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The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ into the New World: Poems 1946-1964.
Represents the American poet's first eighteen years of published writings
- GenresPoetry
187 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1974
4 people are currently reading
61 people want to read
About the author
Galway Kinnell
125 books191 followersKinnell studied at Princeton University, graduating in 1948. He later obtained a Master's degree from the University of Rochester.
As a young man, Kinnell served in the US Navy and traveled extensively in Europe and the Middle East. His first volume of poetry, What a Kingdom It Was, was published in 1960.
Kinnell became very involved in the U.S. civil rights movement upon his return, joining CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) as a field worker and participating in a number of marches and other civil actions.
Kinnell was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award for Selected Poems (1980), a MacArthur Fellowship, a Rockefeller Grant, the 1974 Shelley Prize of the Poetry Society of America, and the 1975 Medal of Merit from National Institute of Arts and Letters. He served as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 2001 to 2007.
As a young man, Kinnell served in the US Navy and traveled extensively in Europe and the Middle East. His first volume of poetry, What a Kingdom It Was, was published in 1960.
Kinnell became very involved in the U.S. civil rights movement upon his return, joining CORE (Congress of Racial Equality) as a field worker and participating in a number of marches and other civil actions.
Kinnell was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award for Selected Poems (1980), a MacArthur Fellowship, a Rockefeller Grant, the 1974 Shelley Prize of the Poetry Society of America, and the 1975 Medal of Merit from National Institute of Arts and Letters. He served as a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 2001 to 2007.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
November 11, 2014
Galway Kinnell was one of my poetic lights in my youth…I read and reared this book for many years, as I did many of his books. But this is a kind of poetry I liked then and always liked. These were my heroes in my twenties: James Wright, Bly, the Beats, the Black Mountain poets, Snyder, Stafford, Hugo, Kinnell.. Olds and some of the great women poets came a bit later… some of the Brits for sure, and some of the poets Bly and Wright in meeting them in Michigan introduced us to: Neruda, Vellaejo, Kabir, ecstatic poetry…. So when he died recently I decided to reread everything I had from him, and this was my first book from him, purchased maybe in 1970?
The title poem is terrific, but there are many many gems in here. From the first, his subjects were death, nature, sex… but these are early poems, collected from ten early years. Great stuff to read again.
The title poem is terrific, but there are many many gems in here. From the first, his subjects were death, nature, sex… but these are early poems, collected from ten early years. Great stuff to read again.
March 15, 2019
Masterful, and moving. The long poems here, especially the title poem, are incandescent.
January 2, 2008
The title poem is just brilliant, and there are many other gems here as well, Kinnell covers a lot of ground.
September 4, 2022
This was the perfect book for me to read during a busy fall semester. Poetry is perfect for reading when you're busy because not only can you put it down in between poems, but it also can be very soothing.
While Galway Kinnell is not my favorite poet, I find intense calmness in reading his words and enjoy immersing myself in his poetry for a while. And the man does certainly have a way with words. One of my favorite passages comes from a poem entitled "The River That Is East":
Oh, I just love that.
Overall, I have a hard time reviewing poetry because I feel as if much of the power of poetry resides in how it resonates with the reader. With that being said, if you enjoy poetry, I suggest checking him out. He's perfect for this time of year and for curling up with some steaming cider.
While Galway Kinnell is not my favorite poet, I find intense calmness in reading his words and enjoy immersing myself in his poetry for a while. And the man does certainly have a way with words. One of my favorite passages comes from a poem entitled "The River That Is East":
Buoys begin clanging like churches
And peter out. Sunk to the gunwhales
In their shapes, tugs push upstream.
A carfloat booms down, sweeping past
Illusory suns that blaze in puddles
On the shores where it rained, past the Navy Yard,
Under the Williamsburg Bridge
That hangs facedown from its strings
Over which the Jamaica Local crawls,
Through white-winged gulls which shriek
And flap from the water and sideslip in
Over a chaos of illusions, dangling
Limp red hands, and screaming as they touch.
Oh, I just love that.
Overall, I have a hard time reviewing poetry because I feel as if much of the power of poetry resides in how it resonates with the reader. With that being said, if you enjoy poetry, I suggest checking him out. He's perfect for this time of year and for curling up with some steaming cider.
