Notebook / Robert Lowell
| dc.contributor | Farringdon, Michael G. Department of Computer Science University College of Swansea Swansea |
| dc.contributor.author | Lowell, Robert, 1917-1977 |
| dc.coverage.placeName | s.l. |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-21T15:54:41Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T15:54:41Z |
| dc.date.created | 1968 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0090 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0090 |
| dc.description.abstract | Catalogued on RLIN |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 246 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Legacy Collection |
| dc.rights | Use of this resource is restricted in some manner. Usually this means that it is available for non-commercial use only with prior permission of the depositor and on condition that this header is included in its entirety with any copy distributed. |
| dc.rights.uri | https://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/licence-ota |
| dc.rights.label | ACA |
| dc.subject.lcsh | Poems -- United States -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Poems |
| dc.title | Notebook / Robert Lowell |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 251312 |
| files.count | 1 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
Files for this item
- Name
- notebook-0090.txt
- Size
- 245.42 KB
- Format
- Text file
- Description
- Version of the work in plain text format
<3Harriet>3 Half a year, then a year and a half then ten and a half--the pathos of a child's fractions, turn- ing up each summer. God a seaslug, God a queen with forty servants, God ... she gave up--things whirl in the chainsaw bite of whatever squares the universe by name and number. For the hundredth time, I slice through fog, and round the village with my headlights on the ground, as if I were the first philosopher, as if I were trying to pick up a car key ... It can't be here, and so it must be there behind the next crook in the road or growth of fog--there blinded by our feeble beams, a face, clock-white, still friendly to the earth. A repeating fly, blueblack, thumbthick--so gross, it seems apocalyptic in our house-- whams back and forth across the nursery bed manned by a madhouse of stuffed animals, not one a fighter. It is like a plane gunning potato bugs or Arabs on the screen-- one of the mighty ... one of the helpless. It bumbles and bumps its brow on this and that, making a . . .
