[Posted by Anisha Chakrabarti ’14, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

Going to the Watkinson Library to research T.S. Eliot was an astonishing experience, as I found that the collection included works from throughout Eliot’s life. The work I chose to examine was a copy of Eliot’s poem, The Dry Salvages. The piece is the third of four sets of poems that Eliot published later in his career entitled, The Four Quartets.

 While the first time the poem was published was in February of 1941 in an edition of New English Weekly, this version was published in September of the same year and is the first edition of its publication alone.

The poem is not particularly long; therefore it surprised me that it was published on its own in such a sparse manner. It is slightly flimsy; the book cover is cardboard, and it is bound in an elm green binding that has been reinforced by green tape. The pages are yellowed, but do not look particularly worn. The book cover says nothing; it is only when you turned to the title page that very simply, T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages, Faber and Faber is printed. This made me think that perhaps the edition had been published originally with a compilation of other works.

Faber and Faber is printed quite largely on the title page, so I looked up what the publishing company was. The second page describes the publishing as being done in London. Upon research, I learned that the editor of Faber and Faber was in fact, T.S. Eliot. This means, that he had completely control and editorial power over this piece, and approved it. It would then make sense, that he could have released his own work on its own, regardless of its length. This made me question the format of the font and layout of the piece in relation to the time period in which it was published.

Eliot’s pieces contain such complexity; it made me wonder if that was the reason for the simplicity in the format of the publishing. I then considered the time period in which the piece was published. Eliot had been working on the piece during the air raids of Great Britain during World War II. So the simple paper, short work, lack luster binding, and plain fonts may have been a result of a lack of resources during the war.

Although the piece was published in Great Britain, and was written there, its title is derived from a rock formation that is located on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, as Eliot indicated on the third page before the poem begins.

I was first attracted to this piece in the Watkinson because I was interested in its autobiographical nature that Eliot was writing about during his later life. The Dry Salvages includes references to Gloucester Harbor, where Eliot would go sailing as a child. I thought it was intriguing that how even though he essentially ex-patrioted, at a later time in his life he was writing about his childhood in the United States. It makes sense, as it was a time of disorder in his new home of Europe that he would be reflecting on his earlier American life.

What I found most striking about The Dry Salvages in relation to studying early Eliot and why it was also very interesting to read because of its similarity to the section, Death by Water in the Wasteland. Eliot was writing almost 20 years later, yet many images and themes of life as being a boat adrift, as well as the sea, from Death by Water are still imminent in The Dry Salvages, yet it was a more hopeful poem than the Wasteland.

In the original, pre-edited manuscript of The Wasteland, you see the much longer IV. Death By Water, and in the original, Eliot references “The Dry Savages,” and comments on it in his notes. This did not make the final version of The Wasteland, but was clearly an idea that Eliot thought about even twenty years later and that he went back to in The Dry Salvages.

[Posted by Forrest Robinette ’16, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

On October 19^th in 1955, Robert B. Young, the head of the Marketing Research Department at the Ford Motor Company, sent a letter to Marianne Moore to ask if she would help the company in coming up with a name for Ford’s newest series of cars. What followed was a yearlong written correspondence between the businessman and the poet in which Moore suggested hundreds of possible names for the Ford E-car, what would eventually become the “Edsel.” Some of her suggestions include the “Ford Faberge,” the “Mongoose Civique,” the “Pluma Piluma,” the “Turcotinga,” and, perhaps the most infamous of all, the “Utopian Turtletop.” Moore and Young’s letters were collected in a book that I found during my visit to the Watkinson titled,  “Letters Between Marianne Moore and the Ford Motor Company.” The book is particularly fascinating because, as the correspondence continues, we see Mr. Young realizing that he may have bitten off more than he can chew in his attempt to work with the very eccentric Moore. It is fascinating to examine how the tone of his letters change as Moore continues to send page after page of bizarre names for the Ford E-car.

