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Theodore Roethke (pronounced /ˈrɛtkə/ RET-kə) (May 25, 1908 – August 1, 1963) was an American poet, who published several volumes of poetry characterized by its rhythm and natural imagery. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1954 for his book, The Waking.

Contents

Biography

Roethke was born in Saginaw, Michigan. His father, Otto Roethke, was a French immigrant, who owned a large local greenhouse along with his brother (Theodore's uncle). Much of Theodore's childhood was spent in this greenhouse, as reflected by the use of natural images in his poetry. The poet's adolescent years were jarred, however, by his uncle's suicide and by the death of his father from cancer, both in early 1923, when Theodore (Ted) was only 15. These deaths powerfully shaped Roethke's psyche and creative life.

He attended the University of Michigan and then here he briefly attended law school before entering Harvard University, where he studied under the poet Robert Hillyer. Abandoning graduate study for economic reasons (the Great Depression), he taught English at several universities, including Lafayette College, Pennsylvania State University and Bennington College.[1]

In 1940, he was expelled from his position at Lafayette and he returned to Michigan. Just prior to his return, he had an affair with established poet and critic Louise Bogan, who later became one of his strongest early supporters.[2] While teaching at Michigan State University in East Lansing, he began to suffer from manic depression, which fueled his poetic impetus. His last teaching position was at the University of Washington, leading to an association with the poets of the American Northwest.

In 1953, Roethke married Beatrice O'Connell, a former student. Roethke did not inform O'Connell of his repeated episodes of depression, yet she remained dedicated to Roethke and his work. She ensured the posthumous publication of his final volume of poetry, The Far Field. Its best known, and certainly most eloquently luminous poem, is Roethke's 'Meditation at Oyster River'. Widely reprinted, 'Meditation' conveys a shock of lyrical recognition, an elevated naturalism, and a simplicity perhaps more engaging than any other of his work. Roethke, and this poem in particular, was deeply admired by the great conductor Carlos Kleiber.

In 1961, Roethke's The Return was featured on George Abbe's Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry album on Folkways Records. The following year, Roethke performed on and released his own album on the label entitled, Words for the Wind: Poems of Theodore Roethke. [3]

Theodore Roethke suffered a heart attack in his friend S. Rasnics' swimming pool in 1963 and died on Bainbridge Island, Washington, aged 55. The pool was later filled in and is now a zen rock garden, which can be viewed by the public at the Bloedel Reserve, a 150-acre (60 hectare) former private estate. There is no sign to indicate that the rock garden was the site of Roethke's death.

However, there is a sign that commemorates Roethke's boyhood home and burial in Saginaw, Michigan. The historical marker notes in part:

  • Theodore Roethke (1908 - 1963) wrote of his poetry: The greenhouse "is my symbol for the whole of life, a womb, a heaven-on-earth." Roethke drew inspiration from his childhood experiences of working in his family's Saginaw floral company. Beginning is 1941 with Open House, the distinguished poet and teacher published extensively, receiving a Pulitzer Prize for poetry and two National Book Awards among an array of honors. In 1959 Pennsylvania University awarded him the prestigious Bollingen Prize. Roethke taught at Michigan State College , (present-day Michigan State University) and at colleges in Pennsylvania and Vermont, before joining the faculty of the University of Washington at Seattle in 1947. Roethke died in Washington in 1963. His remains are interred in Saginaw's Oakwood Cemetery.[4]

The Friends of Theodore Roethke Foundation maintains his birthplace at 1805 Gratiot in Saginaw, MI as a museum. Hours are normally weekend afternoons, and by appointment. The Foundation also sponsors readings and guests who knew or worked with Roethke from time to time. The Friends website is: http://www.roethkehomemuseum.org/picnics08.php


or http://www.roethkehomemuseum.org/index.php for their main homepage.

Bibliography

  • Open House (1941)
  • The Lost Son and Other Poems (1948)
  • Praise to the End! (1951)
  • Words For The Wind (1958)
  • I Am! Says The Lamb (1961)
  • The Far Field (1964)
  • On Poetry and Craft: Selected Prose and Craft of Theodore Roethke (Copper Canyon Press, 2001)
  • Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke, 1943-63 (1972; Copper Canyon Press, 2006) (selected and arranged by David Wagoner)

Filmography

References

  1. ^ Theodore Roethke's Life and Career Walter Kalaidjian, Modern American Poetry. Retrieved on 14 December 2008
  2. ^ Lancashire, Ian; Department of English at the University of Toronto (2005). "Selected Poetry of Louise Bogan (1897-1970)" (HTML). Representative Poetry On-line. University of Toronto Press. http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/25.html. Retrieved 2006-07-19. 
  3. ^ Roethke Discography at Smithsonian Folkways
  4. ^ Michigan Historic Markers.

