We have several ideas in the works to continue promote the philosophy and poetry of Robinson Jeffers and the spirit of Tor House. Mary Pinard teaches in the Arts and Humanities Division at Babson College in the Boston area. Submit up to three poems of no more than three pages each with a $10 entry fee by March 15. She lives in Berkeley. Jeffers and his wife lived in Carmel for the rest of their lives, building the stone “ Tor House ” and “Hawk Tower,” both of which figure prominently in his work. When I left, a man saw me offon the train, made me promise to write, but I couldn’t spell his name. Construction. Clarkson has Master's Degrees in English and Library Science, and has taught and worked as a professional librarian. Market Genres. the neurologist, he gives usexactly 7 minutes of his time.“What’s 8 plus 15?”he asks my father who gives mea look I know all too well:What is this guy, an imbecile?“8 plus 15 is 23.” My father speaksloudly as if the doctor hearsworse than he does. But in the morning,my friend, we’ll steeragain to ComancheCounty, somewheresouth of Coldwater—into dust and treeless sky,the long horizonof what we cannot speak. First, though, to determine what must go—fading dianthus, silvering thistle, and the end of a beebalm bloom, the ragged crown’s last glow. Most of Jeffers' poetry was written in classic narrative and epic form, but today he is also known for his short verse, and considered an icon of the environmental movement. Sarah Matthes is a poet from central New Jersey. The home we made was small— two rooms, a balcony—but there, so many miles beneath the everyday that had defeated us, I thought I felt the change I wanted, a release. They will begin pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Boston, this September. Justin Hunt grew up in rural Kansas and lives in Charlotte, NC. by Kathleen Sonntag. Childless now, leadenwith legacies unbestowed,we stumble into finalyears and hereafterswe distrust, kingdom-comescome and gone already,nothing leftbut all those mileswe still drive—dirt roadsand wind our solace,silence our guide. Robinson Jeffers and his wife Una bought land at Carmel Point in Spring 1919, and in mid-May they contracted Mike Murphy, an established Carmel developer, to build them a stone cottage at Carmel Point. Her work has been published in Poetry, the New York Times, How Do I Begin? The idyllic stone cottage was once home to American poet Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962). We traveled down to see your house, Tor House, Hawk Tower, in Carmel, California. Tor House Library. His verse, especially the wild, expansive narratives that made him famous in the 1920s, does not fit into the conventional definitions of modern American poetry. I spread the blanket over the driveway that still remembered the afternoon’s sun, and scanned the darkness that was too much for the light from our mountain town to matter. I told myself the place would make a difference: busy, humid, distant, utterly, foreign. . John Robinson Jeffers (January 10, 1887 – January 20, 1962) was an American poet, known for his work about the central California coast.Much of Jeffers's poetry was written in narrative and epic form. Description. From 2008 - 2010 she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, MA. - Jeffers, from Tor House . His poetry has appeared in The Chariton Review, Salamander, Gargoyle, Shenandoah, and Poetry Salzburg Review as well as in anthologies by Kent State University, the University of Iowa, University of Georgia, and the University of Arizona. Image: Hawk Tower at Robinson Jeffers's Tor House in Carmel, CA | Credit: Harvey Barrison via Flickr Author, Robert Zaller , is Distinguished Professor of History at Drexel University. You’d be sitting at the table. The heat was piercing, solid as the ice. Rob Carney is the author of seven books of poems, including Facts and Figures (Hoot ‘n’ Waddle 2020), The Last Tiger Is Somewhere (Unsolicited Press 2020), co-authored with Scott Poole, and The Book of Sharks (Black Lawrence Press 2018), which won the 15 Bytes Utah Book Award for Poetry and was a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. John Robinson Jeffers was an American poet, known for his work about the central California coast. His poetry … Maybe he thought I was a country he could live in.I don’t understand what makes people seek each other out.So many possible histories, so many impossible endings. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Arkansas Tech University. Her work has appeared in Poetry, Threepenny Review, Michigan Quarterly, Southern Review, TriQuarterly, The Georgia Review, Poetry Northwest, Southwest Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, The Birmingham Review, Poetry Northwest, among others. We have several ideas in the works to continue promote the philosophy and poetry of Robinson Jeffers and the spirit of Tor House. His individual poems have won awards from Tiferet, Nimrod, Beyond Baroque, Passager, Sow’s Ear, and others, including Best New Poets 2010. Robinson Jeffers Poetry Collection from Famous Poets and Poems. Miklós Radnóti’s poem inches alonghis forbidden notebook.He can’t see his wordsas he writes of his wife, Fanni,and of a wiser death waiting back home. Swelling above the eyelidswe let our gods see us. This event is free and open to the public. My brother shaking.My father catching fire to light us through. A prize of $1,000 is given annually for a single poem. She holds a PhD from the University of North Texas, and she is currently a postdoctoral Lilly Fellow at Valparaiso University. Fund to give Maasai girls who have fled Female Genital Mutilation … Pruning, next, a taking that knowspressure, where the blade should kiss, cleave,to undo what was, make way for the slow, low. She was born