In his first letter to Moore, Young’s tone is extremely humble as he requests help on a problem that is, as he says, “more in the field of words and the fragile meaning of words than in car-making.” Young repeatedly establishes himself as Moore’s inferior on the subject of words and he holds her up as an expert. He writes, “We are seeking the help of one who knows more of this sort of magic than we.” His use of the word “magic” frames Moore’s artistic work as something that transcends the more mundane world of car-making. Young seems to be engaging in some flattery here in the hope of enlisting Moore as a consultant. Young is successful and Moore agrees to help, but he quickly runs into difficulty as he tries to establish the terms of their business relationship.

Throughout his letters, Young repeatedly tries to settle on a method of payment for Moore’s services. At the end of his first letter he writes, “Of course, it is expected that our relations will be on a fee basis of an impeccably dignified kind.” Moore does not acknowledge this comment in her responding letter and simply says, “I am complimented to be recruited in this high matter.” Young becomes more insistent about monetary reimbursement in his second letter saying, “in compliance with procedures in this rigorous business world, I think we should make some definite arrangements for payment… before pursuing the problem further.” Moore once again fails to respond to his comment and instead responds with her first suggestion for a name, “The Silver Sword.” She then launches into a lengthy description of the Haleakalā Silversword, the rare Hawaiian plant that inspired her suggestion.

Young mentions money for a third time in his third letter to her. He writes, “It is unspeakably contrary to Procedures here to accept counsel… without a firm prior agreement of conditions (and, indeed, without a Purchase Notice).” While Young repeats himself about the issue of payment, Moore simply continues to send him fanciful suggestions for the E-car. In this third letter, Young even asks Moore to stop sending him so many suggestions. He writes, we propose “a recess in production for orderly bookkeeping.” Despite this comment, Moore continues to send letters in which she muses about the car’s name. At this point in the correspondence, it becomes clear that these individuals do not understand each other. For Young, this is his job and he intended to bring Moore on board as a paid consultant. For Moore, this is most likely a fun task that she has chosen to take on. This disparity in their objectives leads to a correspondence that is ultimately unproductive.

In Young’s last letter to Moore, it is clear that his attempt to utilize her help has largely failed. He writes, “contributions have been entered from many directions, and those from our “favorite Turtletopper” rate among the most interesting of all.” Note that he does not say the “best” of all. He says the most “interesting” of all. Young goes on, “We can scarcely begin to thank you for your interest… in our dilemma.” The word “interest” is particularly loaded because it would suggest that Moore approached Ford to offer suggestions when, in reality, it was Young who approached her. It seems as though Young is trying to let Moore down easy because he has realized that he cannot establish a steady or productive working relationship with her.

These letters are truly unique in how they shed light on Moore’s interactions with the non-artistic sectors of society.  I do not know who chose to compile these letters in a small book, but I do know that the book is one of only five hundred and fifty copies. I imagine that this book came about because someone wanted to preserve this unique look at the personality of Marianne Moore.

[Posted by Michael Peluso, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

In the early 1960s, less than a decade after Wallace Stevens’s death at age 75, Trinity worked with his daughter Holly and the University of Connecticut archives to put together an exhibit on the poet. The exhibition focused partially on correspondences that Stevens kept up with friends and publishers, and also explored a significant portion of his personal collection of artwork that, presumably, influenced his own approach to poetry. Much has been made of the man’s fascination with burgeoning artistic movements, and the prints available help to flesh out a portrait of how Stevens explored the visual arts in service of his poetry.

Buried within a pile of these prints and correspondences, though, a small pamphlet caught my eye. Provided, presumably, by Holly for the exhibition, this rather unassuming program for the Poetry Society of America’s 41^st annual dinner suggests an interesting personal, and familial, side of Stevens that isn’t usually immediately evident in his work or in the common conception of the reticent insurance man who made pains to keep his poetic excursions separate from his Hartford business life. The artifact also tells us a bit about Stevens’s world in the poetry community, and about the evolving reception to his work.

