09-15-2023, 09:46 AM
Robert Lowell, John Berryman.
Sylvia Plath.
Anne Sexton.
Post-Eliot and Pound.
Anne Sexton is frowned upon.
Robert L. has family in the BiZ.
Pound is dry. Explain to me why is not dry.
Anne Sexton was a cute girl in the pod that spawned Plath out of Bert Lowell.
This is society. They were cute girls. Hughes, not Howard, that other guy, he laid his pipe. S. Plath became the feminist god.
Still god, mindyou. Not a goddess. The Daddy-Killer.
Robert Lowell was a freckle of sisters
among a face of ghylserine.
John Berryman picked up the still attached cerebral scalp.
This is mental illness going straight into verse, post-freud.
And at McClean, artistic therapy was endorsed, with Robert Lowell taking up professor there.
Eliot and Pound were Tradition. Are.
The new thing was the Confessionalists. Maybe Eliot and Pound were the star-setters, in their minds.
You had full-on with Ginsberg and people of that ilk.
The Northern intellectuals taking on the poetic dreams of their foreskins.
And the vulgar South. James Dickey and Red Warren, and others, the Poe of Place.
All registered gangsters of the same tantalizing legality.
Now, you mix up these words of these poets named here, and you have a fiesta.
If that's the game you want to adhere to,
but,
how you gonna work it?
Sylvia Plath.
Anne Sexton.
Post-Eliot and Pound.
Anne Sexton is frowned upon.
Robert L. has family in the BiZ.
Pound is dry. Explain to me why is not dry.
Anne Sexton was a cute girl in the pod that spawned Plath out of Bert Lowell.
This is society. They were cute girls. Hughes, not Howard, that other guy, he laid his pipe. S. Plath became the feminist god.
Still god, mindyou. Not a goddess. The Daddy-Killer.
Robert Lowell was a freckle of sisters
among a face of ghylserine.
John Berryman picked up the still attached cerebral scalp.
This is mental illness going straight into verse, post-freud.
And at McClean, artistic therapy was endorsed, with Robert Lowell taking up professor there.
Eliot and Pound were Tradition. Are.
The new thing was the Confessionalists. Maybe Eliot and Pound were the star-setters, in their minds.
You had full-on with Ginsberg and people of that ilk.
The Northern intellectuals taking on the poetic dreams of their foreskins.
And the vulgar South. James Dickey and Red Warren, and others, the Poe of Place.
All registered gangsters of the same tantalizing legality.
Now, you mix up these words of these poets named here, and you have a fiesta.
If that's the game you want to adhere to,
but,
how you gonna work it?