External links


Theodore Roethke (pronounced /ˈrɛtkə/ RET-kə) (May 25, 1908 – August 1, 1963) was an American poet, who published several volumes of poetry characterized by its rhythm and natural imagery. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1954 for his book, The Waking.

Contents

Biography

Roethke was born in Saginaw, Michigan. His father, Otto, was a German immigrant, a market-gardener who owned a large local greenhouse, along with his brother (Theodore's uncle). Much of Theodore's childhood was spent in this greenhouse, as reflected by the use of natural images in his poetry. The poet's adolescent years were jarred, however, by his uncle's suicide and by the death of his father from cancer, both in early 1923, when Theodore (Ted) was only 15. These deaths shaped Roethke's psyche and creative life.

He attended the University of Michigan, then he briefly attended law school before entering Harvard University, where he studied under the poet Robert Hillyer. Abandoning graduate study because of the Great Depression, he taught English at several universities, including Lafayette College, Pennsylvania State University, and Bennington College.[1]

In 1940, he was expelled from his position at Lafayette and he returned to Michigan. Just prior to his return, he had an affair with established poet and critic Louise Bogan, who later became one of his strongest early supporters.[2] While teaching at Michigan State University in East Lansing, he began to suffer from manic depression, which fueled his poetic impetus. His last teaching position was at the University of Washington, leading to an association with the poets of the American Northwest.

In 1953, Roethke married Beatrice O'Connell, a former student. Like many other American poets of his generation, Roethke was a heavy drinker and susceptible, as mentioned, to bouts of mental illness. He did not inform O'Connell of his repeated episodes of depression, yet she remained dedicated to him and his work. She ensured the posthumous publication of his final volume of poetry, The Far Field, which includes the poem "Meditation at Oyster River."

In 1961, "The Return" was featured on George Abbe's album Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry on Folkways Records. The following year, Roethke released his own album on the label entitled, Words for the Wind: Poems of Theodore Roethke.[3]

He suffered a heart attack in his friend S. Rasnics' swimming pool in 1963 and died on Bainbridge Island, Washington, aged 55. The pool was later filled in and is now a zen rock garden, which can be viewed by the public at the Bloedel Reserve, a 150-acre (60 hectare) former private estate. There is no sign to indicate that the rock garden was the site of Roethke's death.

There is a sign that commemorates his boyhood home and burial in Saginaw, Michigan. The historical marker notes in part:

Theodore Roethke (1908–1963) wrote of his poetry: The greenhouse "is my symbol for the whole of life, a womb, a heaven-on-earth." Roethke drew inspiration from his childhood experiences of working in his family's Saginaw floral company. Beginning is 1941 with Open House, the distinguished poet and teacher published extensively, receiving a Pulitzer Prize for poetry and two National Book Awards among an array of honors. In 1959 Pennsylvania University awarded him the Bollingen Prize. Roethke taught at Michigan State College, (present-day Michigan State University) and at colleges in Pennsylvania and Vermont, before joining the faculty of the University of Washington at Seattle in 1947. Roethke died in Washington in 1963. His remains are interred in Saginaw's Oakwood Cemetery.[4]

The Friends of Theodore Roethke Foundation maintains his birthplace at 1805 Gratiot in Saginaw as a museum.

Critical responses

In Against Oblivion, an examination of forty-five twentieth century poets, the critic Ian Hamilton wrote: "Roethke's best gift as a poet was for touching, small-scale lyricism (see Elegy for Jane, My Papa's Waltz). More and more though he was drawn towards what he believed to be the 'major' themes: man and God, Eternity, the Universe, and so on. Spiritual afflatus took over from direct experience; inspiration was supplanted by ambition. In this sense, Roethke was a typical mid-century case study." [5] "Early on, the chief influence was W.H.Auden. Later, Roethke turned to Walt Whitman - who ... seems to have directed Roethke back to the intent scrutiny of nature that marked his early, so-called 'greenhouse' poems. In Roethke's second book, The Lost Son, there are several of these greenhouse poems and they are among the best things he wrote; convincing and exact, and rich in loamy detail." [6]

Critical opinion of his later poems is mixed, with some critics pointing toward The Far Field as a resounding final accomplishment and others as an incomplete book of mixed quality. The book itself is filled with polarity, dealing with the twin strains of physical and spiritual reality within Roethke's mysticism (which matured during his final years), chiefly dealt with in the "North American Sequence" and "Sequence, Sometimes Metaphysical".[citation needed]