The 41^st annual dinner occurred in 1951, and it’s worth noting that Stevens, our guest of honor, as well as the Honorary President (Robert Frost), and the Honorary Vice-President (Leonora Speyer) were all elder statesmen of American poetry by that time. It’s also worth noting that, among so many of their contemporaries who travelled overseas extensively and blurred the lines of professed nationalism, Speyer, and particularly Frost and Stevens, were all primarily American poets, making them prime candidates, naturally, for this poetry society’s recognition. The gathering was a celebration of the old guard, full of long-overdue odes to Stevens’s Harmonium from those early adopters who saw its worth well before the critics. Said A.M. Sullivan, it “made me aware for the first time of a person’s ability to enjoy poetry without the necessity of explanation or justification.” The celebration of poets passed, and the honoring of those formative to the “American” movement speaks to an appropriate concern with the foundations of American poetry. Additionally, the dinner was an occasion to meditate on the nature and presence of American poetry on a global stage, and a celebration of its current representatives. Similarly, a glance through guest list suggests that the society was, possibly, more concerned with the social visibility of poetry and poetic support than with the virtues of poetics themselves.

With this in mind, Holly’s brief notations on the page showing her father are open to a range of interpretations. Under one picture, captioned “Richard Wilbur, in an entranced moment…” Holly underlined “entranced,” which undercuts the gravitas of the situation, and suggests, somewhat sarcastically, that the pomp and circumstance and florid language of the event was somewhat less than genuine, or, at the very least, trumped up to excessive proportions in either the intended perception or in the retelling. In the next pane over, Stevens himself takes center stage, “lending an attentive ear” to the proceedings. In the margin, with an arrow pointing to her father, a daughter’s “ha” complicates the scene immeasurably. It could be a simple piece of familial teasing, a goofy picture warranting a small jibe, or an inside joke between parent and progeny. Given what we know of Stevens, with his reluctance to discuss his poetry, mixed with the smattering of dignitaries, ambassadors, and actual poets in attendance, the notation, and Stevens’s expression, could be read as a signal of discomfort among the bombast of the occasion. The underlined “entranced” would certainly suggest that Holly was of the opinion that this group took themselves a bit too seriously (whether the group themselves shared this opinion remains less clear, although the text alone would suggest a certain formality), and paired with the somewhat inscrutable expression on Stevens himself, these two simple notations open a world of possibility about the truth of an experience otherwise unapproachable through the text itself. At the very least, these marks serve to humanize and humble. We tend to lionize our heroes, and even our attentions to their personal lives come through a reserved distance. Holly’s marks, however slight, give an intimately unguarded lens, and partial clue, into her father’s appreciation of his poetic society.

[Posted by Madeline Burns ‘16, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

What I found in the Watkinson was Thank You, Fog, a posthumous collection of poetry by W. H. Auden, published in 1974. The poems in this collection were written in 1972 and 1973, up until Auden’s death in September 1973. At the time of his death, Auden had already assembled the poems he wanted to be in this book, and had selected its title and dedication. He was preparing it for publication by his literary executor Edward Mendelson.

The main reason that I selected this collection was because of Edward Mendelson’s commentary. In a note at the beginning of the collection, Edward Mendelson writes that the last poem that Auden wrote did not appear in this collection. He includes the poem at the end of his note. It reads:

He still loves life

but O O O O how he wishes

the good Lord would take him.

Mendelson’s commentary and the inclusion of Auden’s last poem ever written provides insight into the end of Auden’s life and how his poetry progressed over the span of his lifetime. Auden wrote about old age, and death, and coming to terms with old age and death. You can also see his religious influences more prominently than in some of his earlier poems. Especially in this final poem that Mendelson included, Auden came to accept his death and wished that “the good Lord would take him”.

Auden is typically considered to be an anti-romantic. He presents the world in a scientific manner, and writes in a orderly, neat writing style. His earlier poems are rooted in concrete images and colloquial language. While his style certainly carries over into his last collection, his ideas are more romanticized and abstract than in his earlier collections. The presentation of his poems was also different from that in some of his earlier works. His stanza alignment was more abstract, with many indented passages within larger poems, and asterisks breaking up stanzas.

