Realism and Naturalism

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Realism and Naturalism ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe: "Sir I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation." 

http://www.luc.edu/faculty/cschei1/teach/rrn3.html

Realism and Naturalism

Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Stephen Crane (1871-1900) ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe: "Sir I exist!" "However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation." 

Stephen Crane (1871-1900) ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Do Not Weep Maiden, for War Is Kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind. 

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -- A field where a thousand corpses lie. 

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind. 

Stephen Crane (1871-1900) ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Do Not Weep Maiden, for War Is Kind

Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie. 

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind.

Edgar Lee Masters(1868-1950)

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Edgar Lee Masters ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Edgar Lee Masters

Fletcher McGee

She took my strength by minutes,She took my life by hours,She drained me like a fevered moonThat saps the spinning world.The days went by like shadows,The minutes wheeled like stars.She took the pity from my heart,And made it into smiles.She was a hunk of sculptor's clay,My secret thoughts were fingers:They flew behind her pensive browAnd lined it deep with pain.They set the lips, and sagged the cheeks,And drooped the eyes with sorrow.My soul had entered in the clay,

It was not mine, it was not hers;She held it, but its strugglesModeled a face she hated,And a face I feared to see.I beat the windows, shook the bolts.I hid me in a corner—And then she died and haunted me,And hunted me for life.

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Edgar Lee Masters

Minerva Jones

I am Minerva, the village poetess,Hooted at, jeered at by the Yahoos of the streetFor my heavy body, cock-eye, and rolling walk,And all the more when "Butch" Weldy Captured me after a brutal hunt.He left me to my fate with Doctor Meyers;And I sank into death, growing numb from the feet up,Like one stepping deeper and deeper into a stream of ice.Will some one go to the village newspaper,And gather into a book the verses I wrote?—I thirsted so for love!I hungered so for life!

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935)

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

E. A. Robinson (1869-1935)

Richard CoryWhenever Richard Cory went down town,We people on the pavement looked at him:He was a gentleman from sole to crown,Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said,'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -And admirably schooled in every grace:In fine, we thought that he was everythingTo make us wish that we were in his place.

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

E. A. Robinson

So on we worked, and waited for the light,And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head. 

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

E. A. RobinsonMiniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,   Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;He wept that he was ever born,   And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old   When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;The vision of a warrior bold   Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,   And dreamed, and rested from his labors;He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,   And Priam’s neighbors.

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

E. A. RobinsonMiniver Cheevy (2)

Miniver mourned the ripe renown   That made so many a name so fragrant;He mourned Romance, now on the town,   And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,   Albeit he had never seen one;He would have sinned incessantly   Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace   And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;He missed the mediæval grace   Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,   But sore annoyed was he without it;Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,   And thought about it.

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry

E. A. RobinsonMiniver Cheevy (3)

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,   Scratched his head and kept on thinking;Miniver coughed, and called it fate,   And kept on drinking.

ENGL 3370: Modern American Poetry