Griffy the Cooper

    The cooper should know about tubs.
    But I learned about life as well,
    And you who loiter around these graves
    Think you know life.
    You think your eye sweeps about a wide horizon, perhaps,
    In truth you are only looking around the interior of your tub.
    You cannot lift yourself to its rim
    And see the outer world of things,
    And at the same time see yourself.
    You are submerged in the tub of yourself -
    Taboos and rules and appearances,
    Are the staves of your tub.
    Break them and dispel the witchcraft
    Of thinking your tub is life
    And that you know life.

Edgar Lee Masters

Edgar Lee Masters was an American poet, biographer, and dramatist. Born in Kansas and raised in Illinois, Masters is best known for his collection of poems entitled "Spoon River Anthology" (1915), which is a series of epitaphs of residents of the fictional small town of Spoon River. His works reflect the everyday lives and frustrations of middle America. Masters also practiced law and wrote biographies for historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln and Mark Twain.

Edgar Lee Masters

For A Dance

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Henry Tripp

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

Ballad Of Launcelot And Elaine

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

In Michigan

Edgar Lee Masters, Simple Poetry

English

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Fiddler Jones

    The earth keeps some vibration going
    There in your heart, and that is you.
    And if the people find you can fiddle,
    Why, fiddle you must, for all your life.
    What do you see, a harvest of clover?
    Or a meadow to walk through to the river?
    The wind's in the corn; you rub your hands
    For beeves hereafter ready for market;
    Or else you hear the rustle of skirts
    Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove.
    To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust
    Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth;
    They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy
    Stepping it off, to "Toor-a-Loor."
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    Not to speak of getting more,
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Edgar Lee Masters

William Jones

    Once in a while a curious weed unknown to me,
    Needing a name from my books;
    Once in a while a letter from Yeomans.
    Out of the mussel-shells gathered along the shore
    Sometimes a pearl with a glint like meadow rue:
    Then betimes a letter from Tyndall in England,
    Stamped with the stamp of Spoon River.
    I, lover of Nature, beloved for my love of her,
    Held such converse afar with the great
    Who knew her better than I.
    Oh, there is neither lesser nor greater,
    Save as we make her greater and win from her keener delight.
    With shells from the river cover me, cover me.
    I lived in wonder, worshipping earth and heaven.
    I have passed on the march eternal of endless life.

Edgar Lee Masters

William Marion Reedy

    He sits before you silent as Buddha,
    And then you say
    This man is Rabelais.
    And while you wonder what his stock is,
    English or Irish, you behold his eyes
    As big and brown as those desirable crockies
    With which as boys we used to play.
    And then you see the spherical light that lies
    Just under the iris coloring,
    Before which everything,
    Becomes as plain as day.

    If you have noticed the rolling jowls
    And the face that speaks its chief
    Delight in beer and roast beef
    Before you have seen his eyes, you see
    A man of fleshly jollity,
    Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls
    To make a show of scowls.
    And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls
    In a humorous way...

Edgar Lee Masters

Theodore the Poet

    As a boy, Theodore, you sat for long hours
    On the shore of the turbid Spoon
    With deep-set eye staring at the door of the crawfish's burrow,
    Waiting for him to appear, pushing ahead,
    First his waving antennae, like straws of hay,
    And soon his body, colored like soap-stone,
    Gemmed with eyes of jet.
    And you wondered in a trance of thought
    What he knew, what he desired, and why he lived at all.
    But later your vision watched for men and women
    Hiding in burrows of fate amid great cities,
    Looking for the souls of them to come out,
    So that you could see
    How they lived, and for what,
    And why they kept crawling so busily
    Along the sandy way where water fails
    As the summer wanes.

Edgar Lee Masters

Indignation" Jones

    You would not believe, would you
    That I came from good Welsh stock?
    That I was purer blooded than the white trash here?
    And of more direct lineage than the
    New Englanders And Virginians of Spoon River?
    You would not believe that I had been to school
    And read some books.
    You saw me only as a run-down man
    With matted hair and beard
    And ragged clothes.
    Sometimes a man's life turns into a cancer
    From being bruised and continually bruised,
    And swells into a purplish mass
    Like growths on stalks of corn.
    Here was I, a carpenter, mired in a bog of life
    Into which I walked, thinking it was a meadow,
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Edgar Lee Masters

George Gray

    I have studied many times
    The marble which was chiseled for me -
    A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
    In truth it pictures not my destination
    But my life.
    For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
    Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
    Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
    Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
    And now I know that we must lift the sail
    And catch the winds of destiny
    Wherever they drive the boat.
    To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
    But life without meaning is the torture
    Of restlessness and vague desire -
    It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Edgar Lee Masters