Edgar Bowers was an American poet who won the Bollingen Prize in Poetry in 1989.
Bowers was born in Rome, Georgia in 1924. During World War II he joined the military and served in Counter-intelligence against Germany. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 1950 and did graduate work in English literature at Stanford University. Bowers published several books of poetry, including The Form of Loss, For Louis Pasteur, and The Astronomers. He won two fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, and taught at Duke University and the University of California, Santa Barbara.
In Bowers's obituary, the English poet Clive Wilmer wrote, 'The title poem... more »
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Edgar Bowers Poems
For Louis Pasteur
How shall a generation know its story If it will know no other? When, among The scoffers at the Institute, Pasteur Heard one deny the cause of child-birth fever,
Amor Vincit Omnia
Love is no more. It died as the mind dies: the pure desire Relinquishing the blissful form it wore, The ample joy and clarity expire.
The Virgin Considered As A Picture
Her unawed face, whose pose so long assumed Is touched with what reality we feel, Bends to itself and, to itself resumed,
Before he wrote a poem, he learned the measure That living in the future gives a farm-- Propinquity of mules and cows, the charmed Insouciance of hens, the fellowship,
The Mountain Cemetery
With their harsh leaves old rhododendrons fill The crevices in grave plots' broken stones. The bees renew the blossoms they destroy, While in the burning air the pines rise still,
The Poet Orders His Tomb
I summon up Panofskv from his bed Among the famous dead To build a tomb which, since I am not read, Suffers the stone’s mortality instead;
The Stoic: For Laura Von Courten
All winter long you listened for the boom Of distant cannon wheeled into their place. Sometimes outside beneath a bombers’ moon
Walking back to the office after lunch, I saw Hans. “Mister Isham, Mister Isham,” He called out in his hurry, “Herr Wegner needs you.
An Afternoon At The Beach
I’ll go among the dead to see my friend. The place I leave is beautiful: the sea Repeats the winds’ far swell in its long sound,
1 The autumn shade is thin. Grey leaves lie faint Where they will lie, and, where the thick green was,
The clairvoyante, a major general’s wife, The secretaries’ sibyl, read the letters
The angel of self-discipline, her guardian Since she first knew and had to go away From home that spring to have her child with strangers,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
For Louis Pasteur
How shall a generation know its story
If it will know no other? When, among
The scoffers at the Institute, Pasteur
Heard one deny the cause of child-birth fever,
Indignantly he drew upon the blackboard,
For all to see, the Streptococcus chain.
His mind was like Odysseus and Plato
Exploring a new cosmos in the old
As if he wrote a poem--his enemy
Suffering, disease, and death, the battleground
His introspection. "Science and peace," he said,
"Will win out over ignorance and war,"
But then, the virus mutant in his vein,
"Death to ...