The bells of Poe, very nice!

I forgot an A! Alliteration! And for B --

Ballad meter & Black Mountain Poets.

Lord Byron (born George Gordon). This abc is a great memory-jogger of poets and poems. Byron is read very little today. I bet a biography of him would be fascinating, though maybe a little depressing, since he was an excessive kind of guy. He comes from the era (early 1800s) when poets could expect to be as revered and as rich as rock stars are today. His famous long poem "Don Juan" (meant to be pronounced "Jew-an") is extremely entertaining. I remember when I was trying to write my master's thesis, which centered on Wordsworth's "The Excursion," I came across Byron's put-down of it in Don Juan: something like, "A drowsy, frowsy poem called The Excursion/Written in a style that is my aversion." Perfect.

Edward Estlin Cummings (October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962), popularly known as E. E. Cummings, with the abbreviated form of his name often written by others in all lowercase letters as e. e. cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. His body of work encompasses approximately 2,900 poems, an autobiographical novel, four plays and several essays, as well as numerous drawings and paintings.

and another C

Even the g in cigars adds to the hard C sounds.

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
by Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He was an interesting example of a poet who seemed to be able to write well only when he shifted his mind to some less rational level. This reportedly happened under the influence of opium when he wrote a fragment about the emperor Kubla Khan, and then incorporated this very fragment into a poem about the fleetingness of his inspriation. I think my favorite of his poems is "Frost at Midnight," which begins with him as a schoolboy and ends with him addressing his infant boy.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.

Drop everything
drop dada
drop your wife
drop your mistress
drop your homes and fears
sew your children in the corner of the woods
drop the prey for the shadow, drop if necessary the easy life
what is presumed to be a life with a promising future
Get on the road.

Lachez tout Les Perdus Gallimand (1969) Andre Breton

MaryLupin wrote:Drop everything
drop dada
drop your wife
drop your mistress
drop your homes and fears
sew your children in the corner of the woods
drop the prey for the shadow, drop if necessary the easy life
what is presumed to be a life with a promising future
Get on the road.

Lachez tout Les Perdus Gallimand (1969) Andre Breton

I at first read your "signature" as your comment on this passage. It does fit, I think.

It has been awhile since I've noticed you posting on BT, Mary. Nice to see you back. Since DWill seems to think your quote is an appropriate comment on the line of poetry you posted for D, how about you translate it for those of us who do not know French?

Lachez tout Les Perdus Gallimand (1969) Andre Breton

I wasn't sure if I wanted to post this one for E or D, but since the other poets have been posted by last name --

Emily Dickinson
(December 10, 1830– May 15, 1886)


I dwell in Possibility
A fairer house than Prose
More numerous of windows,
Superior of doors,