Bibliography

  • Open House (1941)
  • The Lost Son and Other Poems (1948)
  • Praise to the End! (1951)
  • The Waking (1953)
  • Words For The Wind (1958)
  • I Am! Says The Lamb (1961)
  • Party at the Zoo" (1963) (A Modern Masters Book for Children, illustrated by Al Swiller)
  • The Far Field (1964)
  • Dirty Dinky and Other Creatures: Poems for Children (1973)
  • On Poetry and Craft: Selected Prose and Craft of Theodore Roethke (Copper Canyon Press, 2001)
  • Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke, 1943-63 (1972; Copper Canyon Press, 2006) (selected and arranged by David Wagoner)

Filmography

References

  1. ^ Theodore Roethke's Life and Career Walter Kalaidjian, Modern American Poetry. Retrieved on 14 December 2008
  2. ^ Lancashire, Ian; Department of English at the University of Toronto (2005). "Selected Poetry of Louise Bogan (1897-1970)". Representative Poetry On-line. University of Toronto Press. http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/25.html. Retrieved 2006-07-19. 
  3. ^ Roethke Discography at Smithsonian Folkways
  4. ^ Michigan Historic Markers.
  5. ^ Against Oblivion p.170, ISBN 0-140-17764-7 Ian Hamilton, Viking Books 2002
  6. ^ Against Oblivion p.170-171 Ian Hamilton

External links


Quotes

Up to date as of January 14, 2010

From Wikiquote

What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Theodore Huebner Roethke (IPA: ['ɹ ɛ t.ki]; RET-key) (1908-05-251963-08-01) was an American poet who published several volumes of poetry characterized by their rhythm and natural imagery. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1954 for his book, The Waking.

Contents

Sourced

Open House (1941)

My secrets cry aloud.
I have no need for tongue.
  • My secrets cry aloud.
    I have no need for tongue.

    My heart keeps open house,
    My doors are widely swung.
    An epic of the eyes
    My love, with no disguise.
    • "Open House," ll. 1-6
  • My truths are all foreknown,
    This anguish self-revealed.
    I’m naked to the bone,
    With nakedness my shield.
    • "Open House," ll. 7 - 11
And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,
The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,
Will turn its private substance into green,
And young shoots spread upon our inner world.
  • The light comes brighter from the east; the caw
    Of restive crows is sharper on the ear.
    • "The Light Comes Brighter," ll. 1-2
  • And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,
    The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,
    Will turn its private substance into green,
    And young shoots spread upon our inner world.
    • "The Light Comes Brighter," ll. 17-20
  • He loops in crazy figures half the night
    Among the trees that face the corner light.
    But when he brushes up against a screen,
    We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:
    For something is amiss or out of place
    When mice with wings can wear a human face.
    • "The Bat," ll. 5-10

The Lost Son and Other Poems (1948)

I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance...
  • This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,
    Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
    What saint strained so much,
    Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
    • "Cuttings (later)," ll. 1-4
  • Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch
    • "Root Cellar," l. 1
  • Nothing would give up life:
    Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
    • "Root Cellar," ll. 10-11
  • I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road,
    As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;
    Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,
    By pulling off flesh from the living planet;
    As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.
    • "Moss-Gathering," ll. 9-13
They teased out the seed that the cold kept asleep, —
All the coils, loops and whorls...
  • Like witches they flew along rows,
    Keeping creation at ease
    ;
    With a tendril for needle
    They sewed up the air with a stem;
    They teased out the seed that the cold kept asleep, —
    All the coils, loops and whorls.
    They trellised the sun; they plotted for more than themselves.
    • "Frau Bauman, Frau Schmidt, and Frau Schwartze," ll. 19-25
  • The whiskey on your breath
    Could make a small boy dizzy;
    But I hung on like death:
    Such waltzing was not easy.
    • "My Papa's Waltz," ll. 1-4
  • Over the gulfs of dream
    Flew a tremendous bird

    Further and further away
    Into a moonless black,
    Deep in the brain, far back.
    • "Night Crow," ll. 4-8
  • I study the lives on a leaf: the little
    Sleepers, numb nudgers in cold dimensions.
    • "The Minimal," ll. 1-2
Snail, snail, glister me forward,
Bird, soft-sigh me home,
Worm, be with me.
This is my hard time.
  • At Woodlawn I Heard the dead cry:
    I was lulled by the slamming of iron,
    A slow drip over stones,
    Toads brooding wells.
    • The Lost Son, ll. 1-4
  • I shook the softening chalk of my bones,
    Saying,
    Snail, snail, glister me forward,
    Bird, soft-sigh me home,
    Worm, be with me.
    This is my hard time.
    • "The Lost Son," ll. 8-11
Voice, come out of the silence.
Say something
  • Voice, come out of the silence.
    Say something.

