NationStates Jolt Archive

Who's the best American poet ever... is it the great rhyming and tempo skills of Frost and Dickinson or the non-rhyming free verse ( i call it a diary or journal) of Whitman?

Maybe Frost, maybe Sandburg.

CHICAGO
HOG Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I
have seen your painted women under the gas lamps
luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it
is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to
kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the
faces of women and children I have seen the marks
of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who
sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer
and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing
so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on
job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the
little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning
as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young
man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has
never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse.
and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of
Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog
Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with
Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Are those the only choices? Because you're leaving out people like Plath, Sexton (one of my favorites), Ginsburg, Thoreau, Sandburg, Carlos Williams, cummings, Parker, Brooks, Kerouac, Rich and even Shel Silverstein.

Anyway, I don't know if she's the "best" American poet, but Parker's always fun:

Say my love is easy had,
Say I'm bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad ---
Still behold me at your side.

Say I'm neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue ---
Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
And I get me another man!

imo... hands down, it's frost... when you consider that he was able to rhyme AND be deep in a short poem... or to convey profound meaning in his longer poems (EG, Mending Wall)... he was America's best. Look at this list of great poems:

The Road Not Taken
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Tree At My Window
Fire and Ice
Mending Wall
Desert Places
Fragmentary Blue
After Apple-Picking

The Road Not Taken might be the greatest American poem of all time... certainly one of the most recognizable... pleasing to the ear. Frost had a real knack for powerful endings:

"to say that for destruction, ice
is also great
and would suffice."

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference."

"As dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay."

"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."

"They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places."

"Good fences make good neighbors."

etc.

if you're wondering why Poe is on there... he wrote probably a top-5 American poem -- The Raven. He also had some other poetic adventures.

Are those the only choices? Because you're leaving out people like Plath, Sexton (one of my favorites), Ginsburg, Poe, Thoreau, Longfellow, Sandburg, Carlos Williams, cummings, Parker, Brooks, Kerouac, Rich and even Shel Silverstein.

Anyway, I don't know if she's the "best" American poet, but Parker's always fun:

Say my love is easy had,
Say I'm bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad ---
Still behold me at your side.

Say I'm neither brave nor young,
Say I woo and coddle care,
Say the devil touched my tongue ---
Still you have my heart to wear.

But say my verses do not scan,
And I get me another man!

Poe and Longfellow are in the poll

i also like Ralph Waldo Emerson... especially his great poem, "Give All To Love"

Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.

'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;—
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her bosom young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.

Well, it would sort of depend. To one way of looking, the best "American" poet would be one that sums up the exuberance and risk-taking that is supposed to be a hallmark of Americans. While Frost is certainly the master of rhyme, he does it in a traditional style. Mind you, I'm not taking anything away from his work, which I love. Just that when I think of "American" poets, I'm more inclined to go with someone like Williams Carlos Williams or e.e. cummings or even Dickinson because they struck out in new directions.

I favor cummings.

Poe and Longfellow are in the poll



Sorry, posted before the poll went up. Corrected.

Sorry, posted before the poll went up. Corrected.

the absence of the poll always messes up the first few posts. hehe

Well, it would sort of depend. To one way of looking, the best "American" poet would be one that sums up the exuberance and risk-taking that is supposed to be a hallmark of Americans. While Frost is certainly the master of rhyme, he does it in a traditional style. Mind you, I'm not taking anything away from his work, which I love. Just that when I think of "American" poets, I'm more inclined to go with someone like Williams Carlos Williams or e.e. cummings or even Dickinson because they struck out in new directions.

frost didn't always go the traditional rhyming route... "Mending Wall" is a good example of that.

okay... an attempt at free verse. hopefulyl this will make Whitman and Sandburg proud:

I am a dog
You are a bitch
I wear clothes
You wear clothes as well
Everything I see is what you see
I pick my nose and you eat my booger
You bite off my fingernail and I thank you
Because I no longer need my fingernail clippers

I watched a basketball game the other night
One team won, the other lost
I ate a hamburger with ketchup on it
Is it "Ketchup" or "Catsup"?
What would cats sup if they could sup?
Do cats eat or do they sup?
Do I eat or do I sup?
Do you eat or do you sup?
You'd probably have to ask the Table Manners Police for an answer to that one.

Grass grows all over the place
In your yard and in mine
You call them leaves
I call them blades
And bugs climb the blades as we climb trees
Man I'm glad I'm not a bug.
It would suck to have to look up at everything
All the time.

There is no point at all to this,
just the unthinking rambling of one attempting to be an average poet.
And to bring attention to the fact that anyone can write free verse
It is the biggest con against real poetry ever devised
Just a dumb-sounding and senseless journal of thought, really
Just novel things
Just like you are, and your dog, and my bitch.

Kerouac...or maybe Ginsberg

for those who voted for Poe:

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."


Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.


And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."


Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.


Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."


But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."


And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

frost didn't always go the traditional rhyming route... "Mending Wall" is a good example of that.

True, but even still his useage of language and form is more traditional than Kerouac, Williams or cummings. Again, though, it's just a personal preference and I love Frost. I just think that for a poet to be truly "American" there has to be a sense of pioneering to their work. Frost is, to my mind, one of the greatest poets who ever wrote and that's probably a better thing to be than simply a great "American" poet. But if you're looking for the essence of what makes American literature uniquely American, I don't think you can overlook that sense of the new and a willingness to embrace it with both arms.