The Famous Poetry Of Amy Lowell

The Famous Poetry Of Amy LowellWho was Amy Lowell? For the very few that do remember her, debate her as an obese, homosexual, and l adeptly, unmarried woman that enjoyed smoking cigars and wearing mens shirts. However, we overlook the fact that she is well-known for bringing the Imagist strawman to the United demesnes and that she is solely responsible for the creation of the polyphonic prose. Also, no one discusses how she a broke promiscuous from societys standards of what a young woman should be Brought up in a prestigious, affluent househ elder, she was taught how to be a young lady. Being a Lowell daughter, she would then be married off at the age of seventeen, alone no marriage proposal arrived for her that year. Since she had no right to an education, it was then that this seventeen-year-old girl began to educate herself by immer smatter herself in her fathers 17,000-volume library, where she discovered poet John Keats. From within the constraints of society, Lowell was able to break away and discover her true self. She once verbalise For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the nerve centre and quintessence of their lives. Amy Lowell lived by this very idea. Her books and her poetry are what gave her life and meaning. Through such, Lowell delved herself into the depths of nature and emotion as her key subjects when writing poetry.One specific quality of Lowells poetry was that she used sharp, clear language along with vivid imagery to make a statement. She saw no need in inserting vague and forked references. To her the best poetry was that which flowed by itself as in everyday language. There was no need to erect by the limitations that certain types of poetry brought ab start, such as Italian sonnets with their a-b-b-a format. Lowell is able to portray this very approximation process beautifully in lavenders, which is one of the best representations of imagi st poetry. The overall poem has no hidden or deeper meaning to it and in fact, can be taken completely literally, which is one of the reasons it holds so strong among former(a) imagist poetry. The poem begins with Lilacs,/ False Blue,/ White,/ Purple,/ assumption of Lilac, which Lowell continues to repeat at the beginning of stanzas 2 and 4 as well. This repeat of the subject, allows the reader to re localise on the true topic of the poem. At the same time, Lowell in the first stanza uses apostrophe to call directly to the lilacs, referring to them as you. The speaker continues to state that the lilacs are everywhere in this cutting England, watching a deserted house, as well as settling sideways into the grass of an old road (21, 17, 18). Slowly, Lowell begins to focus less and less on the physical characteristics of the lilacs, but more so on what they are physically doing and what they are capable of doing, personifying the lilacs in the process. The lilacs are now standing by the pasture-bars to give the cows nigh(a) milking, persuading the housewife that her dishpan was of silver, and flaunting the fragrance of its blossoms (28, 29, 31). Through these acts, the reader quickly sees the lilacs as benefiting the things and people around them. Finally towards the adjust in conclusion For the rest though, she continues to be just another poet lost in the depths of history.Lilacs,False blue,White,Purple,Color of lilac,Your great puffs of flowersAre everywhere in this my New England.Among your heart-shaped leavesOrange orioles hop like music-box birds and singTheir little weak soft songsIn the crooks of your branchesThe bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on descry eggsPeer restlessly done the light and shadowOf all Springs.Lilacs in dooryardsHolding sedate conversations with an early moonLilacs watching a deserted houseSettling sideways into the grass of an old roadLilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloomAbove a root cellar dug i nto a hill.You are everywhere.You were everywhere.You tapped the window when the p egester preached his sermon,And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver.And her husband an image of pure gold.You flaunted the fragrance of your blossomsThrough the large-minded doors of Custom Houses-You, and sandal-wood, and tea,Charging the noses of quill-driving clerksWhen a ship was in from China.You called to them Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,whitethorn is a month for flitting.Until they writhed on their exalted stoolsAnd wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.Paradoxical New England clerks,Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the Song of Solomon at night,So many verses before bed-time,Because it was the Bible.The dead fed youAmid the slant stones of graveyards.Pale ghosts who planted youCame in the darknessAnd let their thin hair b low through your clustered stems.You are of the color sea,And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.You cover the blind sides of greenhousesAnd lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glassTo your friends, the grapes, inside.Lilacs,False blue,White,Purple,Color of lilac,You have forgotten your Eastern origin,The veiled women with eyes like panthers,The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas.Now you are a very decent flower,A reticent flower,A funnily clear-cut, candid flower,Standing beside clean doorways,Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,Making poetry out of a bit of moonlightAnd a hundred or two sharp blossoms.Maine knows you,Has for eld and yearsNew Hampshire knows you,And MassachusettsAnd Vermont.Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode IslandConnecticut takes you from a river to th e sea.You are brighter than apples,Sweeter than tulips,You are the great flood of our soulsBursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,You are the smell of all Summers,The love of wives and children,The recollection of gardens of little children,You are State Houses and ChartersAnd the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.May is lilac here in New England,May is a thrush singing Sun up on a tip-top ash tree,May is white clouds behind pine-treesPuffed out and marching upon a blue sky.May is a green as no other,May is much sun through small leaves,May is soft earth,And apple-blossoms,And windows undefendable to a South Wind.May is full light wind of lilacFrom Canada to Narragansett Bay.Lilacs,False blue,White,Purple,Color of lilac.Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,Lilac in me because I am New England,Because my roots are in it,Because my leaves are of it,Because my flowers are for it,Because it is my fi eldAnd I speak to it of itselfAnd sing of it with my own voiceSince certainly it is mine.