    Appear in the form of a spider
    Or a moth beating the curtain.

    Tell me:
    Which is the way I take;
    Out of what door do I go,
    Where and to whom?

    • The Lost Son, ll. 24 - 29
  • The salt said, look by the sea,
    Your tears are not enough praise,
    You will find no comfort here,
    In the kingdom of bang and blab.
    • The Lost Son, ll. 32 - 35
  • Who stunned the dirt into noise?
    Ask the mole, he knows.

    I feel the slime of a wet nest.
    Beware Mother Mildew.
    Nibble again, fish nerves.
    • "The Lost Son," ll. 66-70
  • Goodbye, goodbye, old stones, the time-order is going,
    I have married my hands to perpetual agitation,
    I run, I run to the whistle of money.
Money money money
Water water water.
  • "The Lost Son," ll. 107-111
A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
  • The mind moved, not alone,
    Through the clear air, in the silence.
Was it light?
Was it light within?
Was it light within light?
Stillness becoming alive,
Yet still?
  • The Lost Son, ll. 161 - 167
  • A lively understandable spirit
    Once entertained you.
    It will come again.
    Be still.
    Wait.
    • The Lost Son," ll. 168-172
  • I saw the separateness of all things!
    My heart lifted up with the great grasses;
    The weeds believed me, and the nesting birds.
    • "A Field of Light," ll. 45-47
Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse...
  • The wind sharpened itself on a rock;
    A voice sang
    :
Pleasure on ground
Has no sound,
Easily maddens
The uneasy man.
  • "The Shape of the Fire," ll. 40 - 45
  • Mother of quartz, your words writhe into my ear.
    Renew the light, lewd whisper.
    • "The Shape of the Fire," ll. 54 - 55
  • The wasp waits.
    The edge cannot eat the center.
    The grape listens.
    The path tells little to the serpent.
    An eye comes out of the wave.
    The journey from flesh is longest.
    A rose sways least.
    The redeemer comes a dark way.
    • "The Shape of the Fire," ll. 56-63
  • Death was not. I lived in a simple drowse:
    Hands and hair moved through a dream of wakening blossoms.

    Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still called;
    The flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollows;
    And love, love sang toward.
    • "The Shape of the Fire," ll. 73-77
  • To stare into the after-light, the glitter left on the lake's surface,
    When the sun has fallen behind a wooded island;
    To follow the drips sliding from a lifted oar
    Held up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward;
    To know that light falls and fills, often without our knowing.
    • The Shape of the Fire," ll. 88-92

Praise to the End! (1951)

Bless me and the maze I'm in!
Hello, thingy spirit.
  • I'll seek my own meekness.
    What grace I have is enough.

    The lost have their own pace.
    The stalks ask something else.
    What the grave says,
    The nest denies.
    • "Unfold! Unfold!," ll. 59-64
  • Bless me and the maze I'm in!
    Hello, thingy spirit.
    • "I Cry, Love! Love!," ll. 20-21
  • Beginnings start without shade,
    Thinner than minnows.
    The live grass whirls with the sun,
    Feet run over the simple stones,
    There's time enough.
    Behold, in the lout's eye, love.
    • "I Cry, Love! Love!," ll. 33-39

The Waking (1953)

All lovers live by longing, and endure:
Summon a vision and declare it pure.
  • I take this cadence from a man named Yeats:
    I take it and I give it back again:
    For other tunes and other wanton beats
    Have tossed my heart and fiddled through my brain.
    Yes, I was dancing mad, and how
    That came to be the bears and Yeats would know.
  • Dante attained the purgatorial hill,
    Trembled at hidden virtue without flaw,
    Shook with a mighty power beyond his will, —
    Did Beatrice deny what Dante saw?
    All lovers live by longing, and endure:
    Summon a vision and declare it pure.
    • "Four for Sir John Davies," ll. 73-78

The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
  • I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
    I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
    I learn by going where I have to go.
  • Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
    The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
    I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
  • Great Nature has another thing to do
    To you and me; so take the lively air,
    And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
  • This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
    What falls away is always. And is near.
    I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
    I learn by going where I have to go.

