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By Howard Nemerov. For a saving grace, we didn't see our dead, Who rarely bothered coming home to die. But simply stayed away out there. In the clean war, the war in the air. Seldom the ghosts come back bearing their tales. Of hitting the earth, the incompressible sea, But stayed up there in the relative wind,
7 de jul. de 1991 · Howard Nemerov, the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and former poet laureate of the United States, died late Friday at his house in University City, a suburb of St. Louis. He was 71 years old.
By Howard Nemerov. Late in November, on a single night. Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees. That stand along the walk drop all their leaves. In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind. But as though to time alone: the golden and green. Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday. Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.
The former Poet Laureate of the United States, Nemerov gives us a lucid and precise twist on the commonplaces of everyday life.The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1978."Howard Nemerov is a witty, urbane, thoughtful poet, grounded in the classics, a master of the craft. It is refreshing to read his work. . . .
Howard Nemerov (1920–91), one of America’s finest poets, was also arguably the wittiest. In 1978 he received the Pulitzer Prize in Arts and Letters and in 1977 the National Book Award for his Collected Poems. He was a pilot in the Royal Canadian Air Force and the U.S. Army Air Force, novelist, critic, professor of English, consultant in poetry to the Library of Congress (1963–64), and ...
Writing. By Howard Nemerov. The cursive crawl, the squared-off characters. these by themselves delight, even without. a meaning, in a foreign language, in. Chinese, for instance, or when skaters curve. all day across the lake, scoring their white. records in ice. Being intelligible,
In order to become one of the grown-ups. Who sees invisible things neither steadily nor whole, But keeps gravely the grand confusion of the world. Under his hat, which is where it belongs, And teaches small children to do this in their turn. Howard Nemerov, “To David, About His Education” from War Stories: Poems About Long Ago and Now.