February 12, 2013
I've read and reread Galway Kinnell's poetry over the years, and although I bring no scholar's claim to his work, I can attest to the power of his words. Kinnell's words show an honest, earthy, man who is open to the world around him.
I've often used the word "earthy" to describe Kinnell's work, but I've also seen "earthly" applied. Looking for the difference, I settled on this distinction from grammarist.com. "Earthly and earthy were originally synonyms, but the adjectives have undergone differentiation over time. Today, earthly means of, relating to, or characteristic of the earth (often as opposed to heavenly or divine). Earthy means (1) plain, (2) natural, or (3) indecent or coarse."
The reason I include this is that Kinnell's poetry fits both of these definitions. He certainly writes of the earthly, but he can do so in an earthy way. It is hard to walk away from Kinnell's poetry without the need to wash up, not from disgust, but from the dirt and grime he immerses you in. But it is the dirt and grime of a hard day working on a project -- it is a good feeling. Kinnell seems as if he can walk into the earth, and he does something much like this in one of his masterpieces, "The Bear." He is grounded in this world (earthly), and takes the world for what it is (earthy).
This collection, The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ Into the New World, Poems 1953-1964, is described as follows: "This newly assembled volume draws from two books that were originally published in Galway Kinnell's first two decades of writing, WHAT A KINGDOM IT WAS (1960), which included the poem "The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ into the New World," and FLOWER HERDING ON MOUNT MONADNOCK (1964). Kinnell has revised some of the work in this new edition, and comments on his working method in a prefatory note."
In this short, prefatory note, Kinnell explains he took out some "unsalvageable" poems, and then revised others. For him, writing is a process, so returning to these poems in 2002 (when this volume was published), he lets the process continue. There is no weeping and moaning over what was or should have been -- he makes changes he wants, and moves on. In a way, this reflects his poetry. It is unique mix of the objective and emotional. He can be moved by something in nature, describe it in an objective way, and then move forward from the experience, as opposed to pining to relieve it once again. He does not forget it, indeed he may be defined by it, but he does not get lost in it.
What this collection shows is Kinnell bouncing between his New York and Vermont homes, which he did for many years. The title poem, "The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ Into the New World," is a 14-part poem which recreates the sights and sounds from the outset.
"pcheek pcheek pcheek pcheek pcheek
They cry. The motherbirds thieve the air
To appease them. A tug on the East River
Blasts the bass-note of its passage, lifted
From the infra-bass of the sea. A broom
Swishes over the sidewalk like feet through leaves.
Valerio's pushcart Ice Coal Kerosene
Moves clack
clack
clack
On a broken wheelrim."
So many visual and auditory signals in that opening verse immediately put you in the context. But the words are simple, the images clear and not overwrought. They are earthy and earthly.
Throughout his work, Kinnell allows what he sees to speak for himself. He is a poet who gets out of the way of his poetry. Like the simple prose of Marilynne Robinson, Kinnell knows a simple phrase can carry a great deal of meaning. What he does in the city, works well in the country as well.
First Song
Then it was dusk in Illinois, the small boy
After an afternoon of carting dung
Hung on the rail fence, a sapped thing
Weary to crying. Dark was growing tall
And he began to hear the pond frogs all
Calling on his ear with what seemed their joy.
Soon their sound was pleasant for a boy
Listening in the smoky dusk and the nightfall
Of Illinois, and from the fields two small
Boys came bearing cornstalk violins
And they rubbed the cornstalk bows with resins
And the three sat there scraping of their joy.
It was now fine music the frogs and the boys
Did in the towering Illinois twilight make
And into dark in spite of a shoulder's ache
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk
The first song of his happiness, and the song woke
His heart to the darkness and into the sadness of joy.
Not only does Kinnell capture a simple scene, he allows the weight of it to show -- this is not a Norman Rockwell painting, but Kinnell is also not so cynical that he cannot find joy. What this poem also shows is Kinnell's respect for children and their experiences, which does not show up as much in this volume as some of his other work. This poem also shows that Kinnell does not simply present a laundry list of ideas for the reader to interpret. He is willing to interpret and offer his view.
