to glory rise. Freedom at last, with Reason in her train, Extends o'er earth her everlasting reign…"

"Lords of themselves and leaders of mankind.On equal rights their base of empire lies, On walls of wisdom see the structure rise; Wide o'er the gazing world it towers sublime, A modell'd form for each surrounding clime. To useful toils they bend their noblest aim, Make patriot views and moral views the same, Renounce the wish of war, bid conquest cease, Invite all men to happiness and peace, To faith and justice rear the youthful race, Till Truth's blest banners, o'er the regions hurl'd, Shake tyrants from their thrones, and cheer the waking world."

"The gazing crowd, of glittering State afraid, Adore the Power their coward meanness made; In war's short intervals, while regal shows Still blind their reason and insult their woes."

"Once draw the sword; its burning point shall bring To thy quick nerves a never-ending sting; The blood they shed thy weight of wo shall swell, And their grim ghosts for ever with thee dwell. Learn hence, ye tyrants, ere ye learn too late, Of all your craft th' inevitable fate. The hour is come, the world's unclosing eyes Discern with rapture where its wisdom lies; From western heav'ns th' inverted Orient springs, The morn of man, the dreadful night of kings. Dim, like the day-struck owl, ye grope in light, No arm for combat, no resource in sight; If on your guards your lingering hopes repose, Your guards are men, and men you've made your foes; If to your rocky ramparts ye repair, De Launay's fate can tell your fortune there. No turn, no shift, no courtly arts avail, Each mask is broken, all illusions fail; Driv'n to your last retreat of shame and fear, One counsel waits you, one relief is near : By worth internal, rise to self-wrought fame, Your equal rank, your human kindred claim; 'Tis Reason's choice, 'tis Wisdom's final plan, To drop the monarch and assume the man."

"Hail Man, exalted title! first and best, On God's own image by his hand imprest; To which at last the reas'ning race is driv'n, And seeks anew what first it gain'd from Heav'n."

"Behold, illumin'd by th' instructive age, That great phenomenon, a Sceptred Sage. There Stanislaus unfolds his prudent plan, Tears the strong bandage from the eyes of man, Points the progressive march, and shapes the way, That leads a realm from darkness into day."

"In every clime, thy visage greets my eyes, In every tongue thy kindred accents rise; The thought expanding swells my heart with glee, It finds a friend, and loves itself in thee. Say then, fraternal family divine, Whom mutual wants and mutual aids combine, Say from what source the dire delusion rose, That souls like ours were ever made for foes; Why earth's maternal bosom, where we tread, To rear our mansions and receive our bread, Should blush so often for the face she bore, So long be drench'd with floods of filial gore; Why to small realms for ever rest confin'd Our great affections, meant for all mankind. Though climes divide us; shall the stream or sea, That forms a barrier 'twixt my friend and me, Inspire the wish his peaceful state to mar, And meet his falchion in the ranks of war? Not seas, nor climes, nor wild ambition's fire In nations' minds could e'er the wish inspire; Where equal rights each sober voice should guide, No blood would stain them, and no war divide. 'Tis dark deception, 'tis the glare of state, Man sunk in titles, lost in Small and Great; 'Tis Rank, Distinction, all the hell that springs From those prolific monsters, Courts and Kings."

"Think not, ye knaves, whom meanness styles the Great, Drones of the Church and harpies of the State, — Ye, whose curst sires, for blood and plunder fam'd, Sultans or kings or czars or emp'rors nam'd, Taught the deluded world their claims to own, And raise the crested reptiles to a throne, — Ye, who pretend to your dark host was given The lamp of life, the mystic keys of heaven; Whose impious arts with magic spells began When shades of ign'rance veil'd the race of man; Who change, from age to age, the sly deceit As Science beams, and Virtue learns the cheat; Tyrants of double powers, the soul that blind, To rob, to scourge, and brutalize mankind, Think not I come to croak with omen'd yell The dire damnations of your future hell, To bend a bigot or reform a knave, By op'ning all the scenes beyond the grave. I know your crusted souls: while one defies In sceptic scorn the vengeance of the skies, The other boasts, — “I ken thee, Power divine, “But fear thee not; th' avenging bolt is mine." No! 'tis the present world that prompts the song, The world we see, the world that feels the wrong, The world of men, whose arguments ye know, Of men, long curb'd to servitude and wo, Men, rous'd from sloth, by indignation stung, Their strong hands loos'd, and found their fearless tongue; Whose voice of fire, whose deep-descending steel Shall speak to souls, and teach dull nerves to feel."