These poems were written during his short time in Europe before his death. He died in Austria in 1973, not in the United States, although he gained American citizenship in the 1940s. Some of his best work comes from the stretch of time that he was living in the United States. Was this elevated point in his writing career exemplary of the profound influence of his environment, or was it merely a combination of his age and skill at the time. This comes into question when looking at this later collection of poetry, written in Europe. Was the more abstract and pensive writing style primarily the result of his old age, or his environment?

One also has to question how much of these changes came directly from Auden, and how much came from Mendelson after Auden’s death. When looking at a posthumous collection of poems, one can never be sure what the author’s original intentions were. For instance, part of what caught my attention about this collection was its color – the cover is orange. Did Auden intend for it to be that color? Or were his directions not that specific, and did Mendelson have to make these decisions himself? Also, were all the poems included in this collection meant for publication? Auden did not want his last poem to be included in the collection, and yet Mendelson includes it in his introduction. Even with the most talented of poets, in a posthumous collection, not everything is worthy of release, even when in a fully completed form. As a collection of poetry, Thank You, Fog is not Auden’s strongest work. However, its existence stands as a testament to his life’s journey as a poet, and the ways in which his writing style developed over time.

[Posted by Jordan Wilson, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

An Address to Members of the London Library by T.  S. Eliot O.M.: On the occasion of his assuming the office of President of the Library. Delivered at the Annual General Meeting of Members in the Reading Room, 22 July 1952.

At sixty-three years old, T. S. Eliot succeeded Giles Fox-Strangways, 6th Earl of Ilchester as the ninth President of the London Library. Other predecessors included Irish poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson and the Scottish essayist, Thomas Carlyle. Eight years earlier, the Library lost close to 16,000 volumes in a bombing during the Second World War. Today. The collection holds over a million volumes with 97% of the collection available for lending and at 173 years old, the Library is kept under the English playwright, Sir Tom Stoppard.

In his address, Eliot attends to two questions: “Can such a library, limited to members and supported by subscriptions, survive? And, ought it to survive?” Eliot and his milieu have just traversed into modernity where there were many questions that needed to be addressed. Expatriotism and the Wars encouraged poetry and discourse to approach different methods. New styles were accepted. The social sciences had just entered the main stage and the modern artists were dealing with a new world in which its old God was announced dead.

Having achieved a status of laureateship in poetics and in academia, and being credited as the father of modern poetry, T. S. Eliot looked on the members of the London Library as his next matter of business. Eliot had been prolific in his influence over literary discourse and he affirmed his own status. But Eliot’s intention was no more than to uphold the tradition of his predecessors so that the community may continue to survive. In his speech, Eliot isolated himself from his position as President in a way that echoed that echoed the tradition of literature rather than his own “parenthetical” anecdotes, which had “no direct bearing upon [his] main theme.” Eliot called himself indebted to the library, saying that without it, “many of [his] early essays could never have been written.” The Library became to Eliot what the café setting meant to Picasso. The difference: Eliot was content with his dialogue, which took place between himself and books.

The collection of the Library, Eliot recalls as being the only “of [its] size which contains so many of the books which [one] might want, and so few of the books which [Eliot] cannot imagine anyone wanting.” This feat was only accomplished by the Library’s “certain homogeneity of membership,” which seemed to be a crucial element of the Library’s mores. However, with its selective style, the Library has curated a prodigious collection that has brought it to stand as the world’s largest independent lending library. The institution’s Carlyle Fund provides scholarship for those with a true interest in joining, but cannot pay the annual fee.

In Eliot’s speech, he makes it evident that the availability of such a curated collection needs to remain standing, as it is vital to its culture as a whole. The absence of the London Library, “would be a disaster to the world of letters, and would leave a vacancy that no other form of library could fill.” With the scope of accepted literatures forever expanding since the days of the divide between high and low art, this simple booklet, which transcribes Eliot’s speech, reminds its reader of what role a collection of reference means to a culture. This cannot be the case of a library with “the awful burden of having to accept every book that is sent them.” The London Library’s Committee may provide for its interested members those publications that are worth preservation throughout this time and all time when discourse expands. What members gain is a haven of space where they are protected from the copious amount of lapsus linguae, which exists in literary output today.

