Amy Clampitt Poems
- Beach Glass While you walk the water's edge, turning over ...
- Fog A vagueness comes over everything, as though proving ...
- Vacant Lot With Pokeweed Tufts, follicles, ...
- The Sun Underfoot Among The Su... An ingenuity too ...
- A Silence past parentage or gender beyond sung vocables the...
- On The Disadvantages Of Centra... cold nights on the ...
- Gradual Clearing Late in the day the fog wrung itself out ...
Amy Clampitt was born on June 15, 1920, and brought up in New Providence, Iowa. She wrote poetry in high school, but then ceased and focused her energies on writing fiction instead. She graduated from Grinnell College, and from that time on lived mainly in New York City. To support herself, she worked as a secretary at the Oxford University Press, a reference librarian at the Audubon Society, and a freelance editor.
Not until the mid-1960s, when she was in her forties, did she return to writing poetry. Her first poem was published by The New Yorker in 1978. In 1983, at the age of sixty-three, she published her first full-length collection, The Kingfisher.
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Comments about Amy Clampitt
While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning. The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.
toward the permutations of novelty—
driftwood and shipwreck, last night's
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of ...