Biography of Rob Dyer
Born in New Zealand of several early established (1839 and on) families of colonists, much influenced by father's experiences in WWII as a commander of the Maori Battalion, lives in exile from his two native cultures, neither perfectly mastered, first in Australia, then in the US, now in Paris. Has published in little magazines in New Zealand and New England. Educated in NZ and at Oxford and Hamburg, Professor of Classics at Indiana University, and University of Massachusetts, Amherst, publishing about 30 scholarly articles, chiefly on Homer, Cicero and Vergil, also taught Latin and Greek at Eton College and The Hotchkiss School.
Rob Dyer Poems
Rilke's First Duino Elegy, Rewritten For...
The First Duino Elegy of Rilke Rewritten for Roxana Dyer
Te Kapa Ma Taraia.7. Lt. Col. H.G. Dyer,...
Yes, I am still the young son for whom you forged that death-strewn retreat over the goat-path hills of Crete. But in the dark spaces where, tortured by the eyes of those you left prisoners on the shore, you tortured
To Canberra (1957)
To Canberra On the prismed green of your grey hills, where once when I was young only the kangaroo
To C.K. Stead (1957)
Reply to C.K. Stead, Letter to R.R. Dyer How can we desert the day who storm through the mists of morning?
Epitaph To Be Written On The Winds And W...
When I am gone, think no more ill of me; say, “He has traveled to another land, as he so often wished, these long, blonde-stone years
Elegy For The Fallen, September 11,2001
Once we foraged for grubs and for berries, fought for our passage if need be with hand and foot, or the delicate greenstone club. Then we tamed the horse to run like the wind,
Thoughts On The Roman Palatine
In Apollo’s portico among the empty shelves, Where nor gods nor poets spoke what emperors demand – Virgil’s vast shrine to loved Gallus dead, Ovid’s allegories of empire’s rape –
A Garden In Spring
A hillside garden in the evening gloom, the wild white hawthorn in flower - the man in the picture prays,
Oh smile not at me like an angel, raise not your arms to gather in my lips, say we lost each other while there was still time. It is not true that on the judgment day
To Wittgenstein, Oxford,1957 Words stir and patterns coil at your hard saying; thought, piercing the shapeless clay of memory's dug sites,
From Six Great Barrier Elegies: 4. On Me...
Who visits the old tin boatshed, now that the fish are gone? the runway broken, in the storm of '69, they say, the pulley rusted, one boat done for, the other - I boot it, feels sound enough, just needs paint and use.
From Six Great Barrier Elegies: 1. To T...
We have all at least once, somewhere else, died: bloodless, uncertain, wanderers, awaiting the judgment of motives - no, not of deeds - they were judged, also elsewhere -
Ode Written In Cincinnati,1968
All the birds of evening have taken sudden wing - out, out, away, over the Crosley right-field fence - midst the cheering benches he slugs the bases home.
On The Côte Sauvage.
The Atlantic gale that now abrades the Côte Sauvage stirs the savage skin as it has done since men dared raise these broken menhirs to the god that pounds the broken cliffs with wind and wave and the loud cry of the gulls.
To Iris Murdoch
You lectured bewilderingly on Reasons,
'Here ends my seventh lecture, ' randomly,
challenging all our categoric epistêmê.
Deconstructing Wittgenstein you taught
there is no divide between the heart and mind.
From an infinite array der Intensitäten -
with the rhetoric of particulars we call
identity, Intention, self-indulgent, self-creative