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Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish a savage servility slides by on grease.

Robert Lowell

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Robert Lowell
Age: 60 †
Born: 1917
Born: March 1
Died: 1977
Died: September 12
Peace Activist
Poet
Translator
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Robert Traill Spence Lowell IV
Noses
Servility
Cars
Grease
Fish
Slides
Fishes
Savage
Everywhere
Savages
Car
Giant
Forward
Nose
Like
Giants

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And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
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I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn.
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It is night, And it is vanity, and age Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear, The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.
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The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.
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I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.
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the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath
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The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
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Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
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Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
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I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.
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I was overcome with an attack of pathological enthusiasm.
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Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime
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We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.
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But sometimes everything I write with the threadbare art of my eye seems a snapshot
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It's the light of the oncoming train.
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September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.
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In the end, there is no end.
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History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes.
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Those blessed structures, plot and rhyme-- why are they no help to me now I want to make something imagined, not recalled?
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We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
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