Words for the Wind (1958)

Who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
  • I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
    When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
    Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
    The shapes a bright container can contain!
    • "I Knew a Woman," ll. 1 - 4
I know the motion of the deepest stone.
Each one's himself, yet each one's everyone.
  • Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
    I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
    What's freedom for? To know eternity.

    I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
    But who would count eternity in days?
    These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
    (I measure time by how a body sways.)
    • "I Knew a Woman," ll. 22-28
  • Is pain a promise? I was schooled in pain,
    And found out what I could of all desire;
    I weep for what I'm like when I'm alone
    In the deep center of the voice and fire.

    I know the motion of the deepest stone.
    Each one's himself, yet each one's everyone.

    • "The Sententious Man," ll. 31-36
I lived with deep roots once:
Have I forgotten their ways —
The gradual embrace
Of lichen around stones?
  • The night wind rises. Does my father live?
    Dark hangs upon the waters of the soul.
    My flesh is breathing slower than a wall.
    Love alters all. Unblood my instinct, love.
    • "The Renewal," ll. 7-10
  • I lived with deep roots once:
    Have I forgotten their ways —
    The gradual embrace
    Of lichen around stones?
    • "Plaint," ll. 13-16
Sing of that nothing of which all is made,
Or listen into silence, like a god.
  • The moon draws back its waters from the shore.
    By the lake's edge, I see a silver swan,
    And she is what I would. In this light air,
    Lost opposites bend down —
    Sing of that nothing of which all is made,
    Or listen into silence, like a god.
    • "The Swan," ll. 15-20
What's left is light as a seed;
I need an old crone's knowing.
  • How can I rest in the days of my slowness?
    I've become a strange piece of flesh,
    Nervous and cold, bird-furtive, whiskery,
    With a cheek soft as a hound's ear.
    What's left is light as a seed;
    I need an old crone's knowing.
    • "Meditations of an Old Woman: First Meditation," ll. 15-21
  • I have gone into the waste lonely places
    Behind the eye.
    • "Meditations of an Old Woman: First Meditation," ll. 76-77

The Far Field (1964)

File:Millennium Park Sculpture Inside mirror view of metallic sculpture.jpg
Being, not doing, is my first joy.
  • Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit;
    Too close immediacy an exhaustion
    • "The Abyss"
  • A terrible violence of creation,
    A flash into the burning heart of the abominable;
    Yet if we wait, unafraid, beyond the fearful instant,
    The burning lake turns into a forest pool,
    The fire subsides into rings of water,
    A sunlit silence.
    • "The Abyss"
  • Being, not doing, is my first joy.
    • "The Abyss," l. 100
  • To whom does this terrace belong? —
    With its limestone crumbling into fine greyish dust,
    Its bevy of bees, and its wind-beaten rickety sun-chairs?
    Not to me, but this lizard,
    Older than I, or the cockroach.
    • "The Lizard," ll. 27-31
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.
  • Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire;
    What burns me now? Desire, desire, desire.
    • "The Marrow," ll. 11-12
And everything comes to One,
As we dance on, dance on, dance on.
  • I bleed my bones, their marrow to bestow
    Upon that God who knows what I would know.
    • "The Marrow," ll. 23-24
  • Let others probe the mystery if they can.
    Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will
    The right thing happens to the happy man.
    • "The Right Thing," ll. 1-3
  • God bless the roots! — Body and soul are one!
    The small become the great, the great the small;
    The right thing happens to the happy man.
    • "The Right Thing," ll. 7-9
  • And I dance with William Blake
    For love, for Love's sake;

    And everything comes to One,
    As we dance on, dance on, dance on.

    • Once More, the Round," ll. 11-12

Poetry and Craft (1965)

Copper Canyon Press, 2001, ISBN 1-55659-156-X
Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.
  • Poetry is not a mere shuffling of dead words or even a corralling of live ones. (p. 89)
  • In our age, if a boy or girl is untalented, the odds are in favor of their thinking they want to write. (p. 89)
  • There's an element of desperation in the insistence of the graduate student's respect for knowledge — as opposed to wisdom. (p. 95)
  • The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.
  • Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.
  • You can't make poetry simply by avoiding clichés.
  • There's a point where plainness is no longer a virtue, when it becomes excessively bald, wrenched.
  • You must believe: a poem is a holy thing — a good poem, that is.

Prevously Uncollected Poems (1975)

From The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke, Doubleday, 1975, ISBN 0-385-08601-6
  • Yet for this we travelled
    With hope, and not alone,
    In the country of ourselves,
    In a country of bright stone.
    • "The Harsh Country," ll. 13-16

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