William De Witt Snodgrass
Biography of 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 demobilization in 1946, Snodgrass transferred to the University of Iowa and enrolled in the Iowa Writers' Workshop, originally intending to become a playwright but eventually joining the poetry workshop which was attracting as teachers some of the finest poetic talents of the day, among them John Berryman, Randall Jarrell and Robert Lowell. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1949, a Master of Arts degree in 1951, and a Master of Fine Arts degree in 1953.
Snodgrass was known to friends throughout his life as "De", pronounced "dee", but only published using his initials. He had a long and distinguished academic career, having taught at Cornell (1955-7), Rochester (1957-8), Wayne State (1959–68), Syracuse (1968–1977), Old Dominion (1978-9), and the University of Delaware. He retired from teaching in 1994 to devote himself full-time to his writing. This included autobiographical sketches, essays, and the critical verse 'deconstructions' of De/Construct. He died in his home in Madison County, New York, aged 83, following a four-month battle with lung cancer, and was survived by his fourth wife, writer Kathleen Snodgrass.
Snodgrass had married his first wife, Lila Jean Hank, in 1946, by whom he had a daughter, Cynthia Jean. Their marriage ended in divorce in 1953 and it was the separation from his daughter as a result that became the subject of his first collection, Heart's Needle. The following year Snodgrass married his second wife, Janice Marie Ferguson Wilson. Together they have a son, Russell Bruce, and a stepdaughter, Kathy Ann Wilson. Divorcing again in 1966, he married his third wife, Camille Rykowski in 1967 but this ended in 1978. His fourth marriage to Kathleen Ann Brown was in 1985.
Snodgrass's first poems appeared in 1951, and throughout the 1950s he published in some of the most prestigious magazines: Botteghe Oscure, Partisan Review, The New Yorker, The Paris Review and The Hudson Review. However, in 1957, five sections from a sequence entitled 'Heart's Needle' were included in Hall, Pack and Simpson's anthology, New Poets of England and America, and these were to mark a turning-point. When Lowell had been shown early versions of these poems, in 1953, he had disliked them, but now he was full of admiration.
By the time Heart's Needle was published, in 1959, Snodgrass had already won The Hudson Review Fellowship in Poetry and an Ingram Merrill Foundation Poetry Prize. However, his first book brought him more: a citation from the Poetry Society of America, a grant from the National Institute of Arts, and, most important of all, 1960's Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. It is often said that Heart's Needle inaugurated confessional poetry. Snodgrass disliked the term. Still, it should be pointed out that the genre he was reviving here seemed revolutionary to most of his contemporaries, reared as they had been on the anti-expressionistic principles of the New Critics. Snodgrass's confessional work was to have a profound effect on many of his contemporaries, amongst them, most importantly, Robert Lowell.
Being tagged with this label affected his work and its reception and forced him into small-press publication for many years. Two new themes (eventually) restored his reputation, although at the time they first began to appear there was a perception by some that Snodgrass had 'wrecked his career'. One was The Führer Bunker cycle of poems, monologues by Hitler and his circle in the closing days of the Third Reich, a 'poem in progress' that began to appear from 1977 onwards and was finally completed in 1995. An adaptation of these for the stage was performed in the 1980s. The other theme was the series written in response to DeLoss McGraw's surrealistic paintings, which eventually grew into a partnership. In these poems, often uproariously rhymed, Snodgrass stood his former confessional style on its head at the same time as satirising contemporary attitudes.
William De Witt Snodgrass's Works:
1959: Heart's Needle
1968: After Experience: Poems and Translations
1968: Leaving the Motel
1977: The Führer Bunker: A Cycle of Poems in Progress
1979: If Birds Build with Your Hair
1981: These Trees Stand
1982: Heinrich Himmler
1983: The Boy Made of Meat
1983: Magda Goebbels
1984: D. D. Byrde Callying Jennie Wrenn
1986: The Kinder Capers
1986: A Locked House
1987: Selected Poems: 1957-1987
1988: W. D.'s Midnight Carnival
1989: The Death of Cock Robin
1993: Each in His Season
1995: The Führer Bunker: The Complete Cycle
2006: Not for Specialists: New and Selected Poems
In Radical Pursuit: Critical Essays and Lectures (1975)
After-images: autobiographical sketches (1999)
To Sound Like Yourself: Essays on Poetry (2002)
The Führer Bunker (1981)
Gallows Song (1967)
Six Troubadour Songs (1977)
Traditional Hungarian Songs (1978)
Six Minnesinger Songs (1983)
The Four Seasons (1984)
Five Romanian Ballads, Cartea Romaneasca (1993)
Selected Translations (1998) (Harold Morton Landon Translation Award)
De/Compositions: 101 Good Poems Gone Wrong (2001)
This page is based on the copyrighted Wikipedia William De Witt Snodgrass; it is used under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. You may redistribute it, verbatim or modified, providing that you comply with the terms of the CC-BY-SA.
William De Witt Snodgrass Poems
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.
Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia's steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was torn
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,
What’s unseen may not exist— Or so those secret powers insist That prowl past nightfall, Enabled by the brain’s blacklist
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.
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;
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
Fire, someone could have broken in.
As if things must have been
Too good here. Still, we always found
It locked tight, safe and sound.