I love love love poetry, and really enjoyed reading Amy Lowell. She had such beautiful and vivid imagery in her words, but threw in a lot of death as well. It was as if she saw the death in all things, but somehow twisted and tweaked it until there was beauty in that same death. "In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes." She wrote a lot about flowers, and I especially liked The Grotesque, as twisted as it is, with lillies' corpses lolling, and putrid...in somebody's hair! Typically, if somebody is wearing lillies in their hair, you'd say, "how pretty!" Once you think that those lillies are dead and lifeless bodies, decaying the whole time that same lady is dancing--it's kind of gross! I just can't get over her writing. Poets are artists. They are people who really mold words, paint with words. Her words...
"I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
the want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I Scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon."
...are beautiful.
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