Download All The Poems: Stevie Smith by Stevie Smith PDF

By Stevie Smith

The crucial version of 1 of recent poetry’s such a lot certain voices Stevie Smith is one of the hottest British poets of the 20th century. Her poem “Not Waving yet Drowning” has been extensively anthologized, and her lifestyles was once celebrated within the vintage 1978 motion picture Stevie. This new and up-to-date variation of Stevie Smith’s gathered poems contains hundreds of thousands of works from her thirty-five-year occupation. The Smith student Will may well collects poems and illustrations from released volumes, offers attention-grabbing information about their provenance, and describes a number of the types Smith awarded. Satirical, mischievous, teasing, disarming, Smith’s poems take readers from comedy to tragedy and again back, whereas her line drawings are via turns unsettling and beguiling.

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Extra resources for All The Poems: Stevie Smith

Sample text

When roof tiles are shattered, and ice melts away . . What is there? What is there left to say. Cold Mountain Poems 32 XIX The white crane flew with a bitter-flavored blossom, resting just once in a thousand li. He wanted to fly to P’englai Island, where all the fairies dwell, with only that flower to eat on the way. First his feathers began to fall, then far from the flock his heart fell too. How he wished for his old nest, but his wife and his boy never knew. XX I’m used to living in some hidden, shaded, mountain place, but once in a while I walk straight into the Kuo-ch’ing Temple, and sometimes I pay a call on old Feng Kan, or go to see that honorable sir, Shih Te, the foundling.

I Ranges, ridges, daunting cliffs, I chose this place with divination’s aid. The road’s for the birds, no man tracks there. And what is the yard? White clouds clothe dark stone. I lived here years, watching springs with The Great Change become winter. Here’s a word for the rich folks with cauldrons and bells: Fame’s empty, no good, that’s for sure. II Cold Mountain Road’s a joke, no cart track, no horse trail. Creeks like veins, but still it’s hard to mark the twists. Fields and fields of crags for crops, it’s hard to say how many.

As grains of sand are the multitudes who’ve sought the way like this. They’ve tried to lead the Way so too. How many, though, of any of these have ever reached nirvana? They throw out the gold and haul away the straw. But fooling other folks, they’ve fooled themselves. On a pathway made of sand, it’s hard to make a mud ball. XX X V I I I Long on the road, poor scholar! Cold and hungry, to and from the poles . . Free, retired, in love, with writing poems, scratch, scratch, with all your heart!

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