In the second half of this volume, which is "Flower Herding On Mount Monadnock," there is a poem entitled "Spindrift," which ends with the verse:
Nobody likes to die
But an old man
Can know
A gratefulness
Toward time that kills him,
Everything he loved was made of it
It is a strong statement for a then young poet, but one that holds true, although I would argue the man does not need to be old. Gratefulness is not necessarily a time-bound attitude, although it is difficult for some to attain.
In the end, Kinnell creates that "earthy" and "earthly" poetry, which shows a world we can recognize. But through his poetry, we see more in it then we realize. It is not a forced deepening of everything we see; it is an openness to what the world has to say.
I've often used the word "earthy" to describe Kinnell's work, but I've also seen "earthly" applied. Looking for the difference, I settled on this distinction from grammarist.com. "Earthly and earthy were originally synonyms, but the adjectives have undergone differentiation over time. Today, earthly means of, relating to, or characteristic of the earth (often as opposed to heavenly or divine). Earthy means (1) plain, (2) natural, or (3) indecent or coarse."
The reason I include this is that Kinnell's poetry fits both of these definitions. He certainly writes of the earthly, but he can do so in an earthy way. It is hard to walk away from Kinnell's poetry without the need to wash up, not from disgust, but from the dirt and grime he immerses you in. But it is the dirt and grime of a hard day working on a project -- it is a good feeling. Kinnell seems as if he can walk into the earth, and he does something much like this in one of his masterpieces, "The Bear." He is grounded in this world (earthly), and takes the world for what it is (earthy).
This collection, The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ Into the New World, Poems 1953-1964, is described as follows: "This newly assembled volume draws from two books that were originally published in Galway Kinnell's first two decades of writing, WHAT A KINGDOM IT WAS (1960), which included the poem "The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ into the New World," and FLOWER HERDING ON MOUNT MONADNOCK (1964). Kinnell has revised some of the work in this new edition, and comments on his working method in a prefatory note."
In this short, prefatory note, Kinnell explains he took out some "unsalvageable" poems, and then revised others. For him, writing is a process, so returning to these poems in 2002 (when this volume was published), he lets the process continue. There is no weeping and moaning over what was or should have been -- he makes changes he wants, and moves on. In a way, this reflects his poetry. It is unique mix of the objective and emotional. He can be moved by something in nature, describe it in an objective way, and then move forward from the experience, as opposed to pining to relieve it once again. He does not forget it, indeed he may be defined by it, but he does not get lost in it.
What this collection shows is Kinnell bouncing between his New York and Vermont homes, which he did for many years. The title poem, "The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ Into the New World," is a 14-part poem which recreates the sights and sounds from the outset.
"pcheek pcheek pcheek pcheek pcheek
They cry. The motherbirds thieve the air
To appease them. A tug on the East River
Blasts the bass-note of its passage, lifted
From the infra-bass of the sea. A broom
Swishes over the sidewalk like feet through leaves.
Valerio's pushcart Ice Coal Kerosene
Moves clack
clack
clack
On a broken wheelrim."
So many visual and auditory signals in that opening verse immediately put you in the context. But the words are simple, the images clear and not overwrought. They are earthy and earthly.
Throughout his work, Kinnell allows what he sees to speak for himself. He is a poet who gets out of the way of his poetry. Like the simple prose of Marilynne Robinson, Kinnell knows a simple phrase can carry a great deal of meaning. What he does in the city, works well in the country as well.
First Song
Then it was dusk in Illinois, the small boy
After an afternoon of carting dung
Hung on the rail fence, a sapped thing
Weary to crying. Dark was growing tall
And he began to hear the pond frogs all
Calling on his ear with what seemed their joy.
Soon their sound was pleasant for a boy
Listening in the smoky dusk and the nightfall
Of Illinois, and from the fields two small
Boys came bearing cornstalk violins
And they rubbed the cornstalk bows with resins
And the three sat there scraping of their joy.
It was now fine music the frogs and the boys
Did in the towering Illinois twilight make
And into dark in spite of a shoulder's ache
A boy's hunched body loved out of a stalk
The first song of his happiness, and the song woke
His heart to the darkness and into the sadness of joy.
Not only does Kinnell capture a simple scene, he allows the weight of it to show -- this is not a Norman Rockwell painting, but Kinnell is also not so cynical that he cannot find joy. What this poem also shows is Kinnell's respect for children and their experiences, which does not show up as much in this volume as some of his other work. This poem also shows that Kinnell does not simply present a laundry list of ideas for the reader to interpret. He is willing to interpret and offer his view.
