Robert Lowell
Robert Lowell
Robert Traill Spence Lowell IVwas an American poet. He was born into a Boston Brahmin family that could trace its origins back to the Mayflower. His family, past and present, were important subjects in his poetry. Growing up in Boston also informed his poems, which were frequently set in Boston and the New England region. The literary scholar Paula Hayes believes that Lowell mythologized New England, particularly in his early work...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth1 March 1917
CountryUnited States of America
September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.
I myself am hell; nobody's here
Once fishing was a rabbit's foot-- O wind blow cold, O wind blow hot
Life begins to happen. My hoppped up husband drops his home disputes, and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes
I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn.
Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone
We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.
Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
What can the dove of Jesus give You now but wisdom, exile? Stand and live, The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.
History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes.