This week: Edwin Arlington Robinson Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
The Garden
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
There is a fenceless garden overgrown
With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves;
And once, among the roses and the sheaves,
The Gardener and I were there alone.
He led me to the plot where I had thrown
The fennel of my days on wasted ground,
And in that riot of sad weeds I found
The fruitage of a life that was my own.
My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed!
And there were all the lives of humankind;
And they were like a book that I could read,
Whose every leaf, miraculously signed,
Outrolled itself from Thought’s eternal seed.
Love-rooted in God’s garden of the mind.
The Garden
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
There is a fenceless garden overgrown
With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves;
And once, among the roses and the sheaves,
The Gardener and I were there alone.
He led me to the plot where I had thrown
The fennel of my days on wasted ground,
And in that riot of sad weeds I found
The fruitage of a life that was my own.
My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed!
And there were all the lives of humankind;
And they were like a book that I could read,
Whose every leaf, miraculously signed,
Outrolled itself from Thought’s eternal seed.
Love-rooted in God’s garden of the mind.
On December 22, 1869, Edwin Robinson and his wife Mary Palmer, welcomed their son Edwin Arlington Robinson into the world. The couple lived in Head Tide, Maine. Robinson was one of three boys and grew up in Gardner, Maine. His family worked as a timber merchant, with a moderate income. Robinson started writing poetry at an early age. By the time he graduated high school he knew he wanted to be a writer. Robinson went to Harvard but dropped out after two years, when the family ran out of money. In 1892, Robinson’s father passed away. After his father’s death, his mother had a hard time making ends meet, the family lived quite poorly.
Robinson moved to New York City and lived in Greenwich Village. The house where he lived once housed many other writers and artists over the years. During this period of his life, Robinson could literally carry all his possessions in one backpack. His first publications were “The Torrent and theNight Before” and “The Children of the Night.” His third and fourth publications were “Captain Craig” and “The Town Down the River,” which Roosevelt helped him get published. During this time Robinson worked underground inspecting construction and was barely able to make ends meet. After meeting Roosevelt and him taking an interest in Robinson’s writing. Roosevelt helped him get a clerkship in the New York City Customs House. The pay was enough for Robinson to live comfortably on and devote most of his time to writing poetry.
In 1911 Robinson left his job and devoted his time solely to writing. His books had provided an income that would support him for the rest of his life. He was now able to spend his summers in New Hampshire focusing on a more relaxing lifestyle. In 1922 Robinson won
His first Pulitzer Prize for “Collected Poems.” In 1925, he won his second Pulitzer for “The Man Who Died Twice,” and he won his third Pulitzer in 1928 for “Tristram.”
In early 1935 Robinson fell ill from cancer and was hospitalized. He eventually slipped into a coma and passed away. Edwin Arlington Robinson died on April 6, 1935 in New York City. At the time of his death he had no immediate relatives still living.
The Dark House
by Edwin Arlington Robinson
Where a faint light shines alone,
Dwells a Demon I have known.
Most of you had better say
"The Dark House," and go your way.
Do not wonder if I stay.
For I know the Demon's eyes
And their lure that never dies.
Banish all your fond alarms,
For I know the foiling charms
Of her eyes and of her arms,
And I know that in one room
Burns a lamp as in a tomb;
And I see the shadow glide,
Back and forth, of one denied
Power to find herself outside.
There he is who was my friend,
Damned, he fancies, to the end--
Vanquished, ever since a door
Closed, he thought, for evermore
On the life that was before.
And the friend who knows him best
Sees him as he sees the rest
Who are striving to be wise
While a Demon's arms and eyes
Hold them as a web would flies.
All the words of all the world,
Aimed together, and then hurled,
Would be stiller in his ears
Than a closing of still shears
On a thread made out of years.
But there lives another sound,
More compelling, more profound;
There's a music, so it seems,
That assuages and redeems,
More than reason, more than dreams.
There's a music yet unheard
By the creature of the word,
Though it matters little more
Than a wave-wash on the shore--
Till a Demon shuts a door.
So, if he be very still
With his Demon, and one will,
Murmurs of it may be blown
To my friend who is alone
In a room that I have known.
After that from everywhere
Singing life will find him there;
And my friend, again outside,
Will be living, having died.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
| |  | Invalid Item
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#2289925 by Not Available. |
As I watch the mighty waves
crashing on the sand,
my mind ponders whether
everything in life is temporary
like these.
The tangerine sun setting
behind the palm trees
on the widespread beaches,
speaks of an adieu.
I wonder whether nothing
is permanent
like happiness or sorrow,
pleasure or pain,
life or death.
My chaotic mind finds
no answer to these questions
and feels uneasy with these
perpetual riddles of birth.
Honorable mention:
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#2289218 by Not Available. |
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Poetry: February 22, 2023 Issue [#11827]
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