Amy Lowell was an American poet. She belonged to the Imagist faculty of poetry. In 1926, she posthumously gained the Pulitzer Prize.
Listed here are a few of the most cherished poems by Amy Lowell.
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Greatest poems by Amy Lowell
- Lady’s harvest music
I’m waving a ripe sunflower,
I’m scattering sunflower pollen to the 4 world-quarters.
I’m joyful due to my melons,
I’m joyful due to my beans,
I’m joyful due to my squashes.
The sunflower waves.
So did the corn wave
When the wind blew towards it,
So did my white corn bend
When the pink lightning descended upon it,
It trembled because the sunflower
When the rain beat down its leaves.
Nice is a ripe sunflower,
And nice was the solar above my corn-fields.
His fingers lifted up the corn-ears,
His arms usual my melons,
And set my beans full within the pods.
Subsequently my coronary heart is completely satisfied
And I’ll lay many blue prayer-sticks on the shrine of Ta-wa.
I’ll give corn to Ta-wa,
Yellow corn, blue corn, black corn.
I wave the sunflower,
The sunflower heavy with pollen.
I wave it, I flip it, I sing,
As a result of I’m completely happy.
- White Currants
Shall I offer you white currants?
I have no idea why, however I’ve a sudden fancy for this fruit.
In the intervening time, the thought of them cherishes my senses,
They usually appear extra fascinating than flawless emeralds.
Since I’m, actually, empty-handed,
I may need chosen gems out of India,
However I select white currants.
Is it as a result of the raucous wind is hurtling around the house-corners?
I see it with curled lips and stripped fangs, gaunt and haunting power,
Come to snout, and nibble, and kill the little crocus roots.
We could name it white currants?
You might contemplate it as a logo should you pelase.
You might discover them tart, or candy, or merely agreeable in color,
As long as you settle for them,
- Two Lacquer Prints
The Emperor’s Backyard
ONCE, within the sultry warmth of midsummer,
An Emperor induced the miniature mountains in his backyard
To be coated with white silk,
That so topped,
They could cool his eyes
With the flicker of snow.
A clever man,
Watching the celebs move throughout the sky,
Within the higher air the fireflies transfer extra slowly.
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- 24 Hokku on a Trendy Theme
Once more the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my backyard.
They, a minimum of, unchanged.
How have I harm you?
You take a look at me with pale eyes,
However these are my tears.
Morning and night–
But for us as soon as way back
Was no division.
I hear many phrases.
Set an hour once I might come
Or stay silent.
Within the ghostly daybreak
I write new phrases in your ears–
Even now you sleep.
This then is morning.
Have you ever no consolation for me
My eyes are weary
Following you in all places.
Brief, oh brief, the times!
When the flower falls
The leaf is not any extra cherished.
Each day I worry.
Even whenever you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, subsequently.
To others you could appear homosexual,
I watch with grieved eyes.
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses don’t bleed;
Your fingers are protected.
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a vibrant moon,
So am I to you.
Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals–
How am I worthy?
Down a pink river
I drift in a damaged skiff.
Are you then so courageous?
Night time lies beside me
Chaste and chilly as a pointy sword.
It and I alone.
Final night time it rained.
Now, within the desolate daybreak,
Crying of blue jays.
Silly so to grieve,
Autumn has its coloured leaves–
However earlier than they flip?
Afterwards I feel:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is that this not sufficient?
Love is a recreation–sure?
I feel it’s a drowning:
Black willows and stars.
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
All the time one other!
Turning from the web page,
Blind with an evening of labor,
I hear morning crows.
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you stroll earlier than me.
Who might see clearly?
Candy odor of moist flowers
Over a night backyard.
Your portrait, maybe?
Staying in my room,
I considered the brand new Spring leaves.
That day was completely satisfied.
- The Touring Bear
GRASS-BLADES push up between the cobblestones
And catch the solar on their flat sides
Capturing it again,
Gold and emerald,
Into the eyes of passers-by.
And over the cobblestones,
Sq.-footed and heavy,
Dances the educated bear.
The cobbles reduce his ft,
And he has a hoop in his nostril
However nonetheless he dances,
For the keeper pricks him with a pointy stick,
Beneath his fur.
