By Stevie Smith
The crucial variation of 1 of contemporary poetry’s such a lot distinct voices Stevie Smith is without doubt one of the preferred British poets of the 20 th century. Her poem “Not Waving yet Drowning” has been broadly anthologized, and her lifestyles was once celebrated within the vintage 1978 motion picture Stevie. This new and up to date version of Stevie Smith’s gathered poems contains 1000's of works from her thirty-five-year occupation. The Smith student Will may perhaps collects poems and illustrations from released volumes, presents interesting information about their provenance, and describes a few of the types Smith provided. Satirical, mischievous, teasing, disarming, Smith’s poems take readers from comedy to tragedy and again back, whereas her line drawings are through turns unsettling and beguiling.
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Additional resources for All The Poems: Stevie Smith
It savors this fruit it never had to choose; it does not bore or sicken, grow out or up or old. It runs a tireless electric tongue over the skin, the dimples plugged with seeds like mattress buttons, the wrinkled sheets of cream. Nothing is diminished or consumed; the feeling is so pure it can be hard to tell the thing’s turned on at all. Sometimes I lie for hours, listening to be sure. 35 After Work After work I went to the Post Office having been preoccupied all day with the daily prospect of an urgent parallelogram from a friend from whom I had endured many degrees of separation.
You don’t flutter so much as you fumble, dog-paddle from petal to petal, hind-legs clotted with pollen enough to fill, if you’re lucky, a wee tumbler, an ichor-thimble, before your fable’s over. Caramba! I hear you mumble in the bell-bottom of some lush victrola, shyly rehearsing a subtler number. 53 I Taught Myself I taught myself to play the fiddle once, bowing right at the bridge to starve the tone, with chalk for rosin, making puffs of white noise on the downbeat— noise like the dust that finally silted up the ancient parlor radio, way in the attic, keeping its intestine ranks of tubes dry as the drought years.
You know them anywhere, dissembling—ugh—on corners, blurting out their rote confessions of unseemly acts. No: Shame School is all rigorous technique: the seven shades of blush, played as a scale from cool to hot and back again, and again, and again; the dip and wheel of a rigorous cringe, like shot-put, but without the sweet release. Here, photo day is just another test. ” It takes multiple exposures before you really seem what you mean to seem. Success at Shame School is an open secret: practice, practice, until you’re like to die.