By Lawrence Durrell
Lawrence Durrell's good fortune as a novelist could have tended to imprecise his fulfillment as a poet and in poetry. it really is essentially as a lyrical poet of areas that he used to be stated to excel, yet in accumulated Poems it is going to be came upon that the diversity of feeling and concepts, of wit and adventure, and in addition of fashion, is impressive. the full quantity is charged with Durrell's reaction to the 'spirit of place', that is one among this extraordinary presents as a author. 'They diversity from affecting and lovely love poems to skilful, succinct photos and powerful ballads . . . wealthy in ideas.' -- Alan Ross 'As a lyrical poet . . . he's the equivalent of Auden.' -- Gavin Ewart 'Durrell's poetry compels the top regular of judgement . . . The impression of analyzing him is to have one's love of poetry rekindled . . . actual lifestyles, real emotion, actual art.' -- John Wain
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Additional info for Collected Poems 1931-74
64 ANCESTRAL VISION Now your recurrent father surfaces; from crypt of dream, from all humanity's first oracle holds court, transfiguring the face behind your beard. And who are you? Priest, Hierophant? Scholar of Akashic scripts? Our common ancestor who counsels elves? Confessor to all innocents who seek the Grail? Your youth denies it. Your casual eyes conflict in seeming with an intensity that holds them captive to a cosmic wisdom. Are you gone up in smoke, leaving this august and learned personage custodian of your body, or are you host to a more aggressive spirit, shuffling both immortalities inside your skin to justify one ego, or are you saint in fact, fiction painting your identity on subtle truth?
The crisp, blue buses rocket through its veins, carrying no advertising, even for miracles, but the proud plaques, in every park, weep the gilt loose from the grooves of letters, that spell the count of those who died in two World Wars, Korea and Vietnam for Staten Island, but never note Staten Island's death. Be sure of that! 61 They burnt the certificate that made that real, and lie about it brazenly in air conditioned buses. Home can be anywhere at all, they say, even on Staten Island, and they mean it.
He took his feet away when he removed his head, shirt, tie and coat; everything he was above the table. Maybe he left his feet in front of the door of his top floor room. I shall waste no time in climbing all those stairs to see. He should be behind that unreplenished cup. An obstinate fold of his overcoat laps down darkly at the side of his chair. I would never allow myself to interfere with the reveries of a secret agent, who could be the muse, the saboteur subversive and obvious as always. 49 SUBWAY EXIT It had to be he.
Collected Poems 1931-74 by Lawrence Durrell