William De Witt Snodgrass
William De Witt Snodgrass was an American poet who also wrote under the pseudonym S. S. Gardons. He won the 1960 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
W. D. Snodgrass was born on January 5, 1926 in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania; the family lived in Wilkinsburg, but drove to Beaver Falls for his birth since his grandfather was a doctor in the town. Eventually the family moved to Beaver Falls and Snodgrass graduated from the local high school in 1943. He then attended Geneva College until 1944 and had an offer from the Juilliard School for admission because of his musical abilities on the timpani, but he was drafted into the United States Navy before he could accept. After ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
William De Witt Snodgrass Poems
Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia's steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was torn
The green catalpa tree has turned All white; the cherry blooms once more. In one whole year I haven't learned A blessed thing they pay you for.
Monet: “les Nymphéas”
The eyelids glowing, some chill morning. O world half-known through opening, twilit lids Before the vague face clenches into light; O universal waters like a cloud,
After Experience Taught Me ...
After experience taught me that all the ordinary Surroundings of social life are futile and vain; I’m going to show you something very Ugly: someday, it might save your life.
What’s unseen may not exist— Or so those secret powers insist That prowl past nightfall, Enabled by the brain’s blacklist
Sorting out letters and piles of my old Canceled checks, old clippings, and yellow note cards That meant something once, I happened to find Your picture. That picture. I stopped there cold,
These lawn chairs and the chaise lounge of bulky redwood were purchased for my father twenty years ago, then plumped down in the yard where he seldom went when he could still work
Who Steals My Good Name
My pale stepdaughter, just off the school bus, Scowled, 'Well, that's the last time I say my name's Snodgrass!' Just so, may that anonymous Mexican male who prodigally claims
A Locked House
As we drove back, crossing the hill, The house still Hidden in the trees, I always thought— A fool’s fear—that it might have caught
Magda Goebbels (30 April 1945)
This is the needle that we give Soldiers and children when they live Near the front in primitive Conditions or real dangers;
Observe the cautious toadstools still on the lawn today though they grow over-evening; sun shrinks them away.
The Poet Ridiculed By Hysterical Academi...
Is it, then, your opinion Women are putty in your hands? Is this the face to launch upon A thousand one night stands?
'One Snodgrass, two Snodgrass, three Snodgrass, four . . . I took my own rollcall when I counted seconds; 'One two three, Two two three, Three . . .,' the drum score Showed only long rests to the tympani's entrance.
The Campus On The Hill
Up the reputable walks of old established trees They stalk, children of the nouveaux riches; chimes Of the tall Clock Tower drench their heads in blessing: “I don't wanna play at your house;
When he would not return to fine garments and good food, to his houses and his people, Loingseachan told him, “Your father is dead.” “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Your mother is dead,” said the lad. “All pity for me has gone out of the world.” “Your sister, too, is dead.” “The mild sun rests on every ditch,” he said; “a sister loves even though not loved.” “Suibhne, your daughter is dead.” “And an only daughter is the needle of the heart.” “And Suibhne, your little boy, who used to call you “Daddy”—he is dead.” “Aye,” said Suibhne, “that’s the drop that brings a man to ...