Wordsworth

[Anonymous No.6209267]

Thoughts on Wordsowrth? I just picked up a copy of his Selected Poems edited by Seamus Heaney.

[Anonymous No.6209272]

top tier

[« 零 » !Ry9.FWKNDY No.6209274]

HIS WORDS ARE NOT WORTH MY TIME.

[Anonymous No.6209279]

His contemporaries didn't care much for him, but I like his poems. Refreshingly unpretentious.

[« Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ » No.6209292]

>>6209274

[Anonymous No.6209295]

>>6209274
Why do you say that?

[Anonymous No.6209301]

>>6209274

[H.Q.S.S.Q No.6209316]

many will tell you he was bad, but they'd be wrong.


daffodils is an obvious demonstration of his worth
the lucy poems are great
The Great Ode is one of the most influential shorter poems ever written in regards to poets that came after him

[Anonymous No.6209332]

Wordsworth: dude. Saw a boat
Wordsworth: also, a bird.
Wordsworth: u there?
Coleridge: sry was rollin a bleezy.
Coleridge: lol a bird? Like a pigeon?
Wordsworth: idk im no bird expert.
Coleridge: >.<
Coleridge: just saw a movie bout a guy on a boat.
Coleridge: hungry mofo shot an albertsons cuz there was no fish. Lol.
Wordsworth: I thot they went out of business.
Coleridge: Albatross* fkn autocorrect.
Wordsworth: shiiiit, an albatross? That should be illegal man even if he was hungry. That bird is outright majestic.
Coleridge: Lol I kno right. Im prob gonna write to Obama bout it. See if he can get it through congress.
Coleridge: Tell your sister to stop snapchatting me. Sarah. Gettin. pissed.
Coleridge: Wont put out.
Coleridge: anyway gotta go. pizza just got here.

[Anonymous No.6209335]

>>6209279
>unpretentious
lol that was the whole point of the romantic era.

[Anonymous No.6209370]

>>6209274

[Anonymous No.6209886]

First off, Wordsworth is probably the most influential poet in the history of English literature, so for that reason alone he's worth reading.

I dunno. He's probably my least favourite of the major Romantics from what I've read, maybe ahead of Blake. Wordy (most so in his later period) has a tendency to be rambling and didactic, he's egotistical, pretty much entirely humourless and his philosophy, while interesting, is a complete joke.

But there's no doubt he had skill. Read the first two books of The Prelude and wallow in the spots of time, they're truly brilliant explorations of memory. It's a shame they're padded out with so much dross. Some of his other narratives (thinking of Michael, The Ruined Cottage, The Old Cumberland Beggar), while I can't say they're artistic achievements, are enjoyable in a sentimental, cozy comfort food way. Wordsworth's project was to reemotionalise English literature, and I suppose he succeeded in that. Perhaps his best work is in his sonnets. I very much like London, 1802 for example.

I've heard him described as 'the worst of the great poets', and that's pithy enough for me to agree with it. Perhaps that's unfair, since I don't really like him as a person and a thinker, but I never really see the craft or imagination that's present in his contemporaries. He's still in the pantheon though, and like I said you should definitely give him a serious study.

[Anonymous No.6209931]

A rocky Steep uprose

Above the Cavern of the Willow tree,

And now, as suited one who proudly rowed

With his best skill, I fixed a steady view

Upon the top of that same craggy ridge,

The bound of the horizon – for behind

Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

She was an elfin Pinnace; lustily

I dipp’d my oars into the silent Lake,

And, as I rose upon the stroke, my Boat

Went heaving through the water, like a Swan -
When, from behind that craggy Steep (till then

The bound of the horizon) a huge Cliff,

As if with voluntary power instinct,

Uprear’d its head. I struck, and struck again

And, growing still in stature, the huge Cliff

Rose up between me and the stars, and still,

With measur’d motion, like a living thing,

Strode after me. With trembling hands I turn’d,

And through the silent water stole my way

Back to the Cavern of the Willow tree.

There, in her mooring-place, I left my Bark,

And, through the meadows homeward went, with grave

And serious thoughts; and after I had seen

That spectacle, for many days, my brain

Work’d with a dim and undetermined sense

Of unknown modes of being; in my thoughts

There was a darkness, call it solitude,

Or blank desertion, no familiar shapes

Of hourly objects, images of trees,

Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

But huge and mighty Forms that do not live

Like living men mov’d slowly through the mind

By day and were the trouble of my dreams.


To be fair to him, I'll certainly never write anything as good as that.

[Anonymous No.6210069]

ITT: plebs underrating Wordsworth in my sight

[Anonymous No.6210247]

>>6210069
>tfw you will never rim bloom
JDIMSA