Harry Crosby was an American heir, a bon vivant, poet, publisher, and for some, epitomized the Lost Generation in American literature. He was the son of one of the richest banking families in New England, a member of the Boston Brahmin, and the nephew of Jane Norton Grew, the wife of financier J. P. Morgan, Jr.. As such, he was heir to a portion of a substantial family fortune. He was a volunteer in the American Field Service during World War I, and later served in the U.S. Ambulance Corps. He narrowly escaped with his life.
Profoundly affected by his experience in World War I, Crosby vowed to live life on his own terms and abandoned all pretense of living the expected life of a ... more »
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Harry Crosby Poems
I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen the mirror crashes against my face and bursts into a thousand suns
Quatrains to the Sun
A sunfort flourished in my sunless heart Beyond the Sun. Here in a tower apart The sunbirds of my lady's eyes were caged Alas, poor targets for the sun-god's dart.
X., peasant, aged thirty-four and a half; Sun-Worshipper. Father and Mother were hard drinkers. Since his fifth year patient has had epileptic convulsions-i.e. he falls down unconscious, lies still two or three minutes, and
Invocation to the Mad Queen
I would you were the hollow ship fashioned to bear the cargo of my love the unrelenting glove hurled in defiance at our blackest world
Proud panoply of fans and frankincense, Gold blare of trumpets, flowered robes of state, Unnumbered symbols of magnificence, To lead Salome through the palace gate,
I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen. The mirror crashes against my face and bursts into a thousand suns. all over the city flags cracle and bang. Fog horns scream in the harbor. The wind hurricanes through the window. Tornadoes are unmuzzled as I begin to dance the dance of the Kurd Shepherds. I stamp upon the floor. I whirl like dervishes. Colors revolve dressing and undressing. I lash them with fury stark white with iron black harsh red with blue marble green with bright orange and only gold remains naked.
You business men with your large desks with your stenographers and your bell-boys and your private telephones I say to you these are the four walls of your cage. You are tame as canaries with your small bird-brains where lurks the evil worm you are fat from being over-fed you know not the lean wild sunbirds that arrow down paths of fire.
The Sun! the Sun! a fish in the aquarium of sky or golden net to snare the butterfly of soul
Unwedded from the world, I stray through trees To where a pool lies mirrored in the sun A disk of polished gold that I have won With labours not unknown to Hercules.
Raymonde If it were not for you I would not be glad today And I would continue to dream
I, The Sun, Lord of the Sky, sojourning in the Land of Sky, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish and declare the following to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all other wills, codicils and testamentary dispositions by me at any time heretofore made.
Why should I be subsevient to fate Si peu de chose before a giant world Poor little ship with little sail unfurled To catch the sun-breze at the harbor gate?
Comments about Harry Crosby
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I exchange eyes with the Mad Queen
the mirror crashes against my face
and bursts into a thousand suns
all over the city flags crackle and bang
fog horns scream in the harbor
the wind hurricanes through the window
and I begin to dance the dance of the
I stamp upon the floor
I whirl like dervishes
colors revolve dressing and undressing
I lash them with my fury
stark white with iron black
harsh red with blue
marble green with bright ...