While the sun stops, or seems to, to define a term for the indeterminable, the human aspect, here…
Amy Clampitt was born in Iowa in 1920 and grew up, in her twilight years, to become one of the most respected American poets of her era. Brought up in a Quaker farming community, she originally went to Grinnell College before getting the qualifications to head for Columbia University. Although she always wanted to be a writer, it wasn’t until the publication of her collection The Kingfisher, when she was in her sixties, that she got the recognition that she deserved. Her early life was influenced by her grandfather who also enjoyed writing but most of all loved to read. By the time she was nine years old Clampitt was imitating Shakespeare’s sonnets and trying to find her own voice. At first, she wanted to write prose fiction and would spend much of her twenties and thirties striving to produce the novel that would bring her success. After leaving Columbia University, she headed for New York but found that academic work was not much to her liking. She traveled to Europe for a number of months and, when she returned, took up a post with the Oxford University Press. She worked as a librarian before becoming a freelance writer in the sixties, still trying unsuccessfully to write novels. Clampitt turned her attention to writing poetry from 1960 onwards, as much in response to the turmoil and political upheaval of the time as anything else, and published her first collection in 1974. Multitudes, Multitudes was not a big success but she began to publish her individual verses in New York magazines and gained some critical success. In 1983 she published two collections, The Summer Solstice and The Kingfisher. It was The Kingfisher that caught the critic’s attention, with its rich language and resonating imagery where she was compared to other female poets such as Marianne Moore and Hopkins. It also provided her with the opportunity to finally make a living as a poet, giving readings and lectures across the US. Many were astounded by the depth, vitality and complexity of her verse in The Kingfisher, especially from someone who was 63 years old and had, hitherto, hardly made a ripple in the literary world. Critic Edmund White noted that it was one of the most important debuts in the history of literature although Clampitt was never again able to replicate her initial success. She wrote several other collections in the following years, buoyed by her success, and, while the works received critical acclaim, they did not reach the heights of her debut. Her subsequent collections include What the Light was Like in 1985 and Archaic Figure in 1987, which was perhaps her most popular work after The Kingfisher. In 1992 she was made a MacArthur Foundation Fellow. Clampitt published her last work, A Silence Opens, in 1994 when she was in her seventies but unfortunately she died of cancer in the same year.
Amy Clampitt şiirleri
For whatever did it—the cider at the Ship Inn, where the crowd from the bar that night had overflowed singing into Southey’s Corner, or…
The West Village by then was changing; before long the rundown brownstones at its farthest edge would have slipped into trendier hands. She lived, impervious to trends, behind a po…
Nothing's certain. Crossing, on this longest day, the low-tide-uncovered isthmus, scrambling up the scree-slope of what at high tide will be again an island,…
past parentage or gender beyond sung vocables the slipped-between the so infinitesimal…
Force of reason, who shut up the shrill foul Furies in the dungeon of the Parthenon, led whimpering to the cave they live in still,…
While you walk the water's edge, turning over concepts I can't envision, the honking buoy serves notice that at any time…
The magpie and the bowerbird, its odd predilection unheard of by Marco Polo when he came upon, high in Badakhshan, that blue stone’s…
a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls' rough plaster imageless…
Lost aboard the roll of Kodac- olor that was to have super- seded all need to remember Somerset were: a large flock…
A vagueness comes over everything, as though proving color and contour alike dispensable: the lighthouse extinct, the islands' spruce-tips…
Late in the day the fog wrung itself out like a sponge in glades of rain, sieving the half-invisible…
In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985 The strange and wonderful are too much with us.…
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork…
Daily the cortege of crumpled defunct cars goes by by the lasagna- layered flatbed…
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