[Posted by Walter Jongbloed ’16, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

An Exchange of Letters between James Guthrie and Wallace Stevens: June 25, 1945 – Nov 23, 1945

Wallace Stevens, while living and working in Hartford CT, remained in contact with James Guthrie, founder of the British publishing company Pear Tree Press.  Guthrie was, aside from a publisher, an artist, endeavoring in prints and engravings.  The letters found in the Watkinson Library do not indicate how this interesting relationship began; however, between June 25, 1945 and November 23, 1945 these two men shared personal and profession aspects of their lives.  With World War II in progress between these dates, one can also witness the effect the War had on Stevens, or at least the feelings he was willing to write in his letters.  This series of letters reveal that both Guthrie and Stevens cared, in a professional sense, about the artistic work the other was producing.  In the first letter, however, dated June 25, 1945, Stevens reveals his desire for Guthrie to mail him one of his drawings.  Perhaps of more interest, though, Stevens reveals in detail the effect World War II was having on Hartford, CT.  He writes:

All during the war there have been very few visible signs of it here in Hartford.  Occasionally, on the street, one would see a long string of young men on the way to the draft board, but that was all.  We were intent on the war, yet it was far away.  At first, when someone that we had known was lost, there was an extraordinary shock; later, this became something in the ordinary course of events, terrifying but inevitable.  At the moment we are passing through a period of readjustment…From our point of view here at home, America has never been on the make, or on the grab, whatever people may have said of us elsewhere.  The Japanese war is likely to change all that.  This morning one of the people on the radio was talking about the necessity for having fortified outpost throughout the Orient.  I think most people would accept that idea quite naturally, and be willing to fight for it.

Certainly Stevens’ June 25^th letter to Guthrie reveals the status of Hartford at this point in the War, yet it also presents a certain issue of immense interest.  What Stevens perhaps is alluding to is the idea of America as a world police.  Today the United States is constantly accused of policing the world; perhaps, Stevens found the turning point in history where this idea originated.  He does not explicitly say that he believes in this idea of fortified outposts throughout the orient, yet he does believe most Americans will fight for the idea of military precaution.  At the end of this letter, Stevens mentions a new publication containing his work.  He writes:

The Cummington Press…is going to print a small book for me during the next few months.  When it is published, I shall be glad to send you a copy.

Stevens wishes to send this book to Guthrie as soon as it is published.

After an exchange of two letters between Guthrie and Stevens, Stevens responds with a letter containing news on his recent book.  He writes about the status of his book:

When they were planning this new book they wanted to use color to some extent.  Accordingly, I sent them one of your books since green and blue were among the colors that they were considering.  Fortunately (I think) they concluded to do the text in black with initials and drawings in color.

This use of color Stevens mentions shows his desire for his poetry to be something contemporary and fashionable.  It is at this point where the relationship between Guthrie and Stevens becomes clear; Stevens values Guthrie’s work as a printer and his utilization of color in his publications; something he wishes to emulate.  Stevens evidently wants Guthrie’s artistic opinion of the book.

The Oct 18, 1945 letter was sent as Stevens held an executive position at a local insurance firm in Hartford.  In other words, Stevens was an insurance executive with upper-middle class standing.  His political opinions are somewhat unsettling:

More than ever there is a feeling that anything not a part of politics, not a part of sociology and not in a general way a phase of mass thinking has any right to exist.  What is going on in the world now is an extraordinary manipulation of the masses.  The manipulating forces are not apparent.  It can hardly be said that the politicians are manipulating forces because, as the great strikes demonstrate, the forces behind the strikes are defiant of the politicians.  The mechanism for this sort of thing has been perfected beyond belief…We have never exploited workers as they have been exploited elsewhere; it is still true I think that the man at the very bottom feels that there is a chance for him to be the man at the top.

