Robinson Jeffers

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

Robinson Jeffers Poems

121. Fawn's Foster-Mother 1/13/2003
122. To The Stone-Cutters 1/13/2003
123. The Deer Lay Down Their Bones 1/13/2003
124. July Fourth By The Ocean 1/13/2003
125. The Purse-Seine 1/13/2003
126. Sign-Post 1/13/2003
127. The Epic Stars 1/13/2003
128. Love The Wild Swan 1/13/2003
129. Rock And Hawk 1/13/2003
130. Contemplation Of The Sword 1/13/2003
131. The Stars Go Over The Lonely Ocean 1/13/2003
132. Inscription For A Gravestone 4/12/2010
133. Ascent To The Sierras 1/13/2003
134. Ave Caesar 1/13/2003
135. Carmel Point 1/13/2003
136. Shine, Perishing Republic 1/13/2003
137. Fire On The Hills 1/13/2003
138. Be Angry At The Sun 1/13/2003
139. Hurt Hawks 1/13/2003
140. The Answer 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

On Building With Stone

To be an ape in little of the mountain-making mother
Like swarthy Cheops, but my own hands
For only slaves, is a far sweeter toil than to cut
Passions in verse for a sick people.
I'd liefer bed one boulder in the house-wall than be the time's
Archilochus: we name not Homer: who now
Can even imagine the fabulous dawn when bay-leaves (to a blind
Beggar) were not bitter in the teeth?

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