Now the gang gapes and chuckles,
And boys and younger ladies shuffle their ft in time to the dancing bear,
They see him wobbling
Towards a mud of emerald and gold,
And they’re enormously delighted.
The legs of the bear shake with fatigue
And his again aches,
And the shining grass-blades dazzle and confuse him.
However nonetheless he dances,
Due to the little, pointed stick.
- Cities in Colour
Pink slippers in a shop-window, and out of doors on the street, flaws of gray,
Behind the polished glass, the slippers cling in lengthy threads of purple,
festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood, flooding the eyes
of passers-by with dripping color, jamming their crimson reflections
towards the home windows of cabs and tram-cars, screaming their claret and salmon
into the tooth of the sleet, plopping their little spherical maroon lights
upon the tops of umbrellas.
The row of white, glowing store fronts is gashed and bleeding,
it bleeds pink slippers. They spout beneath the electrical mild,
fluid and fluctuating, a scorching rain – and freeze once more to purple slippers,
myriadly multiplied within the mirror aspect of the window.
They stability upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson lacquer;
they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked
in a wind-pocket; they flatten out, heelless, like July ponds,
flared and burnished by pink rockets.
Snap, snap, they’re cracker-sparks of scarlet within the white, monotonous
block of outlets.
They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets
into the gang outdoors, and echo in faint rose over the pavement.
Individuals hurry by, for these are solely footwear, and in a window, farther down,
is an enormous lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open each jiffy
and reveal a wax doll, with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair,
lolling awkwardly in its flower chair.
One has typically seen footwear, however whoever noticed a cardboard lotus bud earlier than?
The issues of gray, windy sleet beat on the shop-window the place there are solely
Thompson’s Lunch Room – Grand Central Station
Research in Whites
Flooring, ceiling, partitions.
Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces
By fixed sweeping.
The large room is colored just like the petals
Of an amazing magnolia,
And has a patina
Of flower bloom
Which makes it shine dimly
Beneath the electrical lamps.
Chairs are ranged in rows
Like sepia seeds
The chalk-white spot of a prepare dinner’s cap
Strikes unglossily towards the vaguely shiny wall –
Uninteresting chalk-white hanging the retina like a blow
By way of the wavering uncertainty of steam.
Vitreous-white of glasses with inexperienced reflections,
Ice-green carboys, shifting – greener, bluer – with the jar of shifting water.
Jagged green-white bowls of pressed glass
Rearing snow-peaks of chipped sugar
Above the lighthouse-shaped castors
Of gray pepper and grey-white salt.
Gray-white placards: “Oyster Stew, Cornbeef Hash, Frankfurters”:
Marble slabs veined with phrases in meandering strains.
Dropping on the white counter like horn notes
By means of an internet of violins,
The flat yellow lights of oranges,
The cube-red splashes of apples,
In excessive plated `epergnes’.
The electrical clock jerks each half-minute:
“Coming! – Past!”
“Three beef-steaks and a chicken-pie,”
Bawled by means of a slide whereas the clock jerks closely.
A man carries a china mug of espresso to a distant chair.
Two rice puddings and a salmon salad
Are pushed over-the-counter;
The unfulfilled chairs open to obtain them.
A spoon falls upon the ground with the impression of metallic putting stone,
And the sound throws throughout the room
Sharp, invisible zigzags
An Opera Home
Inside the gold sq. of the proscenium arch,
A curtain of orange velvet hangs in stiff folds,
Its tassels jarring barely when somebody crosses the stage behind.
Gold carving edges the balconies,
Rims the bins,
Runs up and down fluted pillars.
Little knife-stabs of gold
Shine out every time a field door is opened.
Flash in delicate explosions
On the blue darkness,
Suck again to some extent,
Hoops of gold
Circle necks, wrists, fingers,
Poise on heads
And fly up above them in colored sparkles.
The opera home is a treasure-box of gold.
Gold in a broad smear throughout the orchestra pit:
Gold of horns, trumpets, tubas;
Gold – spun-gold, twittering-gold, snapping-gold
The conductor raises his baton,
The brass blares out
Parvenu, fats, highly effective,
Wealthy because the fats, clapping arms within the bins.