Although the beginning portion of this message seems altruistic in that he upholds the importance of freethinking, the concluding sentences reveal his political opinions.  This paragraph, written by Stevens himself, provides a portal into the very mind of this poet and insurance executive.  From the passage above, what attitude does Stevens hold toward the lower class? Clearly he sees the lower class as exploited, yet it is obvious that he does not see this exploitation as bad.  In fact, he himself does not believe that there is a chance for the man at the very bottom to be at the very top, he just believes a man at the very bottom feels that there is a chance for him at the very top.  Perhaps Stevens believes that the poor will always think there is a chance for success, even if success is only a hope.  How does this dark ideology appear coming from an insurance vice-president?  Written in confidence to his close friend, this letter and the messages contained in it reveal a lot about his political opinions and his feelings toward the portrayal of his work in his about-to-be published book.

These letters, however, are just two in a series of around seven where both the realities of war in England and The United States are evident.  Certainly Stevens valued his dear friends opinion on the artistic appearance of his newly published book, while also hoping to receive some original artwork from Guthrie.  It is also possible, however, that these letters reveal a lesser-known side of Stevens; Stevens as an insurance executive.  Nonetheless, these letters are a classic example of documents preserved by the Watkinson Library in which a wealth of knowledge can be extracted to provide a richer understanding of modern poetry; specifically, the man behind the poems of, Hartford’s own, Wallace Stevens.

[Posted by Margaret Pallis, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

When I searched the Watkinson for an object related to William Carlos Williams’ poetry, I found myself interested in a 1932 edition of Contact, a literary journal first published in December of 1920; three more editions came out in 1921, and a fifth and final edition was published in 1923.  In 1932, Williams, this time working with Nathaniel West, revived Contact, renaming it Contact: an American Quarterly Review.  However, the revived journal only lasted for a total of three volumes—all of which were published in 1932.  The copy I examined at the Watkinson was the second volume of this journal.

Part of what initially caught my attention was the quality of the paper.  While it was old, certainly, I was more interested in the fact that the paper was not of good quality.  The cover of the journal is unassuming, with no frills; however, the font is large and red, which commands attention.  There were very few advertisements in the journal, and with a little investigating, I discovered (in correspondence between Williams and Ezra Pound) that Williams had no money with which to pay for submissions to the journal.  It appears that neither the venture in the 1920s, nor this 1932 venture, was particularly successful financially.

The volume I examined of Contact includes two poems by Williams:  “The Canada Lily” (later renamed “The Red Lily”) and “The Cod Head.”  I believe that this was a first publication for both of the poems.  Certainly, Contact served as an opportunity for Williams to showcase some of his own poetry.  I also discovered, looking through this particular volume, that the journal also contained a continuation of a bibliography of “Little Magazines,” compiled by David Moss. This appears to be one of the first times that such a bibliography was compiled.  Each of the three 1932 volumes presented a section of the bibliography, as it was too long to include in one volume.

The main reason I selected this particular journal was because of the editorial that Williams included.  In the editorial, Williams suggests that the name of the journal encapsulates some of his ideas about poetry.   The idea of “contact” for Williams seems to suggest that symbols are no longer relevant, and he invites readers of modern poetry to see the object, instead of what an object may or may not symbolize.   In his commentary, Williams articulates his beliefs (about poetry and the role of poetry in our lives) when he suggests that we must come “eye to eye with some of the figures of our country and epoch, truthfully.” He suggests that, “if we cannot find virtue in the object of our lives, then for us there is none anywhere.  We won’t solve or discover by using ‘profound’ (and borrowed) symbolism.”  The idea of contact seems to be a cutting away of everything unessential, which then creates a new surface which allows for immediate and unmediated contact. We must, says Williams in his commentary, “reveal the object.”  Williams argues that the poet must let go of clichés and “dead stylisms.”  He argues that writers must “learn from the thing itself.”

The commentary also gave me what I suppose I might call an insight in Williams as a person.  Toward the end of that piece, he writes about Hart Crane’s suicide.  While I was initially struck by what felt like callousness, when Williams writes that “no one expects now to go on living after death; blackguards have already traded too long on that to our confounding.  Certainly Hart Crane bumped himself off with no thought of improving or marring his condition.” I may have been startled by the “bumped himself off” when I would, perhaps, have anticipated some sympathy for a troubled man.  Instead, I began to see Williams’ point that perhaps Crane had “done about the best he could do and was satisfied to let it go at that.”  There is a practical quality to the statement that is, I suppose, satisfying.

