Louise Bogan Poems
- To A Dead Lover The dark is thrown Back from the ...
- The Dream O God, in the dream the terrible horse began To ...
- Medusa I had come to the house, in a cave of trees, Facing ...
- The Alchemist I burned my life, that I might find A passion ...
- The Crossed Apple I’ve come to give you fruit from out my ...
- Women Women have no wilderness in them, They are provident ...
- Tears In Sleep All night the cocks crew, under a moon like ...
Born in Livermore Falls, Maine, in 1897. She attended Boston Girls' Latin School and spent one year at Boston University. She married in 1916 and was widowed in 1920. In 1925, she married her second husband, the poet Raymond Holden, whom she divorced in 1937. Her poems were published in the New Republic, the Nation, Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, Scribner's and Atlantic Monthly. For thirty-eight years, she reviewed poetry for The New Yorker.
Bogan found the confessional poetry of Robert Lowell and John Berryman distasteful and self-indulgent. With the poets whose work she admired, however, such as Theodore Roethke, she was extremely supportive and encouraging. She was reclusive and... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Quotationsmore quotations »
''Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.''Louise Bogan (1897-1970), U.S. poet, critic. "A Revolution in European Poetry," (written 1941), published in A Poet's Alphabet (1970).
''But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.''Louise Bogan (1897-1970), U.S. poet and critic. repr. In Selected Criticism: Poetry and Prose (1955). "Childhood's False Eden," (1940). Referring ...
''The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.''Louise Bogan (1897-1970), U.S. poet, critic. "Some Notes on Popular and Unpopular Art," (written 1943), published in Selected Criticism: Poetry and Pr...
To A Dead Lover
The dark is thrown
Back from the brightness, like hair
Cast over a shoulder.
I am alone,
Four years older;
Like the chairs and the walls
Which I once watched brighten
With you beside me. I was to waken
Never like this, whatever came or was taken.
The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind.
Apples come, and the month for their fall.
The bark spreads, the roots tighten.
Though today be the last
Or tomorrow all,
You will not mind.
That I may not remember
Does not matter.
I shall not be with you again.
What we ...