Robinson Jeffers

(10 January 1887 – 20 January 1962 / Allegheny, Pennsylvania)

Robinson Jeffers Poems

121. Birds 4/12/2010
122. Let Them Alone 1/13/2003
123. Tor House 1/13/2003
124. Rock And Hawk 1/13/2003
125. Summer Holiday 1/13/2003
126. July Fourth By The Ocean 1/13/2003
127. To The Stone-Cutters 1/13/2003
128. Ave Caesar 1/13/2003
129. Return 1/13/2003
130. The Epic Stars 1/13/2003
131. Contemplation Of The Sword 1/13/2003
132. The Purse-Seine 1/13/2003
133. Ascent To The Sierras 1/13/2003
134. The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean 1/13/2003
135. Shine, Perishing Republic 1/13/2003
136. Carmel Point 1/13/2003
137. The Answer 1/13/2003
138. Fire On The Hills 1/13/2003
139. Be Angry At The Sun 1/13/2003
140. Hurt Hawks 1/13/2003
141. Vulture 1/13/2003

Comments about Robinson Jeffers

  • Anthony White (9/12/2011 1:23:00 PM)

    In a strange way, his lack of popularity is probably a testimony to his insight; people are shy of hearing what disagrees with the common view. His ability to look beyond the tepid matters of today reminds me of the work of David Jones, someone else maturing gently in obscurity.

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  • Yacov Mitchenko (7/19/2010 11:53:00 PM)

    Robinson Jeffers is a criminally underrated poet, easily the equal of Eliot and Frost (and in my view a better poet than either) . 'Hurt Hawks' and 'Vulture' are among the best animals poems I have read in the language. He's a formidable epic poet, and is generally more successful than the other major English poets at long narratives.

Best Poem of Robinson Jeffers

Vulture

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling
high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit
narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-
feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, 'My dear bird, we are wasting time
here.
These old bones will still work; ...

Read the full of Vulture

The Eye

The Atlantic is a stormy moat; and the Mediterranean,
The blue pool in the old garden,
More than five thousand years has drunk sacrifice
Of ships and blood, and shines in the sun; but here the Pacific--
Our ships, planes, wars are perfectly irrelevant.
Neither our present blood-feud with the brave dwarfs
Nor any future world-quarrel of westering
And eastering man, the bloody migrations, greed of power, clash of
faiths--

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