In the second half of this volume, which is "Flower Herding On Mount Monadnock," there is a poem entitled "Spindrift," which ends with the verse:
Nobody likes to die
But an old man
Can know
A gratefulness
Toward time that kills him,
Everything he loved was made of it
It is a strong statement for a then young poet, but one that holds true, although I would argue the man does not need to be old. Gratefulness is not necessarily a time-bound attitude, although it is difficult for some to attain.
In the end, Kinnell creates that "earthy" and "earthly" poetry, which shows a world we can recognize. But through his poetry, we see more in it then we realize. It is not a forced deepening of everything we see; it is an openness to what the world has to say.
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Kinnell, Galway
Kinnell, Galway
January 15, 2015
What a fine poet, one I don't recall hearing about previously (which is a reflection on me, not him) until I read the perceptive and moving obit of him in the October 30, 2014 NYT.
I'll be back in a day or two, but in the meantime here are a few stanzas from "For Robert Frost":
I saw you once on the TV,
Unsteady at the lectern,
The flimsy white leaf
Of hair standing straight up
In the wind, among top hats,
Old farmer and son
Of worse winters than this,
Stopped in that first dazzle
Of the District of Columbia,
Suddenly having to pay
For the cheap onionskin,
The worn-out ribbon, the eyes
Wrecked from writing poems
For us — stopped,
Lonely before millions,
The paper jumping in your grip,
And as the Presidents
Also on the platform
Began flashing nervously
Their Presidential smiles
For the harmless old guy,
And poets watching on the TV
Stated thinking, Well that’s
The end of that tradition,
And the managers of the event
Said, Boys this is it,
This sonofabitch poet
Is gonna croak,
Putting the paper aside
You drew forth
From your great faithful heart
The poem.
Back again. As I said, I don't recall hearing about Galway Kinnell until I read the New York Times obit of October 30, 2014. (There are many things I've never heard of, and many I've heard of and forgotten!) Kinnell looks like a prizefighter: big blunt face and muscular frame. No Percy Dovetonsils, if you know who I mean. He said he wanted to write poetry that you could understand without a graduate degree. (Come to think of it, I do have a graduate degree in literature and there are lots of poets I don't understand.) He had admirable social views, advocating for civil rights and the environment, supporting the antiwar movement. The Times obit notes that in 1963, when working for the Congress of Racial Equality, his voter registration efforts landed him in jail with a pimp and a car thief for cellmates. He probably got a poem or two out of that!
I'll be back in a day or two, but in the meantime here are a few stanzas from "For Robert Frost":
I saw you once on the TV,
Unsteady at the lectern,
The flimsy white leaf
Of hair standing straight up
In the wind, among top hats,
Old farmer and son
Of worse winters than this,
Stopped in that first dazzle
Of the District of Columbia,
Suddenly having to pay
For the cheap onionskin,
The worn-out ribbon, the eyes
Wrecked from writing poems
For us — stopped,
Lonely before millions,
The paper jumping in your grip,
And as the Presidents
Also on the platform
Began flashing nervously
Their Presidential smiles
For the harmless old guy,
And poets watching on the TV
Stated thinking, Well that’s
The end of that tradition,
And the managers of the event
Said, Boys this is it,
This sonofabitch poet
Is gonna croak,
Putting the paper aside
You drew forth
From your great faithful heart
The poem.
Back again. As I said, I don't recall hearing about Galway Kinnell until I read the New York Times obit of October 30, 2014. (There are many things I've never heard of, and many I've heard of and forgotten!) Kinnell looks like a prizefighter: big blunt face and muscular frame. No Percy Dovetonsils, if you know who I mean. He said he wanted to write poetry that you could understand without a graduate degree. (Come to think of it, I do have a graduate degree in literature and there are lots of poets I don't understand.) He had admirable social views, advocating for civil rights and the environment, supporting the antiwar movement. The Times obit notes that in 1963, when working for the Congress of Racial Equality, his voter registration efforts landed him in jail with a pimp and a car thief for cellmates. He probably got a poem or two out of that!
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews