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At home, in my flannel gown, like a bear to its floe, I clambered to bed; up the globe's impossible sides I sailed all night—till at last, with my black beard, My furs and my dogs,…
Poet, critic and teacher, Randall Jarrell was born in Nashville, Tennessee, to Anna (Campbell) and Owen Jarrell on May 6, 1914. Mr. Jarrell attended the Vanderbilt University and later taught at the University of Texas. Mr. Jarrell also taught a year at Princeton and also at the University of Illinois; he did a two-year appointment as Poetry Consultant at the Library of Congress. Randall Jarrell published many novels througout his lifetime and one of his most well known works was in 1960, "The Woman at the Washington Zoo". Upon Mr. Jarrells passing, Peter Taylor (A well known fiction writer and friend of Mr. Jarrell) said, "To Randall's friends there was always the feeling that he was their teacher. To Randall's students there was always the feeling that he was their friend. And with good reason for both." Lowell said of Jarrell, "Now that he is gone, I see clearly that the spark of heaven really struck and irradiated the lines and being of my dear old friend—his noble, difficult and beautiful soul.")
Randall Jarrell şiirleri
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I walk beside the prisoners to the road. Load on puffed load, Their corpses, stacked like sodden wood, Lie barred or galled with blood…
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A bird that I don't know, Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow, Looks sideways out into the wheat The wind waves under the waves of heat.…
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Under the separated leaves of shade Of the gingko, that old tree That has existed essentially unchanged Longer than any other living tree,…
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The postman comes when I am still in bed. "Postman, what do you have for me today?" I say to him. (But really I'm in bed.) Then he says - what shall I have him say?…
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With beasts and gods, above, the wall is bright. The child's head, bent to the book-colored shelves, Is slow and sidelong and food-gathering, Moving in blind grace ... yet from the…
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Her imaginary playmate was a grown-up In sea-coal satin. The flame-blue glances, The wings gauzy as the membrane that the ashes Draw over an old ember --as the mother…
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If, in an odd angle of the hutment, A puppy laps the water from a can Of flowers, and the drunk sergeant shaving Whistles O Paradiso!--shall I say that man…
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Did they send me away from my cat and my wife To a doctor who poked me and counted my teeth, To a line on a plain, to a stove in a tent? Did I nod in the flies of the schools?…
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The spirit killeth, but the letter giveth life. The week is dealt out like a hand That children pick up card by card. One keeps getting the same hand.…
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Each day brings its toad, each night its dragon. Der heilige Hieronymus- his lion is at the zoo- Listens, listens. All the long, soft, summer day Dreams affright his couch, the dee…
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It was not dying: everybody died. It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes-- and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,…
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The letters always just evade the hand One skates like a stone into a beam, falls like a bird. Surely the past from which the letters rise Is waiting in the future, past the graves…
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Moving from Cheer to Joy, from Joy to All, I take a box And add it to my wild rice, my Cornish game hens. The slacked or shorted, basketed, identical…
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It sat between my husband and my children. A place was set for it—a plate of greens. It had been there: I had seen it But not somehow—but this was like a dream—…
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