Was Ralph Waldo Emmerson the greatest American Poet?
>>7891047
Frost?
Whitman?
>>7891047
Bane?
>>7891068
Tell me about frost. Why does he travel the road not taken?
>>7891090
This
He was the best essayist, that is for sure. His poetry is deep and meaningful, but it is simply not as good as others that came after him. Mind you, though, that Emerson set the ground for his successors. He is like the Godfather of American Letters.
Pretty sure The Raven
>>7891141
Forgot about ole Edgy A
>>7891104
He didn't and he's lamenting the fact. But he lies to himself (and others) to make it seem like he did.
>>7891047
No, not really. Still good, though.
What is meant by American? Emerson was more of an Englishman than an American, I'd say.
>>7891207
Born in and lived in America
You guys are getting off-topic; E.A.P. is the greatest American poet of all time. I will bless this thread with the greatest poem ever written. It's called "The Raven."
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
>>7891175
Why would someone liminate a fact before being thrown out of life?
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
>>7891231
Is this ironic? Poe has incredibly repetitive and predictable rhythm and meter and in terms of subject matter and style is incredibly cliche and cheap. Really puts the poe in poetaster desu senpai
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Song of Myself is the greatest piece of art mankind has ever created.
>>7891253
>incredibly repetitive and predictable rhythm and meter
you mean, like, poetry?
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
>>7891257
Wrong. It's "The Raven."
to truly understand the raven you have to read poe's essay the philosophy of composition
poe fucking sucks
whitman is awesome
frost is chill
i haven't read emerson
>>7891276
reading it now. stay tuned
>>7891276
that was interesting
>>7891236
What do you mean?
>>7891100
This.
Bo Burnham trounces him t b h
>>7891467
He's wondering why someone would shoot a man before throwing him out of an airplane.
>>7891236
it doesn't matter what the fact is; what matters is the idea
>>7891257
this
>>7891257
>Song of Myself
That's a very strange way to spell Ecclesiastes
>>7891236
i don't know if i can laugh at this anon
i want to but
but my standards
>>7891260
>poetry
they even named the practice after him the absolute madman
>>7891047
Not even top 5, probably not even top 10
>>7892684
please enlighten us then. who are the top 10 american poets in your opinion. I'm dying to see which names you're gonna put instead of Emerson then proceed on telling you why you're wrong.
>>7892980
Whitman
Eliot
Pound
Dickinson
Frost
Longfellow
Cummings
Hart Crane
Stephan crane
Ashbery
>>7893558
>Cummings
>>7891047
Just as much as Hemmingway's was the best prose
>>7893578
even pound liked cummings. they kept up a long correspondence. stop parroting shit.
>>7892980
Bump for reply
>>7893558
This anon knows where it's at.
>>7893578
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
It's either Whitman or Ashbery.
It's Whitman
>>7896064
Gurantee Ashbery sucks better dick
>>7891100
Dubs of truth
>>7896113
That's an unfair comparison, the techniques have improved over the years.
>>7893558
>eliot
basically english
> pound
expatriate
>>7897369
Even though Eliot lived in England most of his life he was born and educated in America.
