NationStates Jolt Archive

Who is the best poet of the modernist period of literature (1920-1970)? Give reasons for your choice

Maybe John Betjeman.

Robert Burns.
He was brought back to life later. Then i had to kill him, he was getting too popular.

You left out Robert Frost.

Anyway, I voted cummings, but I like them all, more or less. Pound and Doc Williams and Eliot more, the others sort of less.

I could make a pretty good argument for any of the poets listed and half a dozen more that have been neglected, but that would end up being a ten-page essay I don't really need to write. Therefore, I'll simply answer "which of those poets listed above is your personal favorite," to which the answer would probably be T.S. Eliot.

damn, i knew i forgot one really notable poet, robert frost

You forgot more than one. Where are Sylvia Plath or Robert Lowell? :p

damn, i knew i forgot one really notable poet, robert frost

Me.

Me.

Even you're not that old.

You forgot more than one. Where are Sylvia Plath or Robert Lowell? :p

Who the hell is Sylvia Plath? I know a non-poet named Robert Lowell, so I'll assume you are talking about him.

T. S. Elliot

The Hollow Men is one of my favorite poems, as is The Naming of Cats.

T. S. Elliot

The Hollow Men is one of my favorite poems, as is The Naming of Cats.

Yes. The fact the same guy could write both is a sign of his talent.

Click Stand;13309122']Who the hell is Sylvia Plath? I know a non-poet named Robert Lowell, so I'll assume you are talking about him.

She goes by the nickname of Suicide-Plath.
You might find her near an oven.

Click Stand;13309122']Who the hell is Sylvia Plath? I know a non-poet named Robert Lowell, so I'll assume you are talking about him.

Ahem ...

Robert Lowell (March 1, 1917–September 12, 1977), born Robert Traill Spence Lowell, IV, was an American poet whose works, confessional in nature, engaged with the questions of history and probed the dark recesses of the self. He is generally considered to be among the greatest American poets of the twentieth century.

Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer.

Known primarily for her poetry, Plath also wrote a semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar, under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas, detailing her struggle with depression, specifically bipolar disorder.[1] Along with Anne Sexton, Plath is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry that Robert Lowell and W.D. Snodgrass initiated.

Click Stand;13309122']Who the hell is Sylvia Plath? I know a non-poet named Robert Lowell, so I'll assume you are talking about him.

Wiki is your friend.

(Also, please tell me you're very young or hate English class or something, so I can pretend it's okay that you've never heard of Plath...)

She goes by the nickname of Suicide-Plath.
You might find her near an oven.

Oh, come now. Suicide is hardly an unusual pastime among writers.

Wiki is your friend.

(Also, please tell me you're very young or hate English class or something, so I can pretend it's okay that you've never heard of Plath...)

Wiki is for outcasts!:D
and usually has a huge amount of interesting but not enirely useful information and by the time you've finished looking for what you want to find out, someone else knows it anyway.
And alot of it is incorrect, or long and very dull

Wiki is for outcasts!:D
and usually has a huge amount of interesting but not enirely useful information and by the time you've finished looking for what you want to find out, someone else knows it anyway.
And alot of it is incorrect, or long and very dull

The usefulness depends on what you're looking for. As to Wiki's accuracy, while it's true that there was a period not so long ago when you could make that claim, they've cleaned up their act a lot lately and if crap gets out there, they have a great many people ready to clean it out. And "long and very dull"? What, is your attention span that of a five-year-old?

The usefulness depends on what you're looking for. As to Wiki's accuracy, while it's true that there was a period not so long ago when you could make that claim, they've cleaned up their act a lot lately and if crap gets out there, they have a great many people ready to clean it out. And "long and very dull"? What, is your attention span that of a five-year-old?

ohhh flame.

ohhh flame.

Nah. Late in the day, more like. :p

Nah. Late in the day, more like. :p

tell me about it 11.45pm! i lost about 3 hours commenting on NSG! how on earth did that happen? do i have a problem?:eek:

Sylvia Plath. She wrote the best novel of all time, and her poetry isn't bad either.

What? No Ted Hughes? This poll is null and void...

Oh yeah...on a side note Sylvia Plath is shit...and anyone who thinks she can even shine the shoes of any of the aforementioned is a retard :)

Edward Gorey. I love reading his works, even though I go out of my way to avoid poetry in general.

Oh yeah...on a side note Sylvia Plath is shit...and anyone who thinks she can even shine the shoes of any of the aforementioned is a retard :)She wouldn't shine their shoes, she'd eat them for breakfast. ;)

damn, i knew i forgot one really notable poet, robert frost

Just one notable poet? How about W. H. Auden (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._H._Auden)?

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

ohhh flame.

