‘A Ward in the States’ immediately calls to mind Wilfred Owen’s description of shell-shocked soldiers from the First World War in ‘Mental Cases’, those “whose minds the Dead have ravished.” Jarrell’s ward is less freighted than Owen’s with deathly cargo, but it is no less gripping. If, in an odd angle of the hutment, Your email address will not be published. From the library of swiss - american - irish poet Chuck Kruger. Is not as men have said: a wolf to man? Second printing. Pump pumps over your sweating face the clear Water, cold, so cold! My friend's cold made-up face, granite among its flowers, Her undressed, operated-on, dressed body Were my face and body. Jarrell enlisted in the Army Air Force in 1942 and tried his hand at being a pilot; though he failed to earn his wings, he became a celestial navigation training operator for B-29 pilots. (pp. There are moments in his war poetry when the force of his passion results in confusion and overstatement but far more frequently it is directed and controlled through a technical assurance that has produced some of the most relentless indictments of the evil of war since Sassoon and Owen. Randall Jarrell, (born May 6, 1914, Nashville, Tennessee, U.S.—died October 14, 1965, Chapel Hill, North Carolina), American poet, novelist, and critic who is noted for revitalizing the reputations of Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, and William Carlos Williams in the 1950s. (See also CLC, Vols. ‘Death of a Ball Turret Gunner’, the poem most familiar to readers of anthologies, is couched in considerable explanation. The wind waves under the waves … He tenderly hosted a ragged Jack Kerouac at his home, escorted Jack (six-pack slung from his thumb day and night) to the Washington Zoo, though Mrs. Jarrell had the sense to conceal their remaining liquor bottles. (p. 195), Field Hospital, a firmly moulded and verbally chaste poem, ends with its subject, a wounded soldier, 'comforted', but the comfort is that of oblivion and, from the pain and desperation that informs so much of Jarrell's war poetry, the reader might reasonably assume that, for the poet, dreamless sleep is the only possible refuge from the senseless and destructive realities of war. Randall Lee Jarrell of Metter passed away on Sunday, December 27, 2020 at his residence. Jarrell, Randall. There is no mistaking the intensity of Jarrell's pain, pity and despair nor the inflexibility of his truthfulness. G. S. Fraser, in Partisan Review (copyright © 1970 by Partisan Review, Inc.), Vol. 1, 2, 6, and Contemporary Authors, obituary, Vols. The other murderers troop in yawning; Jarrell could also be giving us an insight into the callousness of war, himself being a combatant. Jarrell’s consideration of Donatello’s David-a lithe giant-killer poised with foot on the head of Goliath, certainly not the imposingly large and docile David of Michelangelo-is loving in its detailed litany; such a light but erotic treatment brings continued definition to the statue upon which it reflects. Words fail me here … Auden, he goes on to say, was 'like someone who keeps showing how well he can hold his liquor until he becomes a drunkard … Reading Another Time is like attending an Elks' Convention of the Capital Letters.' In the end, reality has the final say. An example is the poem—beautiful though it is—about the Marschallin, “The Face.” Jarrell puts words into the mouth of ... Randall Jarrell had his own peculiar and important excellence as a poet, and outdistanced all others in the things he could do well. He was a very American writer. —If only I don't learn German …. The poems Jarrell wrote before World War II—roughly before he was 30—are on the whole forgettable, but they foreshadow his continual risky dependence on history, folk tale and art: many of the later poems are retellings (of history or biography), redescriptions (of a Dürer etching, a Botticelli canvas, the Augsburg Adoration), or reworkings of a myth. Even his children’s books, with illustrations by Maurice Sendak, have proven very popular. I think of all I have. Many times, those fighting are very young, barely out of … Blessed is defeat, sleep blessed, blessed death. This is the world we all inherit: My universe The narrator, a more-or-less unbodied voice, muses about a young Home Economics major who has fallen asleep over her book, and sees in her a modern, i.e., diminished, New World version of the ancient myth of regeneration. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, Of the wind machines. Jarrell, as in that fine poem, the title poem of one of his later volumes, "The Woman at the Washington Zoo," or even more in the much longer second poem in that volume, "The End of the Rainbow," goes on till he has finished what he has got to say: as prose writers do. There is nothing invidious about this remark, for it is true also about Hardy and about Lawrence…. Jarrell has often been taken to task for his sentimentality, but the fiction, recurrent in his work, of a wholly nonsexual tenderness, though it can be unnerving in some of the marriage poems, is indispensable in his long, tearfully elated recollections of childhood. Here, as so often in his criticism, one thinks of Kipling's mother and her reply (Jarrell quotes it in A Sad Heart at the Supermarket) when the son was angered by her criticism of his poems: 'There's no Mother in Poetry, my dear. This may or may not have been suicide, and the matter is still debated by his devotees. 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