4.6 • 729 Ratings
🗓️ 27 March 2024
⏱️ 8 minutes
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Poet, editor, translator, and critic Louis Simpson was born in Jamaica to Scottish and Russian parents. He moved to the United States when he was 17 to study at Columbia University. After his time in the army, and a brief period in France, Simpson worked as an editor in New York City before completing his PhD at Columbia. He taught at colleges such as Columbia University, the University of California, Berkeley, and the State University of New York at Stony Brook.
A contemporary of confessional poets like Robert Lowell, John Berryman, and Sylvia Plath, Simpson’s early work followed a familiar arc. In the New York Times Book Review, critic David Orr noted its highlights: “Simpson has followed a path lined with signposts sunk so deep in our nation's poetic terra firma that they've practically become part of the landscape. Those signposts declare that a poet born in or around the 1920s should (1) begin his career writing witty, ironic formal poems bearing the stamp of Eliot and Auden; then (2) abandon that formalism for a more 'natural' free verse approach, while (3) dabbling in surrealism; until (4) finally settling on social, conversational poems in the manner of a man speaking to men.” While Simpson’s early books like The Arrivistes (1949) and A Dream of Governors (1959) show the influence of Auden, they also speak to his horrific experiences in World War II, where he served in the 101st Airborne Division and saw active duty in France, Belgium, and Germany. Simpson’s intense formal control, at odds with the visceral details of soldiering, also earned him comparisons to Wilfred Owen. At the End of the Open Road (1963) won the Pulitzer Prize and marked a shift in Simpson’s poetry as well. In this and later volumes, like Searching for the Ox (1976) and The Best Hour of the Night (1983), Simpson’s simple diction and formally controlled verses reveal hidden layers of meaning.
Simpson’s lifelong expatriate status influenced his poetry, and he often uses the lives of ordinary Americans in order to critically investigate the myths the country tells itself. Though he occasionally revisits the West Indies of his childhood, he always keeps one foot in his adopted country. The outsider’s perspective allows him to confront “the terror and beauty of life with a wry sense of humor and a mysterious sense of fate,” wrote Edward Hirsch of the Washington Post. Elsewhere Hirsch described Simpson’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection, At the End of the Open Road (1963), as “a sustained meditation on the American character,” noting, “The moral genius of this book is that it traverses the open road of American mythology and brings us back to ourselves; it sees us not as we wish to be but as we are.” Collected Poems (1988) and There You Are (1995) focus on the lives of everyday citizens, using simple diction and narratives to expose the bewildering reality of the American dream. Poet Mark Jarman hailed Simpson as “a poet of the American character and vernacular.”
A noted scholar and critic, Simpson published a number of literary studies, including Ships Going Into the Blue: Essays and Notes on Poetry (1994), The Character of the Poet (1986), and Three on the Tower: The Lives and Works of Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, and William Carlos Williams (1975). Simpson also penned a novel, Riverside Drive (1962), and the autobiographies The King My Father's Wreck (1994) and North of Jamaica (1972).
Simpson’s later work included The Owner of the House: New Collected Poems (2003), a collection that spans his 60-year career, and Struggling Times (2009). In addition to the Pulitzer Prize, Simpson received numerous awards and accolades, including the Prix de Rome, the Columbia Medal for Excellence, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation. He was a finalist for the prestigious Griffin International Poetry Award, and his translation of Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology (1997) won the Harold Morton Landon Translation Award.
Simposon died in Setauket, New York in 2012.
-bio via Poetry Foundation
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0:00.0 | Welcome back to The Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. |
0:04.2 | I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Wednesday, March 27, 2024. |
0:10.0 | Today's poem is from Lewis Simpson, and it's called American Poetry. |
0:17.8 | I'll read it once, offer a few comments, and then read it one more time. |
0:24.2 | American Poetry |
0:25.3 | Whatever it is, it must have a stomach that can digest rubber, coal, uranium, moons, poems. |
0:37.1 | Like the shark contains a shoe. |
0:40.3 | It must swim for miles through the desert, uttering cries that are almost human. |
0:52.5 | Louis Simpson was born in 1923 in Jamaica to Scottish and Russian parents. |
1:01.0 | But he came to the U.S. at the age of 17, originally to attend Columbia University, and he never really left. |
1:13.7 | Shortly after arriving, he naturalized and even served in the army, fighting in World War II, and came to treat America |
1:25.3 | as his adoptive country. But that status and his origin and personal history always gave him this unique position as an observer of America, who was both of the culture of the nation and other than a kind of insider, outsider looking in, all rolled into one, which makes him striking and intriguing poet, who is always also that kind of thing. |
2:05.5 | A member of the human race who sometimes has to try and step outside of it to see it from the outside |
2:11.1 | in order to step back in and show us to ourselves. |
2:23.1 | And nowhere maybe is that more on display than in poems like this one, which has a very on the nose kind of title, American poetry. And yet, the title turns into an enigma pretty quickly as you get into the body of the poem itself, short though it is. |
2:41.7 | Whatever it is, he opens with, there's this sense of not quite knowing what American poetry is or should be. |
2:51.4 | Maybe American poetry itself doesn't know. |
2:55.0 | He compares it in the second stanza to one of those sharks that they catch and head open only to find bizarre objects inside their stomach, a shoe, an undigested New York license plate, that |
3:10.2 | kind of thing, which is maybe not an entirely flattering image for American poetry to be |
3:20.1 | compared to or conjured through. |
3:23.0 | Whatever it is, it must have a stomach that can digest rubber, coal, uranium, moons, poems. |
3:32.7 | This list of things that American poetry has to deal with or maybe make something of, is very particular. |
... |
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