Not even close. He made a comment about attention span, not the person.

Not even close. He made a comment about attention span, not the person.

"What, is your attention span that of a five-year-old?", i think that counts as a comment about the person. so it is close.

"What, is your attention span that of a five-year-old?", i think that counts as a comment about the person. so it is close.

Not even close. He didn't put the person down, he asked what his attention span was in a comparative manner.

"You HAVE the attention of a five-year-old" is closer to a flame.

When did NSG get so touchy?

Just one notable poet? How about W. H. Auden (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._H._Auden)?


Oh, man, I didn't even notice Auden was missing. I must have been even more tired than I thought yesterday.

Not even close. He didn't put the person down, he asked what his attention span was in a comparative manner.

"You HAVE the attention of a five-year-old" is closer to a flame.

When did NSG get so touchy?

I guess it's because of increasing depression rates as winter sets in. Less likely to go out so, some people are more likely to stay on internet all day, and perhaps become a bit too focused. Maybe a bit too much analysis wears you down after a while.

I could make a pretty good argument for any of the poets listed and half a dozen more that have been neglected, but that would end up being a ten-page essay I don't really need to write. Therefore, I'll simply answer "which of those poets listed above is your personal favorite," to which the answer would probably be T.S. Eliot.

Agreed. In my case, it's Eliot closely followed by Robert W. Service. (A note for those who only know him by his comic poems - RWS has some excellent serious poems. Do your self a favor and check out the likes of The March of the Dead (http://www.geocities.com/heartland/bluffs/8336/robertservice/marchofdead.html).

I guess it's because of increasing depression rates as winter sets in. Less likely to go out so, some people are more likely to stay on internet all day, and perhaps become a bit too focused. Maybe a bit too much analysis wears you down after a while.

An excellent point. Were you here, I'd buy you an excellent pint!

I'm confused as to why the modern period abruptly ends in 1970, but I'll go with Bukowski just the same.

I'm confused as to why the modern period abruptly ends in 1970, but I'll go with Bukowski just the same.

Another excellent point. Pints all 'round!

I've always had a problem with using the word "modern" to describe an artistic period. 'Cause what comesafter? You're forced to use complete nonsense term like "post-modern". Ugh.

Forget the modern period; George Gordon, Lord Byron all the way!

I was going to say Blok, but he's a Realist. Egh. Modernism's rubbish.

Modernism? BLECH! Poe is the best of all time! KNEEL TO HIM!

Wiki is your friend.

(Also, please tell me you're very young or hate English class or something, so I can pretend it's okay that you've never heard of Plath...)

Just joking, but I have seriously never heard of that Lowell guy. Is he supposed to be famous.

I Still hate all of her work though (and hate English class)...

I wrinkle my nose at your English-language 'poets'.

meh, I don't know any of the works of English poets (except maybe Shakespeare) I don't find poetry enjoyable in a language you don't fully understand. I like Hugo Claus as far as Dutch poets go, but I know next to nothing about poetry, so it could be he wasn't even a modernist (he did live in the right period) or that the works I like aren't modernist. Accidentally I was planning to start reading some poetry.

Rudyard Kipling (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling) was still alive and still writing in the 1902s & early '30s (He died in January 1936), although admittedly his best works -- such as "If" (http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_if.htm) -- were all of earlier date...

Just one notable poet? How about W. H. Auden (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._H._Auden)?

I'll see your elegiac Auden, and raise you the sharp one:

From Under Which Lyre

No matter; He shall be defied;
White Aphrodite is on our side:
What though his threat
To organize us grow more critical?
Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical,
Shall beat him yet.

Lone scholars, sniping from the walls
Of learned periodicals,
Our facts defend,
Our intellectual marines,
Landing in little magazines
Capture a trend.

By night our student Underground
At cocktail parties whisper round
From ear to ear;
Fat figures in the public eye
Collapse next morning, ambushed by
Some witty sneer.

In our morale must lie our strength:
So, that we may behold at length
Routed Apollo's
Battalions melt away like fog,
Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue,
Which runs as follows:

Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases,
Thou shalt not write thy doctor's thesis
On education,
Thou shalt not worship projects nor
Shalt thou or thine bow down before
Administration.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires
Or quizzes upon World-Affairs,
Nor with compliance
Take any test. Thou shalt not sit
With statisticians nor commit
A social science.

Thou shalt not be on friendly terms
With guys in advertising firms,
Nor speak with such
As read the Bible for its prose,
Nor, above all, make love to those
Who wash too much.

Thou shalt not live within thy means
Nor on plain water and raw greens.
If thou must choose
Between the chances, choose the odd;
Read The New Yorker, trust in God;
And take short views.His The Fall of Rome is a joy, too.

