Anna Thilda May "May" Swenson (May 28, 1913 in Logan, Utah – December 4, 1989 in Bethany Beach, Delaware) was an American poet and playwright. She is considered one of the most important and original poets of the 20th century, as often hailed by the noted critic Harold Bloom.
The first child of Margaret and Dan Arthur Swenson, she grew up as the eldest of 10 children in a Mormon household where Swedish was spoken regularly and English was a second language. Much of her later poetry works were devoted to children (e.g. the collection Iconographs, 1970). She also translated the work of contemporary Swedish poets, including the selected poems of Tomas ... more »
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May Swenson Poems
Body my house my horse my hound what will I do when you are fallen
In the pond in the park all things are doubled: Long buildings hang and wriggle gently. Chimneys
The Woods At Night
The binocular owl, fastened to a limb like a lantern all night long,
Blue, but you are Rose, too, and buttermilk, but with blood dots showing through. A little salty your white
Little Lion Face
Little lion face I stopped to pick among the mass of thick succulent blooms, the twice
That the Soul May Wax Plump
My dumpy little mother on the undertaker's slab had a mannequin's grace. From chin to foot the sheet outlined her, thin and tall. Her face uptilted, bloodless, smooth, had a long smile.
Stop bleeding said the knife I would if I could said the cut. Stop bleeding you make me messy with the blood.
Women Or they should be should be pedestals little horses moving those wooden
Analysis Of Baseball
It’s about the ball, the bat, and the mitt.
Fruit without a stone, its shiny pulp is clear green. Inside, tiny black microdot seeds. Skin
Staying At Ed's Place
I like being in your apartment, and not disturbing anything. As in the woods I wouldn't want to move a tree,
“Feel me to do right,” our father said on his deathbed. We did not quite know—in fact, not at all—what he meant.
A mouth. Can blow or breathe, be a funnel, or Hello. A grass blade or a cut. A question seated. And a proud
The Shape of Death
What does love look like? We know the shape of death. Death is a cloud immense and awesome. At first a lid
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen
Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt
Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead
How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye
With cloud for shift
how will I hide?