>>7567661 Robert Frost is a poet loved by people that don't read poetry as well as serious poets. People in the middle tend not to like him. His poems are comfy and seem simple, but often have more complicated meanings contrary to what they first may seem.
>>7567721 I remember reading an interview with him where he more or less sperged out and went on a tirade against the people that called him a nature poet. He said his poems deal with the human condition. I enjoy reading his poems when I want to experience the loneliness of living in the desolate rural new england.
>>7567740 let's get real, you only need to read like eight of his poems and you've got it. Granted, those who aspire to be deep, love to quote "The Road Not Taken" when they're boyfriend won't text them back
I'm not sure, because I think WB Yeats is pretty much acclaimed universally. I haven't heard a single good poet of the last century that dislike Yeats in any way. Yeats was a far better poet than frost, imo, and perhaps even a simpler poet for those who don't read poetry. I don't think he was the best poet of the century or anything like that, but he certainly is a staple of 20th century poetry and it's hard to find someone who hates him.
I didn't mean to insinuate he was better than Shakespeare, but I do think he may be the only one to get close, if not even with him. And there's something about him declaring he was better and having the goods to back it up, that impresses me.
> And there's something about him declaring he was better and having the goods to back it up, that impresses me.
I think that necessary for a good poet to have.
Ezra Pound himself considered himself Whitman's successor and his superior, and that attitude helped make him a good poet I'm sure.
Hart Crane thought he was at least equals with Whitman.
Auden considered himself a great poet by the age of 22.
Eliot really didn't have a single poet he thought he was better than, but he certainly thought he was the chosen successor in the canon.
Not that it's the case for all poets -- Dickinson was overawed by Shakespeare, Stevens himself doubted his abilities until he was in his fifties ("I'm no genius but I must write anyways"), and I'm confident Ashbery cowered before Auden.
I agree, anon. To add to what I was talking about with Whitman and Shakespeare, there's an interesting dichotomy between the two.
Shakespeare largely worked in rhyme and he had hundreds of characters that he inhabited and wrote from the perspective and mind of the character, the individual. No one was better at that. Whitman largely wrote from the perspective of the individual, inhabiting the mind of the masses and the collective whole.
It's particularly interesting because, at the end of the American Civil War, he declares Shakespeare done. That Shakespeare was the great bard of England and the English language up til then, but his - and by extension, England's - time is done. The young nation of America has passed it's greatest test and, in effect, "I/we'll take it from here."
>>7567802 it's poets like Stevens that keep my self-esteem from sleeping on the cutting room floor. Not just for his beautiful poetry, but for the fact he was wrinkly and not caught up in the fury of being only a poet. He was quite the successful businessman and knew the inner-working of the imagination. Being a little under half his age when he was first published only motivates me to try harder.
well if it helps your esteem more, read some of his uncollected poems from the Library of American "Collected Poetry and Prose". They're all dated. From the time he started writing poetry in 1898 to about 1910 he wrote awful victorian love poetry that was in no way even polished for trite mimickings of Swinburne. He didn't write a good poem until he was in his thirties. He improved steadily up until the time of his death. Auroras of Autumn is the third best american long poem, behind The Bridge and Song of Myself.
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth -- Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches' broth -- A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?-- If design govern in a thing so small.
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