But I won't be voting him "best poet of the modern period", because for me the "best" poet is the one who speaks for and to me, or the time and the place where I am, and those change.

Like, Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle must surely bite for everyone with ageing parents. Judith Wright's flash-freezes on instants of Australian life, like watching birds taking a dust-bath, or feeling unfocussed imminence in a rainforest, they seem to link my feet more to the ground I'm walking. But that doesn't stop me getting a kick out of (definitely not modern) Barbara Frietchie, which is just so unbelievably, ridiculously American I can't help but grin.

Why bother choosing? The good ones are all good.

If I had to vote for one it'd boringly one be Dylan Thomas; right now, I'm quite enjoying Pablo Neruda.


My favourite poem of this period (and any other) would undoubtedly be:

Meeting Point by Louis B. MacNeice (1936-8)

Time was away and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs)
Time was away and somewhere else.

And they were neither up nor down;
The stream's music did not stop
Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
Although they sat in a coffee shop
And they were neither up nor down.

The bell was silent in the air
Holding its inverted poise -
Between the clang and clang a flower,
A brazen calyx of no noise:
The bell was silent in the air.

The camels crossed the miles of sand
That stretched around the cups and plates;
The desert was their own, they planned
To portion out the stars and dates:
The camels crossed the miles of sand.

Time was away and somewhere else.
The waiter did not come, the clock
Forgot them and the radio waltz
Came out like water from a rock:
Time was away and somewhere else.

Her fingers flicked away the ash
That bloomed again in tropic trees:
Not caring if the markets crash
When they had forests such as these,
Her fingers flicked away the ash.

God or whatever means the Good
Be praised that time can stop like this,
That what the heart has understood
Can verify in the body's peace
God or whatever means the Good.

Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here.

From the list, I'm taking modern as meaning 20th Century. So I'm really surprised Yeats hasn't had a mention. So many of the images original to him, have been so copied and imitated over the years, that they have almost become cliches.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I'm not a Larkin fan myself, but he's certainly up there with Plath, Hughes and Betjeman(if they deserve inclusion)

Neruda and Lorca, both have to be in the running, if we aren't restricting it to English Language poets.

I have a feeling that both John Lennon and Bob Dylan appear high on these type of lists when there is a public vote. (though if I was going down that path I'd go for Leonard Cohen)

If I had to vote for someone I think it would be Yeats, but my favourite poem of that period also comes from Louis MacNeice

The Sunlight on the Garden

The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.

I wrinkle my nose at your English-language 'poets'.

I extend my tongue at your elitism! English is the language in which poetry speaks to me. Sorry if that's not good enough.

I'll see your elegiac Auden, and raise you the sharp one:

*snip the excellence*

Why bother choosing? The good ones are all good.

Agreed.

I will see your sharp Auden and raise you the odic one:

Here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hymn_to_St._Cecilia), or...

I
In a garden shady this holy lady
With reverent cadence and subtle psalm,
Like a black swan as death came on
Poured forth her song in perfect calm:
And by ocean's margin this innocent virgin
Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer,
And notes tremendous from her great engine
Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited,
Moved to delight by the melody,
White as an orchid she rode quite naked
In an oyster shell on top of the sea;
At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing
Came out of their trance into time again,
And around the wicked in Hell's abysses
The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions
To all musicians, appear and inspire:
Translated Daughter, come down and startle
Composing mortals with immortal fire.

II
I cannot grow;
I have no shadow
To run away from,
I only play.

I cannot err;
There is no creature
Whom I belong to,
Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat
When it knows it
Can now do nothing
By suffering.

All you lived through,
Dancing because you
No longer need it
For any deed.

I shall never be
Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions
To all musicians, appear and inspire:
Translated Daughter, come down and startle
Composing mortals with immortal fire.

III
O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall,
O calm of spaces unafraid of weight,
Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all
The gaucheness of her adolescent state,
Where Hope within the altogether strange
From every outworn image is released,
And Dread born whole and normal like a beast
Into a world of truths that never change:
Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds,
Playing among the ruined languages,
So small beside their large confusing words,
So gay against the greater silences
Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head,
Impetuous child with the tremendous brain,
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain,
Lost innocence who wished your lover dead,
Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin
Is drawn across our trembling violin.

O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain.

O law drummed out by hearts against the still
Long winter of our intellectual will.

That what has been may never be again.

O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath
Of convalescents on the shores of death.

O bless the freedom that you never chose.

O trumpets that unguarded children blow
About the fortress of their inner foe.

O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions
To all musicians, appear and inspire:
Translated Daughter, come down and startle
Composing mortals with immortal fire.

Yay, stand back Oxford, here comes The NationStates Collection of International Verse. Even if it is mostly English.

Intangelon, I fold.