Cymbals, gigantic, coin-shaped,
The orange curtain elements
And the prima-donna steps ahead.
A drop: clear, iridescent,
A gold bubble,
It floats . . . floats . . .
And bursts towards the lips of a financial institution president
Within the grand tier.
Afternoon Rain in State Road
Cross-hatchings of rain towards gray partitions,
Slant strains of black rain
In entrance of the up and down, moist stone sides of buildings.
Greasy, shiny, black, horizontal,
And over it, umbrellas,
Black polished dots
Struck to white
An on the spot,
Stream in two flat strains
Slipping previous one another with the smoothness of oil.
Like a four-sided wedge
The Customized Home Tower
Pokes on the low, flat sky,
Pushing it farther and farther up,
Lifting it away from the house-tops,
Lifting it in a single piece as if it have been a sheet of tin,
With the lever of its apex.
The cross-hatchings of rain minimize the Tower obliquely,
Scratching strains of black wire throughout it,
Mutilating its perpendicular gray floor
With the sharp precision of instruments.
The town is inflexible with straight strains and angles,
A chequered desk of blacks and greys.
Rectangular blocks of flatness
Crawl by with low-geared engines,
And move to brief upright squares
Shrinking with distance.
A steamer within the basin blows its whistle,
And the sound shoots throughout the rain hatchings,
A slender, degree bar of metal.
Onerous cubes of lemon
Superimpose themselves upon the fronts of buildings
Because the home windows mild up.
However the lemon cubes are edged with angles
Upon which they can’t impinge.
Up, straight, down, straight – sq..
Crumpled grey-white papers
Blow alongside the side-walks,
With out curves.
A horse steps in a puddle,
And white, obvious water spurts up
In stiff, outflaring strains,
Just like the rattling stems of reeds.
The town is heraldic with angles,
A sombre escutcheon of argent and sable
And countercoloured bends of rain
Hung over a four-square civilization.
When a road lamp comes out,
I stare upon it for absolutely thirty seconds
To relaxation my mind with the suffusing, spherical brilliance of its globe.
Streaks of inexperienced and yellow iridescence,
Rings veering out of rings,
Silver – gold –
Gray-green opaqueness sliding down,
With sharp white bubbles
Capturing and dancing,
Flinging shortly outward.
Nosing the bubbles,
Blue shadows towards silver-saffron water,
The sunshine rippling over them
In steel-bright tremors.
Outspread translucent fins
Flute, fold, and relapse;
The threaded mild prints via them on the pebbles
In scarcely tarnished twinklings.
Curving of noticed spines,
Then a sudden swift straightening
And darting under:
Indirect gray shadows
Athwart a pale casement.
Roped and curled,
Inexperienced man-eating eels
Slumber in undulate rhythms,
With crests laid horizontal on their backs.
Uneven disks of fish,
Slip, slide, whirl, flip,
And by no means contact.
Metallic blue fish,
With fins broad and yellow and swaying
Like Oriental followers,
Maintain the solar of their bellies
And glow with mild:
Blue brilliance reduce by black bars.
An rectangular pane of straw-coloured shimmer,
Throughout it, in a tangent,
A smear of rose, black, silver.
Brief twists and upstartings,
Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles:
Sunshine enjoying between pink and black flowers
On a blue and gold garden.
Shadows and polished surfaces,
Sides of mauve and purple,
A fixed modulation of values.
With inexperienced bead eyes;
Swift spots of chrysolite and coral;
Within the midst of inexperienced, pearl, amethyst irradiations.
A willow-tree sparkles
With little white jerks,
And lengthy blue waves
Rise steadily past the outer islands.
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That is all we have now on as we speak’s publish on the most effective poems by Amy Lowell. That is, nevertheless, not an exhaustive record, and if we’ve got missed out on a few of your favorites, then please be happy so as to add them within the remark part under.
Till subsequent time!
Featured picture supply: Pixabay, underneath Artistic Commons License
Poems By Amy Lowell That Paint You A Picture
Amy Lowell was an American poet. She belonged to the Imagist faculty of poetry. In 1926, she posthumously gained the Pulitzer Prize. Listed here are a number of the most cherished poems by Amy Lowell.
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