'Tis told of one whose feet awhile were led Thro' Paradise, that when this earth again Was his with all its unrequited pain, He mourned not for the living splendor fled,…
George Sterling was, in his time, an acclaimed California-based playwright and poet who had famous mentors to lean on such as Ina Coolbrith and Ambrose Bierce. He was, according to many of his friends in his literary circle, the “uncrowned King of Bohemia” which referred to his regular presence in The Bohemian Club. This was a private gentlemen’s club that was set up in San Francisco in 1872 and was frequented by artists, writers, musicians and journalists. Sterling’s work was certainly lauded in the west coast area yet was barely acknowledged in other parts of the United States. George Sterling was actually born on the east coast on the 1st December 1869. This was in Long Island, New York and his father was a physician who dearly wanted one of his nine children to make the priesthood. George was sent to St Charles College in Maryland and fell under the tutelage of an English poet called John B Tabb. Perhaps this dissuaded him from any ambitions of becoming a priest (if ever he had any) and once his education was complete he saw his future in California. His uncle Frank had already gone west and had become a lawyer and real estate developer, and George followed in his footsteps when, at the age of 21, he entered the real estate brokering business. His passion though was in literature and he soon fell into the bohemian artistic scene in Carmel. This tiny enclave in San Francisco eventually became world famous for its artistic and literary residents and, of course, was associated with the movie actor Clint Eastwood in the late 20th century. Sterling was determined to make his living from writing poetry and one long piece attracted a great deal of critical attention. A Wine of Wizardry was described as “breath taking” and “the greatest poem ever written by an American author.” He also wrote plays to be performed at the Bohemian Grove theatre, an example being his 1907 drama in verse called The Triumph of Bohemia. In the same year Sterling’s mentor Ambrose Bierce made it possible for A Wine of Wizardry to be published in the September issue of Cosmopolitan magazine and this gave his work a degree of national attention. Bierce wrote the following as an introduction to the poem: Bierce likened the poem to the act of flinging “a profusion of jewels into so small a casket”. Unfortunately this did not have the galvanising effect on Sterling’s career that it should have. There was much suspicion about narcotic habits with easy access to his father’s drug store being quoted as a likely reason for it. This was never proved though, but his abuse of alcohol was a lot more evident. He had hoped to get a glimpse into another world through his work but, instead, he fell deeper and deeper into depression. Perhaps an ironic view of such a world could be seen in his poem The Wine of Illusion: A visionary, sometimes mystical poet, Sterling occasionally wrote children’s material such as The Saga of the Pony Express and he was influenced by poets such as Poe, Shelley and Keats. Yet, despite all this, he seemed to have a death wish during his later years. He carried a vial of cyanide with him and justified this extreme act with the following statement: “A prison becomes a home if you have the key”. Tragically, he used that “key” on the 17th November 1926 in his lonely room at the Bohemian Club. He was found dead, aged only 56, and it was written that
George Sterling şiirleri
Thy beauty is an altar where I kneel, Thy soul the Heaven of my constant pray'r. Darling, I find thine image everywhere, Thy lure in sunset and the moons that wheel…
Far up the mountain-side today The slopes are baked and hot; I find no shade upon my way, And water-springs are not.…
Soon come the winter days, when white Altair Spreads wings above the sunset. Soon the snow, A fleeting seed the twilight heavens sow, Descends from frigid levels of the air;…
Slowly among the wounded and the slain The gleaners take the harvest of the kings, But harvest-song no joyous maiden sings, And crimson fingers lift a crimson grain.…
The hot, huge slumber of the silent day Has left the listening world no word but peace. The broken shadows cease, Impassively, their weaving and their play,…
There is no wind to stir the cypress tree. Amber and chill the lucid sunset sank, A wine the breathless lips of Evening drank. Peace is upon the headland and the sea.…
Tho Fate, for quiet prayer, might grant me all, Little I ask beside the lasting grace And benediction of thy dear embrace — That hour of dream which holds my heart in thrall.…
Thou art the star for which all evening waits-- O star of peace, come tenderly and soon Nor heed the drowsy and enchanted moon, Who dreams in silver at the eastern gates…
I saw a mountain at the close of day, Snow-crowned and lonely, where the after-glow Lingered, the ghost of sunset, fading slow. I said, 'This is God's altar, and the way…
'The Bones of Agamemnon are a show!' And only yesterday I held in hand That fossil resin from the Baltic strand— The Miocene in mimic afterglow;…
Slow to the wanton sun's desire The vestal-bosomed buds unfold, Till poppies flaunt a silken fire, And buttercups a glassy gold.…
Like some regret that, half-forgot, Gropes into memory, Here in a shadow-chosen spot Thy music steals to me.…
The children of the flesh of men, They pass from night to night; They weep and laugh and labor, then Are lost to human sight.…
When I contemplate this mine urgent race And see what paths its tireless feet have worn, In silence and essential night forlorn, To each cold peak that gives on mental space,—…
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