By F. T. Prince
Collected Poems 1935-1992 includes the existence paintings of the nice English outsider poet F. T. Prince. frequently operating in types which are deceptively conventional, Prince has a unique genius for the misplaced and infrequently unseen info of expertise. His presence has been felt via a succession of English and American poets who, regardless of their operating in additional open types, usually arrive at a terrain already occupied through him.
Selected through Harold Bloom as a part of his canon of worldwide literature.
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Additional resources for Collected Poems, 1935-1992
You have been insolent, they acknowledged, and may be despatched to chill, in Lan-t’ien— make your self important, yet off there, unseen once you left, a number of tears. Then if you happen to have been, day by way of day, extra away, I dreamt one evening you got here, unhappy and in fears that you would be able to now not write A knocking woke me—‘Doo-n doo-ng’—and there got here a letter on your identify! There you have been considering and writing, the mountain moon of Yang-Ch’êng sinking You wrote through candle-light, an exile’s heartaches— worst, that the line he is taking lacks acquaintances: and ten verses with moon, flower, nighttime acknowledged it back. Ten strains to me like gold! My center leapt, and fastened. trying to find much less, i used to be the extra consoled, and wouldn't wager at greater than might be counted Worse got here than a few years to attend, whilst in my flip I could move, and also you remain. That first time we notion so overdue might glance far-off: one other global, different sky. III His previous reputation is dumb, and from his brush no new songs will come. In a lifeless hush his poems on silk needs to be amassing dirt yet I heard at some point now not listening, no longer too distant a lady sing a few traces, a stave or — appeared, appeared I knew attempting to recognize, I felt my middle sting from the minimize or blow— observed, knew the item: his word and line, the glance even of his publication. and that i see myself see that: no second with him, no glimpse of his face, yet myself taking a look at his publication in a dim ly lit slender area —On board send, held up by means of gales for weeks at Chiu-k’ou! i presumed bitterly ‘Everything I do fails: achieving exile too might be past me’ Wind, rain, wind, for weeks: the touchdown reeks. drained, past due at evening I dispose of mattress and glance via candle-light, and locate Yüan’s booklet I undo the wire, and skim each line. The candle gutters. I take a seat via its final rays: softly it sputters— vacantly I gaze evening is much from sunrise, yet I take a seat on: and hear with eyes half-closed, to waves that now strike, because the winds upward push, more durable at the prow. IV i will be extra solitary now, without ties: haven't any have to marry or supply in marriage, and needn't prize these tasks, or disparage My temptation raises to lie overdue in mattress, small nephews and nieces all flown, having grown. Even morning-red sours, to at least one left by myself. but sound above, underneath i've got ‘green’ previous age: nonetheless have eyes and the teeth— nonetheless energy and may to determine, and play the sage via unusual wild surroundings Now to make sure i will trigger now not with yet a guy- servant and my stick and wrap: yet needs to take a far better significant other, opposed to mishap. yet then i will be able to wander on my own for an hour and locate, like this, a gray cove the place the waves hiss, and a skinny tattered bower of tree-roots, the place i'll reflect on Waves glint and faucet. pondering ‘Here you may perhaps by no means have been’, I pause: yet were visible by way of a dipper with blue wings, who offers up his nap. O Wei-chih, Wei-chih, what number as lone rivers and mountain-shelves with no you could have I identified— and will now not see, and never contemplate our selves? sundown in shiny curds and petal-shapes of flame, towered up the sky, hushing the mountain apes and valley birds on Lu Shan, whereas I sat by way of From my thatched hut I seemed down the West, the place it sank again, and again: and ached, to be unblest, wingless, and close from the huge flaming music.
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