H. D. (Hilda Doolittle) Poems

Poems » h. d.

H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
Hilda Doolittle (September 10, 1886, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, United States – September 27, 1961, Zürich, Switzerland), prominently known by her initials H.D., was an American poet, novelist and memoirist. She is best known for her association with the key early 20th century avant-garde Imagist group of poets, although her later writing represents a move away from the Imagist model, towards a distinctly feminine version of modernist poetry and prose.

cassandra
 
 
O Hymen king.

Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaf... [read poem]
messiah (christmas portions)
 
 
A little heat caught
in gleaming rags,
in shrouds of veil,
torn and sun-shot swaddl... [read poem]
golden retrievals
 
 
Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don't think so.
B... [read poem]
a display of mackerel
 
 
They lie in parallel rows,
on ice, head to tail,
each a foot of luminosity

bar... [read poem]
fog
 
 
The crested iris by the front gate waves
its blue flags three days, exactly,

then t... [read poem]
homo will not inherit
 
 
Downtown anywhere and between the roil
of bathhouse steam -- up there the linens of joy
an... [read poem]
difference
 
 
The jellyfish
float in the bay shallows
like schools of clouds,

a dozen identi... [read poem]
demolition
 
 
The intact facade's now almost black
in the rain; all day they've torn at the back
of the ... [read poem]
isis: dorothy eady, 1924
 
 
I was never this beautiful.
I don't know if anyone can see how much more
I've become tonig... [read poem]
la belle et la bête
 
 
"My heart," he said, "is the heart
of a beast." What could she do
but love him? First she ... [read poem]
favrile
 
 
Glassmakers,
at century's end,
compounded metallic lusters

in reference
t... [read poem]
sideshow
 
 
The goat without ears coughs
softly. Canvas flaps ripple,
starred banners; this is the ten... [read poem]
atlantis
 
 
"I've been having these
awful dreams, each a little different,
though the core's the same ... [read poem]
sweet machine
 
 
Glisten fretting the indigo of a plum,
silvered chalk of moth-wing dust:

the young ... [read poem]
Continue in Mark Doty »»»

Page 1 of 1