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“My passion for accuracy may strike you as old maidish—but since we do float on an unknown sea I think we should examine the other floating things that come our way very carefully; who knows what might depend on it? So I’m enclosing a clipping about raccoons.”
Elizabeth Bishop in a letter to Robert Lowell (src)
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If I had a nickel for every time Robert Lowell played the adopted dad of a boy whose parents died in a trapezing accident and ended up being raised in a circus and whose best friend was an elephant, I would have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice
Robert Lowell, March 1, 1917 – September 12, 1977.
1970 photo by Gerard Malanga.
"Epilogue" by Robert Lowell
Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme— why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled? I hear the noise of my own voice: The painter’s vision is not a lens, it trembles to caress the light. But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot, lurid, rapid, garish, grouped, heightened from life, yet paralyzed by fact. All’s misalliance. Yet why not say what happened? Pray for the grace of accuracy Vermeer gave to the sun’s illumination stealing like the tide across a map to his girl solid with yearning. We are poor passing facts, warned by that to give each figure in the photograph his living name.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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My heart bleeds black blood for the monster.
Robert Lowell, Florence
"Azure day
makes my agonized blue window bleaker."
Robert Lowell - "Waking in the Blue" in Life Studies
A poem by Robert Lowell
Water
It was a Maine lobster town— each morning boatloads of hands pushed off for granite quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak white frame houses stuck like oyster shells on a hill of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped the raw little match-stick mazes of a weir, where the fish for bait were trapped.
Remember? We sat on a slab of rock. From this distance in time it seems the color of iris, rotting and turning purpler,
but it was only the usual gray rock turning the usual green when drenched by the sea.
The sea drenched the rock at our feet all day, and kept tearing away flake after flake.
One night you dreamed you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile, and trying to pull off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls might return like gulls to the rock. In the end, the water was too cold for us.
Robert Lowell (1917-1977)
Watch Robert Lowell introduce and read his poem.