[Posted by Kelly Oleksiw, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

Robert Frost was the focus of my quest at the Watkinson as part of Professor Rosen’s Modern Poetry course. The task was a seemingly easy one (considering the sheer volume of manuscripts the library has to offer from Frost) but it was complicated by the mission to find something truly unique to the poet and the library.

I ventured through the Watkinson’s large glass doors with an agenda to focus specifically on Series V of the Watkinson’s collection on Frost: the poet’s collection of Christmas Cards. The cards ranged from the years 1934-1962 and were housed in a total of five precious archived boxes. My afternoon began and ended with just two of those boxes ranging from the years 1934-50. What initially struck me, when I began my research through the cards, was that they were not cards at all like we receive today in the mail, covered in glitter with snow-covered sleigh and deer, but rather they were small booklets. Booklets that were printed on thick paper, bound or sewn with a thin yarn, no larger than maybe six inches across, and often in earthy tones of brown and blue rather than the green and reds we envision for Christmas today.

As I began to delve deeper into the collection I began to realize that the holiday booklets often had nothing to do with the Christmas season but were rather compiled based on what the next poem Frost was to release for publication. For example the 1946 card featured the Frost poem A Young Birch and the booklet’s title page introduced ‘a new poem by Robert Frost.’ Each consecutive year seemed to feature that year’s new and exciting poem by the poet. This fact was interesting to me because it cemented the ideas from Professor Rosen’s course, that Frost was a poet that wanted to be popular. And this Christmas tradition helped Frost achieve certain popularity among the recipients of the cards. Though Frost was not fond of poet Ezra Pound, you can clearly see a certain selectivity or exclusivity, similar to Pound’s, which existed at the start of this tradition. After my visit at the Watkinson I did some additional research on poets.org about Frost Christmas Cards and discovered that the first batch of Christmas booklets, Christmas Trees was only sent to about 250 people, but by 1963 when the last booklet was mailed, nearly 20,000 copies were received. This proves to me that Frost wanted the popularity and eventually expanded his exclusivity over the years as he realized how deeply people enjoyed these booklets and that they got his name out to his adoring public. Each booklet that I leafed through was printed by the Spiral Press in New York City which was run by publisher and friend of Frost, Joseph Blumenthal. Blumenthal is the man who, according to the poets.org article, took the liberty to start the Christmas card tradition with Christmas Tree. Blumenthal had printed copies of the poem for himself to send out to friends and family that first year. Many of the other names that would show up in the records of the cards in the Watkinson lists also ended up being publishers and close friends of Frost. Henry Holt and Frederic Melcher are just a couple examples of the families that took part in sending the cards out into the world.

There were many booklets to leaf through and clearly many people have received these over the years, but the one object that most caught my eye and which I chose to present in class was 1940’s Our Hold on the Planet. This object seemed extra special because it was not just the card that was sent out that year but what the Watkinson had was a proof of what the card looked like as it was being developed. The proof, which included pencil markings and drawings by (I assume from the descriptions on the envelope) Frederic Melcher, shows how the family wanted the card to be presented on their behalf. “Holiday Greetings” is crossed out and “Christmas Greetings” is penciled in as well as a small holly leaf that ends the booklet. The object shows the time and detail that went into to personalizing the poem based on the family or company that planned on sending the card out that year. The finished copy of the booklet that the Watkinson had enclosed with the proof is the card that was sent from Frost to friend and collector Charles Green (CRG). Frost’s own handwriting can clearly be seen on the title page of the card and I discovered through research and a conversation with Watkinson archivist Peter Knapp, that Green and a local insurance agent and friend of Frost named H. Bacon Collamore were instrumental in donating their collections of Frost works to Trinity College. I found out that Green was not only a friend and collector of Frost he was also the first director of Jones Library at Amherst College where Frost taught and which houses one of the largest Frost collections. It is no surprise that Green is one of the gentlemen who donated much of his collection to Trinity, including his own personal Christmas card from Frost.

