Word: bard
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Nevertheless, this Windy City bard founded Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. Within three years she printed an odd-looking work that opened with six lines of Italian and then proceeded: "Let us go then, you and I/ When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherized upon a table ..." Nothing quite like T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" had ever appeared before. The expatriate gentleman from St. Louis and the lady from Chicago put each other...
...singer himself been glimpsed around the White House lately-without being arrested on sight, that is. Bearded, sporting jeans and sneakers, with a bandanna tying back his shoulder-length red-brown hair and an earring dangling from his left ear, he comes on like some improbable blend of Celtic bard and Hell's Angel, with a smile straight out of Huckleberry Finn...
...Pound himself. Unlike Yeats, Joyce and Eliot, the great modernists whom he coached and championed, Pound never prepared a public face. Even at 83, he remained unsmiling and ill at ease in front of the camera, although he had come to look like the personification of an aging bard. His unruly hair had whitened into a mane, and his face bore lines and wrinkles beyond the mere ravages of time. In "Hugh Selwyn Mauberley" (1920) Pound had praised "the obscure reveries of the inward gaze." As these pictures prove, it became his characteristic expression...
...motto for such work might come from one of Byron's letters from Venice in 1817. Painting, the irritable bard declared, was of all arts "the most artificial and unnatural... I never yet saw the picture ... which came within a league of my conception or expectation; but I have seen many mountains, and Seas and Rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it, besides some horses." Just so, all art is a lie told in the service of truth, but however feeble art may be in the face of nature, one still cannot...
Becoming a bard in 20th century America was not easy. O'Callahan started out as dean of a Boston secretarial school founded by his father. Eight years ago, a group of children at a camp asked him to tell them a story. He wove a druidic spell for 35 minutes, making up the story as he went along. It was about a creature in Russia that set upon other animals. "The impact was tremendous," he recalls. "Then and there I decided to give up my job and write novels." He and his wife Linda moved to rural Marshfield, Mass...