"Indignant Man resumes the shaft he gave, Disarms the tyrant, and unbinds the slave, Displays the unclad skeleton of kings, Spectres of power, and serpents without stings."

"But grant to kings and courts their ancient play, Recall their splendour and revive their sway; Can all your cant and all your cries persuade One power to join you in your wild crusade? In vain ye search to earth's remotest end; No court can aid you, and no king defend."

"And didst thou hope, by thy infuriate quill To rouse mankind the blood of realms to spill? Then to restore, on death devoted plains, Their scourge to tyrants, and to man his chains? To swell their souls with thy own bigot rage, And blot the glories of so bright an age? First stretch thy arm, and with less impious might, Wipe out the stars, and quench the solar light : “For heav'n and earth," the voice of God ordains, “Shall pass and perish, but my word remains," Th' eternal Word, which gave, in spite of thee, Reason to man, that bids the man be free."

"Hail the mild morning, where the dawn began, The full fruition of the hopes of man. Where sage Experience seals the sacred cause, And that rare union, Liberty and Laws, Speaks to the reas'ning race “to freedom rise, Like them be equal, and like them be wise.""

"Despise it not, ye Bards to terror steel'd, Who hurl'd your thunders round the epic field; Nor ye who strain your midnight throats to sing Joys that the vineyard and the still-house bring; Or on some distant fair your notes employ, And speak of raptures that you ne'er enjoy. I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel, My morning incense, and my evening meal, The sweets of Hasty-Pudding. Come, dear bowl, Glide o'er my palate, and inspire my soul."

"But here tho' distant from our native shore, With mutual glee we meet and laugh once more, The same! I know thee by that yellow face, That strong complexion of true Indian race, Which time can never change, nor soil impair, Nor Alpine snows, nor Turkey's morbid air; For endless years, thro' every mild domain, Where grows the maize, there thou art sure to reign. But man, more fickle, the bold license claims, In different realms to give thee different names. Thee soft nations round the warm Levant Palanta call, the French of course Polante; E'en in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee Mush! On Hudson's banks, while men of Belgic spawn Insult and eat thee by the name suppawn. All spurious appellations, void of truth: I've better known thee from my earliest youth, Thy name is Hasty-Pudding! thus our sires Were wont to greet thee fuming from the fires."

"There are those who strive to stamp with disrepute The luscious food, because it feeds the brute; In tropes of high-strain'd wit, while gaudy prigs Compare thy nursling man to pamper'd pigs; With sovereign scorn I treat the vulgar jest, Nor fear to share thy bounties with the beast."

"As the government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the Christian Religion,—as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion or tranquility of Musselmen,—and as the said States never have entered into any war or act of hostility against any Mehomitan nation, it is declared by the parties that no pretext arising from religious opinions shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries."

"Almighty Freedom! give my venturous song The force, the charm that to thy voice belong; Tis thine to shape my course, to light my way, To nerve my country with the patriot lay, To teach all men where all their interest lies, How rulers may be just and nations wise: Strong in thy strength I bend no suppliant knee, Invoke no miracle, no Muse but thee."

"He open'd calm the universal cause, To give each realm its limit and its laws, Bid the last breath of tired contention cease, And bind all regions in the leagues of peace; Till one confederate, condependent sway Spread with the sun and bound the walks of day, One centred system, one all-ruling soul Live thro the parts and regulate the whole."

"Here then, said Hesper, with a blissful smile, Behold the fruits of thy long years of toil. To yon bright borders of Atlantic day Thy swelling pinions led the trackless way, And taught mankind such useful deeds to dare, To trace new seas and happy nations rear; Till by fraternal hands their sails unfurl'd Have waved at last in union o'er the world. Then let thy steadfast soul no more complain Of dangers braved and griefs endured in vain, Of courts insidious, envy's poison'd stings, The loss of empire and the frown of kings; While these broad views thy better thoughts compose To spurn the malice of insulting foes; And all the joys descending ages gain, Repay thy labors and remove thy pain."

"In his poems, George Oppen wanted words to act out “truthful, lived experience.” His poetry is very literally a practice of perception. He even speaks of emotion “as the ability to perceive.” The syntax of an Oppen poem rivets our attention to both word and world in an enactment of intentional consciousness, the very act of perception and thought coming into being, of language and feeling arising as experience. His poems can be intricate, the syntax polyvalent, the disclosure nonlinear and difficult to render into anything like statement. And as such, his poetry might be considered an expression of life. As the Biblical Isaiah reminds us, “it shall be a vexation only to understand.” Clarity is not the same thing as simplicity."

