Anne Stevenson
Anne Stevenson
Anne Stevensonis an American-British poet and writer...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth3 January 1933
CountryUnited States of America
thinking poet should
I think a poet, like a painter, should be a craftsperson.
criticism poet should
Poets should ignore most criticism and get on with making poetry.
memorable ideas giving
I like rhyme because it is memorable, I like form because having to work to a pattern gives me original ideas.
musical trying ears
I work very hard on all my poems, but most of the work consists of trying not to sound as if I had worked. I try to make them sound as natural as possible, but within a quite strict form, which to my ears has a lot to do with musical rhythm and sound.
literature loyal austen
I remain loyal to Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert in music and to Shakespeare and Jane Austen in literature.
horror century glad
I am now seventy, rather glad, really, that I won't live to see the horrors to come in the 21st century.
canvas violent slap
I don't like poetry that just slaps violent words on a canvas, as it were.
criticism too-much kind
There is far too much literary criticism of the wrong kind. That is why I never could have survived as an academic.
hobbies tire
A hobbyhorse can be a tiring ride for nonenthusiasts.
philosophy thinking dying
democracy is dying. We are ruled by faceless bureaucrats and lecherous puritans. ... You think about it. 'All right for me but not for you' is their philosophy.
laughing confusion unhappy
My earlier poems were sadder than my poems are today, perhaps because I wrote them in confusion or when I was unhappy. But I am not a melancholy person, quite the contrary, no one enjoys laughing more than I do.
silence mind desire
Mind led body to the edge of the precipice. They stared in desire at the naked abyss. If you love me, said mind, take that step into silence. If you love me, said body, turn and exist.
married britain cambridge
I married a young Englishman in Cambridge in 1955 and have lived in Britain every since.
summer dream rain
You sleep with a dream of summer weather, wake to the thrum of rain—roped down by rain. Nothing out there but drop-heavy feathers of grass and rainy air. The plastic table on the terrace has shed three legs on its way to the garden fence. The mountains have had the sense to disappear. It's the Celtic temperament—wind, then torrents, then remorse. Glory rising like a curtain over distant water. Old stonehouse, having steered us through the dark, docks in a pool of shadow all its own. That widening crack in the gloom is like good luck. Luck, which neither you nor tomorrow can depend on.