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  Introduction

  In his time, Robert Lowell achieved unquestionable stardom. The author of twelve collections, countless translations, adaptations from Greek plays, and an original drama, he won the Pulitzer in 1947 for his second book, Lord Weary’s Castle, and again in 1973 for his penultimate collection, The Dolphin (one of three books he published that year alone). Neither of these collections, though, brought him the fame of his fourth volume, Life Studies (1959), which includes an exquisitely matter-of-fact prose memoir of growing up in Boston as the son of a Brahmin family in decline and a series of family portraits written in a detail-rich, sensually baroque free verse many poets have imitated but none have matched. Life Studies, with its candor and intimacy, may have invented “personal” poetry—it may also be the one collection of Lowell’s that twenty-first-century readers have heard of—but he refused to brand his patent with repetition. His subsequent books each attempt something new. The formal virtuosity paired with his social pedigree to form a legend of achievement. The poetry critic Edmund Wilson, whose own former stature as a literary journalist seems nearly unimaginable in contemporary culture, deemed Lowell one of only two poets in the twentieth century able to achieve a career “on the old nineteenth-century scale.” In 2017, forty years after his death, one fears Lowell remains known for precisely that.

  I write this at a time when many individuals with many different kinds of lives aspire to be poets, and many different kinds of poetry are said to thrive in these United States. Is it too easy to say that Lowell’s star has fallen a bit? Or is it actually that the sense of achievement his work self-consciously carries with it itself carries less credibility than it used to? I arrived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the fall of 1997 to earn a doctorate in English at Harvard, a university that claims Lowell both as undergraduate dropout and as professor. Raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, I cut my teeth on the Beat Generation and drum circles and didn’t know anyone who lived where they were “from.” In my adopted Massachusetts, Lowell’s work was everywhere—and it was a complete mystery to me. The poet Elizabeth Bishop, teaching in Seattle, writes to her close friend Lowell, “… my ‘class’ is finding you very difficult & much too EASTERN!— &, save me, they won’t look up words, even the easiest, in the dictionary…” I was one of them. Though I didn’t mind looking up things in the dictionary, those definitions don’t help you see what something’s for. A Lowell poem presented a thicket of allusions: “There were no tickets for that altitude / once held by Hellas, when the Goddess stood, / prince, pope, philosopher and golden bough, / pure mind and murder at the scything prow— / Minerva, the miscarriage of the brain” (“Beyond the Alps”). I wanted to read poetry of the present and the future, not the past. If there were no tickets for that altitude, why did I have to watch him on the downslope?

  Years later, far from Boston, I heard Lowell’s former student Alan Williamson read a poem with an unassuming title, “The Day.” From the last volume Lowell collected and published in his lifetime, Day by Day, it begins this way:

  It’s amazing

  the day is still here

  like lightning on an open field,

  terra firma and transient

  swimming in variation,

  fresh as when man first broke

  like the crocus all over the earth.

  The voice of the poem came straight from a human body, in the middle of an ordinary day. Indeed, the voice seemed to have only the existence of the day as its problem, as in that ordinary question asked between friends, or lovers, or even strangers uncomfortable with their strangeness, “How was your day?” That voice understood the randomness of fortune and the strangeness of human persistence as if it were as given as the sky. Relaxed in the midst of chaos, the voice of “The Day” knew, in equal measures, ritual and surprise. The energy of its similes had something to do with a terrified joy—the only kind I believe in without question. You don’t need to know what Modernism did to poetry to feel how the project of twenty-first-century life means following through on the great social changes of the twentieth century—you just need to check Facebook and see how many times we need to be liked to get up in the morning. In this poem, and in others in Day by Day, all of Modernism—which mourns, celebrates, and obsesses over our alienation from a collective narrative readers past, present, and future all once shared— became the problem of just having a day, our day, a human day, so beautifully and terrifyingly to ourselves. This Lowell defies achievement. This Lowell knows better than to think what’s lasting is any more than a dare. This Lowell understands that former ways of life cannot simply be returned to, ever. This Lowell is not in denial about a past that has passed away. The day, in this poem and in others, manifests the vulnerable predicament of what we once called the Enlightenment and what we might now identify as the beginning of getting “woke.” And now that a climate change that not everyone believes in has wrecked the seasons, the day might be all we have left together as ritual.

  The Robert Lowell I offer in this brief selection emphasizes the perishability of life, its twinned quality of fragility and repetition, as framed by the structured evanescence of daily consciousness. The problem of the human person here is the difficulty and promise of having a good day. Like a good poem, a good day is harder to achieve than we realize but revelatory when it’s given. Of course, I was wrong about Lowell that first time. It turns out he’d been writing these poems all along—the first poem included in this book is “New Year’s Day,” and the last, “Summer Tides,” takes place at the end of a day seen as a metaphor for a life. So often, in these poems, the day and the fact of its running out form all the drama the poem needs:

  … The clocks

  Are tolling. I am dying. The shocked stones

  Are falling like a ton of bricks and bones

  That snap and splinter and descend in glass

  Before a priest who mumbles through his Mass

  And sprinkles holy water; and the Day

  Breaks with its lighting on the man of clay …

  (“Between the Porch and the Altar”)

  In between the limits of day,

  hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts

  and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle

  of the Roman Catholic attendants.

  (“Waking in the Blue”)

  I lay all day on my bed.

  I chain-smoked through the night,

  learning to flinch

  at the flash of the matchlight.

  (“Eye and Tooth”)

  Downstairs, you correct notes at the upright piano,

  twice upright this midday Sunday torn from the whole

  green cloth of summer …

  (“Summer”)

  Bright sun of my bright day,

  I thank God for being alive—

  a way of wri
ting I once thought heartless.

  (“Logan Airport, Boston”)

  My favorite Lowell poems are not flickers of consciousness, emblems of the merely spontaneous, but whole days lived through, entire days survived—they have a sense of beginning and ending, the trauma of morning and the held-out possibility of recovery. Contemporary American poets revere—and teach, far more often than Lowell—the more consciously “hip” work of his near- contemporary Frank O’Hara and the poets of the New York School, whose plentiful charms turn moments into fantasies of ongoing luminosity. Lowell, on the other hand, offers us days rather than moments, hangovers (and their flashbacks) rather than lunch hours, divorces (and their entanglements) rather than engagements, the morning after rather than the party. He offers no fantasy of a clean slate: “Death’s not an event in life, it’s not lived through” (“Plotted”). He doesn’t simply live—he lives through.

  I began with the landmark Collected Poems, edited by Frank Bidart and David Gewanter, and Notebook 1967–68, a volume Lowell expanded and retitled simply Notebook in 1970, and soon after transformed into the two collections History and For Lizzie and Harriet. The original Notebook 1967–68 stands alone in its vivacity and initial impulse, and the two collections it becomes exist alongside rather than instead of it. Lowell’s significant reworking of the original Notebook into a revised edition and then two separate published collections should be viewed less as an editorial problem than as a significant manifestation of a lifelong practice. Lowell “began again” many times—he accuses himself in the voice of the poet Randall Jarrell, “you didn’t write, you rewrote.’” It is quite literally true. He buried his first book, Land of Unlikeness, resurrecting the best poems for his second. In the index to the Collected Poems, titles reappear, telling in their simplicity, both as preoccupations and as perennial hopes for a fresh start: “Marriage,” “Hospital,” Lowell’s infamous nickname, “Caligula,” and various permutations of “Summer,” several of which I’ve included here. I’ve also included two poems, “Pastime” from the revised edition of Notebook (1970) and “Bobby Delano” from History, that might be seen as versions of the same poem, different approaches to the same material. Lowell devoted the middle of his career to the sonnet, reshaping several poems and translations in the process. The sonnet’s brevity and closure offered freedom as much as confinement—especially if, like Lowell, you could just do it again. And why not? It was as if a new poem was a new day—or was it that any new day compelled the poet to begin again? The magnificent last poems of Day by Day are not Lowell’s liberation into free verse—they’re his continuation of the sonnet by other means. They feel like stretched-out, luxurious sonnets, and their uncertain endings often come after an equally uncertain turn, the equivalent of a closing volta.

  I wanted to hear Lowell’s career as a voice, to capture this sense of living in time in a human-scale, lively way. To try to do this for Robert Lowell is to wreck the monument and begin again. To read the poems, and truly hear the voice, is to discover that he’d been wrecking the monument all along. As the great poet of the human day, he understood perishability more than I’d at first given him credit for.

  The challenge in editing a brief selection in this case can be easily stated as a numbers game: the Collected stands at 988 and Notebook 1967–68 at 156, and this collection is 234 pages. But these numbers can’t tell the story. A selection also turns Lowell’s life back into a series of days. I made no attempt to be comprehensive and instead selected poems for their energy and persistence. I chose the poet’s best days and found that repeated tasks of description give them literal shape—portrait, self-portrait, landscape. Those tasks became couched in devotion to the day itself, and to the energy of being present in it. The poems begin in prayer (in Lord Weary’s Castle, where Catholic emblems seem, finally, to be nothing more than sensual delights) and end there (in Day by Day, where Lowell fiercely tries to actually pray). The last poems pray authentically, that is to say, to an unverifiable god. In this way, they push the limits of realism (as style and stance), using the wilder energy of desire.

  With Lowell, the challenge of selecting not simply the best poems but poems that make sense together presents itself vividly, because the work adheres so closely to the life. He was the first poet to be called “confessional,” and though he didn’t like the term, it gets right the poetry’s sense of breaking through a public surface into a hoard of personal material. Disclosure, in Lowell, manifests as equal parts ritual and chaos. In the work, those Lowell knew and lived with exert the rights of persons; I grew concerned that I’d favored his daughter, Harriet, over his son, Sheridan. I worried that his third wife, Caroline, didn’t get enough space. I reconsidered the question of his own day, whether he had done wrong to excerpt his second wife’s letters in The Dolphin, a book that tells of their breakup—a decision that lost him the friendship of the great feminist poet Adrienne Rich. I wanted the reader to see the importance of his friendship with another poet, Elizabeth Bishop, an intimacy that stewarded many of Lowell’s poems, including two of his greatest, “Skunk Hour” and “Thanks-Offering for Recovery.” I worried that the events of the life would lose focus, that the reader wouldn’t know everything that happened about the poet who wrote: “why not say what happened?” (“Epilogue”).

  But I also wanted to choose poems memorable for their language, not simply the vanishing facts of story. I wanted to show how Lowell remained constitutionally immune to any stultifying permanence either of form or of spirit—an immunity that emboldens his diction, both because he lived a life so close to the poems and because he heard and felt a world much larger than his one particular life. The best poems stay a little messy. The language of their day, likewise, is not simply the language of the day—Lowell had little or no truck with our contemporary penchant for the idea that the way we write must be the way we talk. The language of the day of the poem meant, for Lowell, any language that worked: any language the day required. His best poems show an untidy love for all kinds of language as they strain to find unity. In “Mermaid,” Lowell quotes Baudelaire and ventriloquizes Muhammad Ali. Poems even a reader of Lowell might not be familiar with, such as the gorgeous “Suburban Surf,” show the effortlessness that results when this unity is actually found. That famous line from “Epilogue” mentioned above stands, in the poem, after a moment of self-doubt that’s also an adequate characterization of what the vast ranges of speech make accessible in our diverse world:

  But sometimes everything I write

  with the threadbare art of my eye

  seems a snapshot,

  lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,

  heightened from life,

  yet paralyzed by fact.

  All’s misalliance.

  Diverse languages, misallied, do more than reflect the confusions of our lives captured within technology—they show us how human experience, diverse and divergent, would never be the same again. Lowell’s work shows us how the information explosion of the Internet fulfills a prophecy of chaos rather than creates it.

  Being willing to be uncomfortable is a power in poetry—something to be praised, something that helps us see. The misalliances Lowell heard and felt as part of being so deeply in the present tense make his poems complicated sometimes, jumpy sometimes, nervous. But those misalliances also helped him make language. In “The Day,” he coins a word to describe being in time:

  when we lived momently

  together forever

  in love with our nature—

  “The day” is where we can live “momently” together, in whatever way presents itself, and the best of Lowell’s poems place us energetically and uncomfortably there.

  * * *

  Recently, a friend suggested that American strangers ask the question “How’s your day going?” as a way of not asking the question “Where are you from?” “Where are you from” seems, on the surface, friendly enough, but its answers have always been divisive: “Are you from the same place I’m from
?” “Were you born here?” Maybe it doesn’t matter where you’re from; maybe it matters more how your day’s going—that is, where you actually are. Lowell’s translation of the Brunetto Latini canto of Dante’s Inferno, which I have excerpted in this collection, makes immediate the predicament of Dante’s beloved teacher, consigned to hell with other condemned scholars, who are also sodomites, guilty of lust. Latini’s real crime seems to be understanding too well the world’s rapacious appetite for judging others. Ezra Pound, Modernism’s genius advocate for vernacular speech in poetry who spent years confined to a mental institution after espousing Fascist politics during the Second World War, praised Lowell’s rendering. In a ghostly recording, an aging Pound, back in the world at last but discredited in the public eye, recites a portion of the translation in a hoarse, low whisper. In Lowell’s version, Latini speaks to Dante in a brutally accented English that feels like a critique of political speech, and those who are tricked by it, after our recent election year: “Let the pack / run loose, and sicken on the carcasses / that heap the streets, but spare the tender flower, / if one should rise above the swamp and mess.” To “update” a classic means to let it keep finding us where we are.

  It remains, nevertheless, true that Lowell’s work once made the question “Where are you from” the order of the day. This question governed his early style, so laced with New England atmo- sphere it approaches kitsch. A detail-oriented apparent accuracy suffuses the portraits and self-portraits of Life Studies, a book full of days-in-the-life of Lowell and his family. Teeming with places, dates, and their material corollaries, things, and their more literary cousins, allusions, the poems of Life Studies also overflow with proper names (in both senses): 91 Revere Street, Beverly Farms, Boston’s “hardly passionate Marlborough Street,” L.L.Bean, Blue Hill, Rapallo, Jonathan Edwards, Murder Incorporated, and Czar Lepke:

  I was so out of things, I’d never heard