Presentation on theme: "From an Imagist manifesto: 1.To use the language of common speech, but to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word."— Presentation transcript:
From an Imagist manifesto: 1.To use the language of common speech, but to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, nor the merely decorative word. 2.We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free verse than in conventional forms. In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea. 3.Absolute freedom in the choice of subject. 4.To present an image. We are not a school of painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art. 5.To produce a poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor indefinite. 6.Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry.
Pound Axioms: Direct treatment of the "thing," whether subjective or objective. Use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome. An “Image” is that which presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time.
Hester Prynne’s Scarlet “A” Adultery Antinomianism Arrogance Ann (Hutchinson) Arthur (Dimmesdale)? Able Angel America? Ambiguity? Ambivalence? It has been said that Hawthorne is showing us in The Scarlet Letter that a society/culture constitutes symbols and struggles to define their signification: that is the work of politics.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? And miles to go before I sleep When the nightingale to his mate Sings day-long and night late My love and I keep state In bower, In flower, ’Till the watchman on the tower Cry: “Up! Thou rascal, Rise, I see the white Light And the night Flies.”
AVENGE, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not: in Thy book record their groans 5 Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 10 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem’d a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees. IN A STATION OF THE METRO The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day -- The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back, And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way, And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track. Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest, White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold, And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast, And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold. Somebody saw it go out of her sight, Under the coffin lid -- out through the door; Somebody finds only darkness and blight All through the glory of summer-sun light; Somebody’s baby will waken no more. Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep: I know not her name, but I echo her cry, For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep, The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep In the little white hearse that went rumbling by. I know not her name, but her sorrow I know; While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more, And back to my heart surged that river of woe That but in the breast of a mother can flow; For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.