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The poems of Laura Riding
. 1991 2nd print, bright clean copy, no markings, Professional booksellers since 1981
- GenresPoetry
419 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1938
11 people are currently reading
237 people want to read
About the author
Laura Riding
41 books10 followersLaura (Riding) Jackson was an American poet, critic, novelist, essayist and short story writer.
1923-1926 as Laura Riding Gottschalk
1927-1939 as Laura Riding
1963-1991 as Laura (Riding) Jackson
She also published under the pseudonym Madeleine Vara.
1923-1926 as Laura Riding Gottschalk
1927-1939 as Laura Riding
1963-1991 as Laura (Riding) Jackson
She also published under the pseudonym Madeleine Vara.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
February 17, 2008
Where was she all my college career? I ran into her through a review of the Telling by Auster and went on a search as if for fire for her work.
And what of her poetry that she herself eschewed? It's the clearest predecessor to Gluck. And Gluck might not even know it.
And what of her poetry that she herself eschewed? It's the clearest predecessor to Gluck. And Gluck might not even know it.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 1, 2010
She is no cause to herself,
Being not other then--
Though toiled in hydra-myth--
Than now she will be, is;
No miracle of mist born,
No mist that into sheerness turns,
Astounding self.
Same, same was she
As she is and is to be:
Last safety against nothingness
Where trials of number, power,
Are stopped from fall impetuous
To downward triumph,
Abyss of lone eternities.
There her surveillance,
And herself the common treasure--
That which is, and cannot fail to be,
ultimate something, living thread
by which the cloth of being,
Though an ancient rag,
Moulders not utterly.
And thus she at the last is,
And thus first was she,
Who in those ageing futures was
As present doom prorogued in hearsay
Where have you been from the lexicon, Laura Riding? I've never read verse as lyrically symphonic as yours in a poet i had never heard of. Maybe Shelley and Aime Cesare, and Walt Whitman. You are astounding.
Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy, long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
to ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
I can't believe her austerity, and yet her keen observation. she is a genius, and she does it in poesy. And even may your eyes caress / Proudly the used abundance. It's like reading Shakespeare, and by that i mean, it's reading lyrical spinning, and by that, i mean she is a master. She is a great embroiderer of phrases, that when spoken, coalesce on the identity, or framework, of the chosen emotion. So that, she is a poet:
Is this to be alone?
When, when the day when votary ghosts unpale
And shriek rebellion at themselves
So dumbly death-loyal serving her
In acquiescent guile--since never came
A word of angry flesh or impious meaning
Through that hushed screen of priding world?
When, when the day? Is this to be alone?
I think that this collection speaks worlds to the issue of there not being enough recognized female authors, whom we can allude to. Laura Riding is not only good, she is masterful. But because of the patriarchical suppression of women's literature, we miss a lot of these brilliant poets. I am sorry i am ranting, but the other day a girl accused the canon of not having a single good female author. Some typical names were thrown, but the old excuse, "They only write about themselves, about women," was strewn on the argument. Where are the women who write about the transgression of the spirit and time travel, about mythology and monsters? Laura Riding does it with a bang. I am so lucky to have found her.
Science, the white heart of strangers,
Bleeds with an immaculate grief--
Impatient brotherhood,
Tired apostates of curiosity,
Creed of apostatizing.
Truth need be but dead afterworld
To those who've had enough,
The readers and lookers-on--
As stars keep off, or to short minds
Night seems a less real time than day,
Not to be measured with or counted to
that quick self-evident sum of sun
Being not other then--
Though toiled in hydra-myth--
Than now she will be, is;
No miracle of mist born,
No mist that into sheerness turns,
Astounding self.
Same, same was she
As she is and is to be:
Last safety against nothingness
Where trials of number, power,
Are stopped from fall impetuous
To downward triumph,
Abyss of lone eternities.
There her surveillance,
And herself the common treasure--
That which is, and cannot fail to be,
ultimate something, living thread
by which the cloth of being,
Though an ancient rag,
Moulders not utterly.
And thus she at the last is,
And thus first was she,
Who in those ageing futures was
As present doom prorogued in hearsay
Where have you been from the lexicon, Laura Riding? I've never read verse as lyrically symphonic as yours in a poet i had never heard of. Maybe Shelley and Aime Cesare, and Walt Whitman. You are astounding.
Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy, long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
to ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
I can't believe her austerity, and yet her keen observation. she is a genius, and she does it in poesy. And even may your eyes caress / Proudly the used abundance. It's like reading Shakespeare, and by that i mean, it's reading lyrical spinning, and by that, i mean she is a master. She is a great embroiderer of phrases, that when spoken, coalesce on the identity, or framework, of the chosen emotion. So that, she is a poet:
Is this to be alone?
When, when the day when votary ghosts unpale
And shriek rebellion at themselves
So dumbly death-loyal serving her
In acquiescent guile--since never came
A word of angry flesh or impious meaning
Through that hushed screen of priding world?
When, when the day? Is this to be alone?
I think that this collection speaks worlds to the issue of there not being enough recognized female authors, whom we can allude to. Laura Riding is not only good, she is masterful. But because of the patriarchical suppression of women's literature, we miss a lot of these brilliant poets. I am sorry i am ranting, but the other day a girl accused the canon of not having a single good female author. Some typical names were thrown, but the old excuse, "They only write about themselves, about women," was strewn on the argument. Where are the women who write about the transgression of the spirit and time travel, about mythology and monsters? Laura Riding does it with a bang. I am so lucky to have found her.
Science, the white heart of strangers,
Bleeds with an immaculate grief--
Impatient brotherhood,
Tired apostates of curiosity,
Creed of apostatizing.
Truth need be but dead afterworld
To those who've had enough,
The readers and lookers-on--
As stars keep off, or to short minds
Night seems a less real time than day,
Not to be measured with or counted to
that quick self-evident sum of sun
December 29, 2007
more metaphysical than I ever would have thought myself capable of enjoying, but a compelling difficulty. a good reminder that there is something to be said for prolificness as I believe all of these were written by the age of 37
Currently reading
February 27, 2009i recently found laura riding through a paul auster essay.
auden was accused of imitating her, ashbery credits her with being a primary influence, and auster seduced me to read her-
3 A's for laura riding.
auden was accused of imitating her, ashbery credits her with being a primary influence, and auster seduced me to read her-
3 A's for laura riding.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews