Word: poetes
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Pompidou, the banker, poet, and bon vivant, continued to go out of his way to picture himself, not very convincingly, as an ordinary Frenchman, a sort of Pompoher. "When I go through a red light," he told one audience, "I get tickets and pay them like everyone else. I know about domestic problems, the worries of the children and the dishes to be washed...
Died. Marion Morehouse Cummings, 63, widow of poet E. E. Cummings, who at the time of her marriage in 1933 was one of fashion's top mannequins; of cancer; in Manhattan. Edward Steichen called her one of the "greatest fashion models" he had ever photographed, and Cecil Beaton commented that she "was at home in the grandest circumstances." She also published a book of her own pictures, Adventures in Value, in 1962, and at her death was planning a book of portraits of her husband and their friends...
Nabokov, who is essentially a prose poet, has always had something quite different in mind. "By poetry I mean the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words," he has explained. "True poetry of that kind provokes not laughter and not tears but a radiant smile of perfect satisfaction, a purr of beatitude?and a writer may well be proud of himself if he can make his readers, or more exactly some of his readers, smile and purr that way." When as a young man in Berlin, Nabokov decided to translate an English masterpiece into Russian, the book he chose...
Within the fat man there may be a thin man, within the milquetoast a hero, within the bookkeeper a poet. Within every man, in any case, there seems to lurk an orchestra conductor - ready, at the sound of an 'A', to spring onto a fantasized podium in some glittering concert hall of the mind, drawing rich, powerful music from the players and bravos from an astounded audience. Few laymen get any closer to realizing this dream than wagging a finger behind their program notes, or surreptitiously waving their arms in front of their hi-fi sets. Last week...
...seems as if the dashing Turner should have been the neglected revolutionary and Constable the acclaimed conservative. But Turner, however radical his techniques, still painted the grand subjects and the dramatic scenes congenial to the Romantic taste; by contrast, Constable's themes seemed merely homely. Turner was a poet of the imagination, Constable a poet of the real. Turner saw a vision of hell in a snow storm; Constable could see a vision of heaven in a blade of grass. Posterity can be grateful to both...