Dec 28, Dolors rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: Those who face the rising sun Shelves: Words that indeed do come; in deluges, in hasty frenzy, flooding the black tip of her charcoal pencil to fill her notebook and the hearts of countess wistful readers.
Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business. It is so close now that its two eyes have merged into a single green glare which grows wider and wider as the fox comes nearer, its eyes heading directly towards ours: The fox enters the lair of the head as it would enter its own lair, bringing with it the hot, sensual, animal reek of its body and all the excitement and power of the achieved vision.
The fox is The primitive poem longer a formless stirring somewhere in the dark depths of the bodily imagination; it has been coaxed out of the darkness and into full consciousness. It is no longer nervous and vulnerable, but at home in The primitive poem lair of the head, safe from extinction, perfectly created, its being caught for ever on the page.
And all this has been done purely by the imagination. For in reality there is no fox at all, and outside, in the external darkness, nothing has changed: In this particular instance it seems to me that the simile Sagar uses betrays him into an inappropriate critical response His comparison may be apt in one respect, for it is certainly true that there is a powerful element of magic in the poem.
But this magic has little to do with party-conjurors who pull rabbits out of top-hats. It is more like the sublime and awesome magic which is contained in the myth of creation, where God creates living beings out of nothingness by the mere fiat of his imagination.
It cannot even die in its own mortal, animal way. It will live for ever, it will never suffer from hunger or hounds. I have it with me wherever I go. And I made it. This feeling of uneasiness is heightened by the last stanza of the poem. If, at the end of the poem, there is one sense in which the fox is vividly and immediately alive, it is only because it has been pinned so artfully upon the page.
The very accuracy of the evocation of the fox seems at times almost fussily obsessive. Lawrence, who was also an intellectual in rebellion against his own rationalism, a puritan who never ceased to quarrel with his own puritanism. Lawrence has a much greater respect for the integrity and independence of the animals he writes about.
And at the end of the poem he is able, as it were, retrospectively to allow his dark sexual, sensual, animal alter ego to crawl off into the bowels of the earth, there to reign alone and supreme in a kingdom where Lawrence recognises he can have no part.
And so he pins the fox upon the page with the cruel purity of artistic form and locates its lair inside his own head.
On the one hand there is in his work an extraordinary sensuous and sensual generosity which coexists with a sense of abundance and a capacity for expressing tenderness which are unusual in contemporary poetry. On the other hand his poetry — and above all his poetry in Crow — is notorious for the raging intensity of its violence, a violence which, by some critics at least, has been seen as destructive of all artistic and human values.
But, as I have tried to show, the conflict may still be discerned. The fox itself does not flinch or deviate from its course.
It is on these conditions alone, perhaps, that its sensuality can be accepted by the poet without anxiety. Weasel and crow, as if moulded in brass, Move through an outer darkness Not in their right minds, With the other deaths. She, too, pursues her ends, Brutal as the stars of this month, Her pale head heavy as metal.
The poem begins by evoking, from the still and tiny perspective of the hibernating mouse, a vast intimacy with the tightening body of the earth. But before this gesture can even be completed it is overlaid by an evocation of violent striving: The line serves to evoke a precise visual image of the snowdrop, the relative heaviness of whose flower cannot be entirely supported by its frail stem.
In this way the feminine snowdrop — a little incarnation, almost, of the White Goddess — is located within that world of frozen and sleeping vitality which is created by the poem, a vitality which can only be preserved, it would seem, if it is encased within a hard, metallic, evolutionary will.
The beauty of this poem resides precisely in the way that a complex emotional ambivalence is reflected through language.
But if we can withdraw ourselves from the influence of the spell which the poem undoubtedly casts, the vision of the snowdrop cannot but seem an alien one.Aug 26, · Irish mutation; Radical Eclipsis with h-prothesis with t-prothesis ; ur-n-ur-hur-t-ur-Note: Some of these forms may be hypothetical.
Not every possible mutated form of every word actually occurs. From filmmaker Steve Olpin comes a short documentary (a "documentary poem") called Earth and Fire, about artist and primitive potter Kelly monstermanfilm.com film follows Kelly as she travels into "the backcountry of Southern Utah with a knife and a buckskin for 10 days to try to learn about Anasazi pottery by doing it the way the Anasazi did it.".
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Salvation by Grace Alone Welcomes you Genesis In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. Visit The Banner of Love a religious publication, created, edited and published in the interests of the Primitive Baptist Churches throughout the United States of America.
Poet and Poem is a social media online website for poets and poems, a marvelous platform which invites unknown talent from anywhere in the little world. Poem Quotation. Primitive and Contentment, Sometimes, I’m inclined to think That measures a man's civilization By the number of buttons he presses Must be a false criterion of .