Jon Victor Anderson was an American poet.
Anderson's first book, Looking for Jonathan, was an inaugural selection of the Pitt Poetry Series of the University of Pittsburgh Press in 1967. His second, Death & Friends, was nominated for the National Book Award.
He won a Guggenheim Fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation in 1976; the Shelley Memorial Award from Poetry Society of America in 1983 for career achievement; and a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship in poetry in 1986.
Born July 4 in Somerville, Massachusetts, to Henry Victor and Frances (Ladd) Anderson, he earned a BS from Northeastern University (1964) and a MFA from the ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Jon Anderson Poems
The Secret Of Poetry
When I was lonely, I thought of death. When I thought of death I was lonely. I suppose this error will continue.
Exiled On Mountain, Bewail Fate & Pr...
Now that I'm actually living my solitude I'm clueless. Every now & then the wind drops in & I look at it. These are the signs of seasonal change: I'm not sweating, & the hollow air in the chimney makes a thrumming noise.
So, at last, we will cross. Our season presupposes continents, lands of desire. We toss like unloved baggage where we stand,
Elevators, like great oaks rise into the evening, and when they descend you hardly know yourself. All night
Listen, Leo, remember the lifeboat we pilfered from what you said was an abandoned garage sale,
Then the air was perfect. And his descent to the white earth slowed. Falling became an ability to rest--as
Comments about Jon Anderson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The Secret Of Poetry
When I was lonely, I thought of death.
When I thought of death I was lonely.
I suppose this error will continue.
I shall enter each gray morning
Delighted by frost, which is death,
& the trees that stand alone in mist.
When I met my wife I was lonely.
Our child in her body is lonely.
I suppose this error will go on & on.
Morning I kiss my wife's cold lips,
Nights her body, dripping with mist.
This is the error that fascinates.
I suppose you are secretly lonely,
Thinking of death, thinking of love.
I'd like, please, ...