Erotic Fridays: Amy Lowell

AmyLowell-2

Today’s poet is Amy Lowell. She was born Feb. 9, 1874, Brookline, Mass., U.S.—died May 12, 1925, Brookline) and was an American critic, lecturer, and a leading poet of the Imagist school.

Lowell came from a prominent Massachusetts family (her brothers were Abbott Lawrence Lowell, later president of Harvard, and astronomer Percival Lowell). She was educated in private schools and by her mother, and until she was 28 she did little but alternately live at home, where she enjoyed the life of a Boston socialite, and travel abroad. About 1902 she decided to devote her energies to poetry. It was eight years before her first piece, a conventional but not undistinguished sonnet, was published in The Atlantic Monthly, and two more before her first volume, A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass (1912), appeared.

On a visit to England in 1913 Lowell met Ezra Pound and discovered his circle, the Imagists. He included one of her poems in his anthology Des Imagistes (1914), and in that year she published her second book, Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, which includes her first experimentation with free verse and “polyphonic prose.” A Critical Fable (1922), an imitation of her kinsman James Russell Lowell’s Fable for Critics, was published anonymously and stirred widespread speculation until she revealed her authorship.

Lowell edited the three numbers of Some Imagist Poets (1915–17). Subsequent volumes of her own work include Men, Women, and Ghosts (1916), which contains her well-known poem “Patterns”; Can Grande’s Castle (1918); and Legends (1921). What’s O’Clock (1925), East Wind (1926), and Ballads for Sale (1927) were published posthumously. Her critical work includes Six French Poets (1915), Tendencies in Modern American Poetry (1917), and the two-volume biography John Keats (1925).

Please enjoy this little selection.

F. M. Laster
“I only like two kinds of men, domestic and imported.” -Mae West

Aubade

by Amy Lowell

As I would free the white almond from the green husk
So I would strip your trappings off,
Beloved.
And fingering the smooth and polished kernel
I should see that in my hands glittered a gem beyond counting.

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