Robinson Jeffers.

Hello! Can we think of a hotter, more manly poet than Robinson Jeffers? Not only that, but he just so happens to be my fave poet (alright, I have many) of all time. He has been somewhat neglected, in that I did not learn about him in high school- it wasn't till later. But now his reputation is on the rise and here to stay. I don't know why that is, but there has been much misinterpretation in regards to his work. He also is great with long poems, some nearing 20 pages or more. I've included a couple shorter ones just for brevity's sake. I have 2 poems I've written on his wife, Una, and you can see them if you scroll down my poem link list. "Of Una Jeffers" and "Una Instead" are the titles.

His lines are long, so that explains some of the placing of the words. Also, more of his poems can be found here.


Love The Wild Swan

"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting
Hash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
-This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan.

Science

Man, introverted man, having crossed
In passage and but a little with the nature of things this latter century
Has begot giants; but being taken up
Like a maniac with self-love and inward conflicts cannot manage his
hybrids.
Being used to deal with edgeless dreams,
Now he’s bred knives on nature turns them also inward: they have
thirsty points though.
His mind forebodes his own destruction;
Actaeon who saw the goddess naked among the leaves and his hounds
tore him.
A little knowledge, a pebble from the shingle,
A drop from the oceans: who would have dreamed this infinitely little
too much?

Their Beauty Has More Meaning

Yesterday morning enormous the moon hung low on the ocean,
Round and yellow-rose in the glow of dawn;
The night-herons flapping home wore dawn on their wings. Today
Black is the ocean, black and sulphur the sky,
And white seas leap. I honestly do not know which day is more beautiful.
I know that tomorrow or next year or in twenty years
I shall not see these things- and it does not matter, it does not hurt;
They will be here. And when the whole human race
Has been like me rubbed out, they will still be here: storms, moon and ocean,
Dawn and the birds. And I say this: their beauty has more meaning
Than the whole human race and the race of birds.