I have been occupied lately trimming the ivy away from statuary faces on the fence, the edge of the brick walk, and from the Red Queen who surveys the rock pool, thinking about poetry as I worked. There are certain opposing principles which, to my mind, are always yoked in dynamic balance (or imbalance): classicism/romanticism, [...]
Archive for the ‘Dante Gabriel Rossetti’ Category
Unfurling within form
Posted in Alfred Lord Tennyson, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Elizabeth Siddal, form on November 5, 2009 | 2 Comments »
. 5. Bohemia on the Mississippi
Posted in Alfred Lord Tennyson, Algernon Swinburne, Allen Ginsberg, Basho, Bob Dylan, bohemia, cats, Christie Wirth, Christine Mack Gordon, coastal Washington, Dante, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Deborah Digges, dharma bums, Dinkytown, Gary Snyder, graveyards, Jack Kerouac, Jerry Rau, John Keats, John Macoubrie, Jonathan Sisson, Ken Kesey, love lost, Marjorie Buettner, meter, Mississippi River, New Formalism, peyote, poverty, Pre-Raphaelites, rhyme, Robin Zander, Robinson Jeffers, Rock River, Rusoff's Books, the Beats, the Loft, used bookstores, Victoria Dickinson, Virginia DeCourcey, W.B. Yeats, William Shakespeare, tagged bohemia, Gary Snyder, graveyards, New Formalists, Victoria Dickinson on May 26, 2008 | 7 Comments »
In later years: amid the bones of bohemia Once I began publishing poetry and some criticism in the 90s, I had hopes of finding the sort of bohemian literary community I had known a decade earlier when I had worked and rather starved in the Dinkytown neighborhood of Minneapolis for a number of years in [...]
12. Submerged in the waters of Lethe
Posted in absinthe, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Art Institute of Chicago, beauty, Catherine, Dante, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Elizabeth Siddal, Emily Bronte, gothic, graveyards, Heathcliff, John Keats, Lethe, love lost, moor, oblivion, opiates, poppies, poverty, Pre-Raphaelites, shadows, symbolism, Victorians, Virginia DeCourcey, tagged graveyards, Heathcliff, symbolism, Virginia DeCourcy on May 18, 2008 | 1 Comment »
Sleep, dream, opiates, oblivion. Years in which I read Keats above all others, culminating finally in a visit to his home on the edge of Hampstead Heath. A life surrounded by dark colors, drawn curtains, bottles of cabernet and candlelight. Solitary hours in a moonlit garden, midnight excursions to graveyards, daylong pilgrimages to the Symbolist [...]
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