"I've gone back more and more to Creeley, Duncan, and Olson in recent years. More recently to George Oppen, Robin Blaser."

"Oppen writes in his notebooks, “I choose to believe in the natural consciousness, I see what the deer see, the desire NOT TO is the desire to be alone in fear of equality/ I see what the grass (blade) would see if it had eyes”. Instead of the traditional Western account of a consciousness that digests the external world, Oppen honors a consciousness interwoven with the world of objects, a consciousness that is nothing if not a collaboration with the world."

"And we saw the seed, The minuscule Sequoia seed In the museum by the tremendous slab Of the tree. And imagined the seed In soil and the growth quickened So that we saw the seed reach out, forcing Earth thru itself into bark, wood, the green Needles of a redwood until the tree Stood in the room without soil— How much of the earth's Crust has lived The seed’s violence! The shock is metaphysical."

"The steel worker on the girder Learned not to look down, and does his work And there are words we have learned Not to look at, Not to look for substance Below them. But we are on the verge Of vertigo."

"things explain each other, Not themselves."

"'O city ladies' Your coats wrapped, Your hips a possession Your shoes arched Your walk is sharp Your breasts Pertain to lingerie"

"Perhaps what I would like is a truly democratic culture. Not a polemic nor a moralistic culture in the arts but a culture which permits one man to speak to another honestly and modestly and in freedom and to say what he thinks and what he feels, to express his doubts and his fears, his immoral as well as his moral impulses, to say what he thinks is true and what he thinks is false, and what he likes and what he does not like. What I am against is that we should all engage in the most vigorous and most polemic lying to each other for each other's benefit. — Who could have the conceit, the self-confidence to believe that that is what we should do throughout all the rest of human history?"

"They have lost the metaphysical sense Of the future, they feel themselves The end of a chain Of lives, single lives And we know that lives Are single And cannot defend The metaphysic On which rest The boundaries Of our distances."

"Oppen believes that “Poetry has to be protean; the meaning must begin there. With the perception.” In his notebooks he says that “the present, the sense of the present arrives before the words — and independent of them.” He paraphrases Jacques Maritain: “we awake in the same moment to ourselves and to things.” But even as he recognizes that neither the self nor the objects of the world can be seen apart from the world that contains them, Oppen does not obliterate their differences. He avows, “a blurring of the distinction between subjective and objective — There has been no instant in my life when such a blurring was possible for me/ for one thing: too much a carpenter: I know what a blue guitar is made of”."

"How many iambs to be a real human girl? Which turn of phrase evidences a righteous heart? If I know of Ovid may I keep my children?"

"At the library I would go the shelves alphabetically. I was drawn to anyone with a female name, with a Latino or Spanish name. There were very, very few. But as a teenager I discovered African American poetry. Gwendolyn Brooks was the first. Then Phillis Wheatley. I really identified with this slave woman writing poetry to assert and affirm her humanity. Suddenly my eyes were open to history. There was a whole explosion of African-American women poets-Audre Lorde, Nikki Giovanni, June Jordan. I have a poem in my head that's going to take me years to write down. Its working title is "On Thanking Black Muses." I owe them, because poetry really changed my life, saved it."

"When I read Jefferson's disparagement of Wheatley, it felt like he had been disparaging the entire lineage of Black poets who would follow her, myself included, and I saw a man who had not had a clear understanding of what love is. When Robert Hayden gave us the ballads to remember how captured Africans survived the Middle Passage and arrived on these shores, it was an act of love. When Gwendolyn Brooks wrote about the children on the South Side of Chicago playing with one another in neighborhoods left neglected by the city, it was an act of love. When Audre Lorde fractured this language and then built us a new one, giving us a fresh way to make sense of who we are in the world, it was an act of love. When Sonia Sanchez makes lightning of her tongue, moving from Southern colloquialisms to stanzas shaped by Swahili, traversing an ocean in one breath, it is an act of love. Jefferson's conceptions of love seem to have been so distorted by his own prejudices that he was unable to recognize the endless examples of love that pervaded plantations across the country: mothers who huddled over their children and took the lash so their little ones wouldn't have to; surrogate mothers, fathers, and grandparents who took in children and raised them as their own when their biological parents were disappeared in the middle of the night; the people who loved and married and committed to one another despite the omnipresent threat that they might be separated at any moment. What is love if not this?"

"A PHILLIS rises, and the world no more Denies the sacred right to mental pow’r; While, Heav’n-inspir’d, she proves her Country’s claim To Freedom, and her own to deathless Fame."