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- Alive Together : New and Selected Poems
- Maria Popova and Natalie Batalha
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Help Centre. My Wishlist Sign In Join. Be the first to write a review. Add to Wishlist. Ships in 15 business days. Link Either by signing into your account or linking your membership details before your order is placed. Description Table of Contents Product Details Click on the cover image above to read some pages of this book! Curriculum Vitae p. All Rights Reserved. In Stock. Love Her Wild Poetry.
She lives in Chicago. See All Customer Reviews. Shop Books. Add to Wishlist. USD Buy Online, Pick up in Store is currently unavailable, but this item may be available for in-store purchase. Sign in to Purchase Instantly. Overview In a collection that represents over thirty-five years of her writing life, this distinguished poet explores a wide range of subjects, which include her cultural and family history and reflect her fascination with music and the discoveries offered by language.
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Alive Together : New and Selected Poems
Average Review. Write a Review. Alive Together: New and Selected Poems 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. Her life seemingly translated word by word onto the paper that brings forth the poems. Anonymous More than 1 year ago. Related Searches. Black Aperture. When I am asked how I began writing poems, I talk about the indifference of nature. It was soon after my mother died, a brilliant June day, everything blooming.
Maria Popova and Natalie Batalha
I sat on a gray stone bench in a lovingly planted garden, but the day lilies were as deaf as the ears of drunken sleepers and the roses curved inward. Nothing was black or broken and not a leaf fell and the sun blared endless commercials for summer holidays.
I sat on a gray stone bench ringed with the ingenue faces of pink and white impatiens and placed my grief in the mouth of language, the only thing that would grieve with me. The spirit of her radical philosopher father and her feminist mother hummed in her bones as Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin married Percy Bysshe Shelley and burned her candle at both ends to blaze like a bonfire.
Her life reminds me of the famous lines by Edna Saint Vincent Millay:. My candle burns at both ends It will not last the night -- But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends -- It gives a lovely light. To close out the review, read Lisel Mueller's poem and let the voice of Mary Shelley reach you across the two centuries which now divide us from her life. She is the mother of Frankenstein -- the mother of the horror story of the future in which we now live.
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The voice is that of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, , daughter of the radical philosopher William Godwin and the feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, who died as a result of her birth. She eloped with Percy Shelley, who was married to Harriet Westbrook at the time, and became his second wife after Harriet committed suicide.
Shelley and Mary lived a nomadic life, moving around England and the Continent, never settling down anywhere for long.
Three of their four children died in infancy. Their eight years together were a series of crises, many of them brought about by the drain of outsiders on their emotional and physical resources. After Shelley's accidental drowning, Mary, who was 24 at the time of his death, supported herself and their surviving son by her own writing, and by editing and annotating Shelley's work. She published the first complete edition of his poems. Her own works consist of essays, short stories, and six novels, of which Frankenstein, written when she was 19, is the most famous.
Her journal has been an important biographical source for Shelley's and her life together. None of this kept me from bearing four children and losing three by the time I was twenty-two. He forgot that my mother died of my birth, The Rights of Women washed away in puerperal blood and that I was her daughter too. I met him when I was sixteen He came to sit at my father's feet and stayed to sit at mine.
We did not believe in power We were gentle We shared our bodies with others We thought we were truly free. No more mountain passes No more flight from creditors with arms as long as our bills No more games to find out who was the cleverest of us all No more ghost stories by the fire with my own ghost at the window, smiles sharpened like sickles on the cold stone of the moon. For months, I made a fortress of my despair "A defect of temper," they called it His biographers never liked me.
You would have called it a sickness, given me capsules and doctors, brushes and bright paints, kits for paper flowers. An idea whose time has come, you say about your freedom but you forget the reason.
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