The other data that the Watkinson had complied was how many of each card had been printed and who requested the copies. Our Hold on the Planet was printed in 600 copies for Henry Holt, 250 for Robert Frost and 125 for the Melcher family. Both cards as well as the data found were definitely unique to the Watkinson. I don’t think very many people or establishments could say that they have a proof of a Robert Frost Christmas card from a family and publisher that sent out his poems yearly. I think Trinity is extremely lucky to have the Watkinson and I feel lucky to have gotten the chance to spend a couple hours there sifting through Frost and confirming my ideas on the poet, that he was a man who loved to share his poetry and to gain popularity in the process.

[Posted by Eric Patenaude, for Prof. David Rosen’s course, “Modern Poetry”]

Searching for an artifact about the poet H.D., I came upon a volume of Poetry magazine.  Although categorized under Robert Frost because he owned the volume and his poem was published in it, this small pamphlet of poetry also contained work by H.D.

Poetry magazine began in 1912 by Harriet Monroe and still continues today.  It has published works and helped solidify the careers of many major modern poets including T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Robert Frost, Marianne Moore, and H.D.  At the Watkinson I found Volume 3, Number 5 of the magazine, published in February of 1914.

What I found interesting about this volume of Poetry is that we can see how H.D. was regarded in this moment of time.  H.D. (1886 – 1961) began her career as a poet in 1912 as one of the founding members of the Imagist movement.  Although Ezra Pound considered her an integral member of the movement, her importance in modern poetry took some time to be recognized by the reading public, which can be seen in this volume of Poetry.  She published two of her poems here, “Hermonax” and “Acon,” however “Acon” is incorrectly spelled as “Avon” in the magazine.

At the end of the volume there is an advertisement for The Glebe, a monthly publication similar to Poetry magazine.  In this advertisement they mention prominent issues they have recently published, including Des Imagistes, an anthology of Imagist poetry.  Listing the authors in this volume, they include Pound, Hueffer, Aldington, and Flint.  Curiously, H.D. is left off of this list, although she did contribute to the anthology, and Pound considered her just as important as himself in the Imagist movement.  It is clear in this volume that H.D. hadn’t yet established her reputation in modern poetry.

Her progress as a poet can be traced through Poetry magazine, especially after her collection of poems Sea Garden was published in 1916.  Later volumes of the magazine mention H.D. in high praise, often grouped together with Pound and other modern poets.  Max Michelson wrote in Volume 8, Number 2, published in 1916: “To me a collection of modern poems is incomplete without H. D. and four or five other writers.”  Through this small monthly pamphlet of poetry, we can see the rise and maturation of a major modern poet.

Not only can we trace H.D.’s reputation as a modernist through Poetry magazine, we can also see her individual identity being shaped through the various transformations of her name.  When H.D. was first introduced in Poetry magazine in 1913, she was called “H.D., Imagiste.”  This was a name Ezra Pound had given to H.D. when he edited and published her first poems.  Not only did Pound transform H.D.’s poetry to his own vision of Imagism, he also branded her an Imagist in her name.  The obscure initials, the use of the feminine ending, and the quotations around her name turned H.D. into an ethereal substantiation of Imagism itself.  She became the muse and symbol of Imagism more than an established poet in her own right.

When she is first described in Poetry magazine in Volume 1, Number 4, published in 1913, her identity is unknown, other than that she is an “American lady resident abroad.”  However, once we reach the volume I found at the Watkinson, she has dropped the Imagiste from her name, and is called “H.D.” by the magazine.  Still, though, the quotations remain and retain the air of mystery and elusiveness surrounding her image.  Though coming into her own, H.D. was not yet considered a prominent poet; we cannot yet get to the direct treatment of who “H.D.” is.  The quotations are eventually dropped from her name, and in later volumes of Poetry she is known only as H.D.  This volume of Poetry shows us a moment in time when H.D. was disrobing her Imagist accoutrements and solidifying her status as a profound Modernist poet, and not just an Imagist poet under the guidance of Ezra Pound.