and raised in Seattle. Her work has been published in O Magazine, The Sun Magazine, Spirituality and Health Magazine, The Huffington Post, Feminist.com, HealYourLife.com and The Texas Review among others, and she was a recipient of the 2001 Robinson Jeffers Tor House Prize for Poetry. )But now it is the driveway that gleamslike a bare chalkboard, washed cleanof yesterday’s lessons,and I can feel the strengthin my back, my arms,stripping away the words,breaking through the ice that formedover our lives, and brushing offthe last traces of snow from my gloves.The driveway cleared, I put away my shovel,thinking, “There, now that is done.”Going back inside, I feel the stingof cold flakes caught in my brows,dampening my lashes,as they slowly meltinto my skin. Vivian is almost two she wanders the backyard whatever she sees she points at wherever she points the world happens, she crosses the lawn climbs into my arms whatever happens now is enough it is dusk I do not know what, will become of her the carrotwood tree is thick with low-hanging deep-green leaves Vivian is, reaching for them she says leaf the tree’s growth is vigorous threatens to crack the concrete of our patio what, does one do with such robust life this evening I hold Vivian her hair carrot red she points up Want, that she says Want that in the evening sky only the full moon is visible no clouds no stars that, I guess is what she wants the carrotwood tree darkens but the moon is a bright light Vivian points up says Want that. Tori Sharpe holds a master’s degree in Creative Writing from The University of Texas and a Ph.D. in Creative Writing from The University of North Texas. Cougar kingdom. This year we received some 1,150 poems from 37 states and five foreign countries. Not the great blue skimmers warming their wingsin the May sun before flight,the red-eyed vireos’ here I am, where are you,or the radiating catenaries of the weaving spider,lingering, dew-strung,not the intricate machinery of the wonderous footwith one-quarter of the bones in the body,or the fascicles of nerves firing in the lightest touch,not the easy assumption of motionin neck, limbs, torso,not the syrupy evening light of summer,somewhere bees gravid with pollenand the promise of rain, not August’s cricketswhirring their incessant clockwork,not the white-bearded waves following in furrows,the boom and bravura of surf,or its lace and small applause,not the guttural rubato in the throatat the end of the barn owl’s call,or the orange Chinese lanterns of persimmons,not the way the light bends in autumn’s russet afternoons,or the fraying draperies of fog in the hollows,not the faithful bellows of the lungs,the free-flowing tributaries of the heart,or the black, rickety branches of trees againsta full winter moon, like the raised handsof Giotto’s saints in prayer, not the tellers of night tales,or the light from extinguished stars,not the friable fabric of memory,nor any love’s precarious survival,not even the soul at night---take nothing,nothing for granted.Not in this world. Robinson Jeffers was born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania. Here, the poem’s speaker remembers “standing young and shoeless in a purple dusk” with a friend, daring each other to eat the cicadas (“A dollar for a hollow husk/ two for the living ones”). All of Robinson Jeffers Poems. The catalpaby your ditch rustlesabove a throb of crickets,and I’m gratefulfor this moment, the quietsense this is allthere is and ever will be. To preserve Tor House, Hawk Tower and their collections, To promote the literary and philosophical legacy of Robinson Jeffers for the enrichment and enlightenment of the public, To serve the community as a cultural resource, Adopted by the Board of Trustees, March 1998, Robinson Jeffers Tor House, 26304 Ocean View Ave., Carmel, CA, 93923Office Phone 831-624-1813 (Monday-Thursday) :: Email THF@TORHOUSE.ORG :: Postal Mailing Address PO BOX 2713, Donate to support the Tor House Foundation's Mission. The late poet Robinson Jeffers built Tor House in Carmel, Calif., in the early 20th century. We have come hereto the continent’s edge,like plunderers, to see whatcan be salvaged from the wreckage, we have made. A project of Robinson Jeffers Tor House Foundation. There,to our spellbound disgust, they hatched—the pool a frantic bevy of heads and tails,the luck or curse that placed them there.If I follow them back through their afterlives,bellowing and skin-darkened to heralda coming rain, voluble with warningwhen storms approached, some lost,perhaps tweezed apart in junior high labs,or caught again by my father, cupped too tightlyin the hands of his new daughter—if I follow themback through their chorused, forested lives,I can trace them up the garden hosethat poured them in synchronized frenzyinto their rightful waters, the hosea sinuous lifeline climbing the yard to our pool, where its other end siphoned the tadpolesfrom a water thrilled with their darting chaos.Look harder, farther: I see my fatherby the stream, kneeling in damp clay,his lungs full, his mouth around the hoseinhaling a deep, slow gasp, then another,until the summoned water met his mouth.The bodies pouring out into the lifethey had not known to imagine.And his watching them arrowed awayin the current like undoused green flames.And the bitter, secret taste on his tongue. ... Those interested in delving more deeply into the textual history of the poems should consult Volume 5 of The Collected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, ... Jeffers working with stones in Tor House yard, 1930s. Most nights we ate late, midnight or one, leaning our elbows against the table to hear the other clearly, to watch. In the school our children once attended,where I spent so many years of our marriageteaching other people’s children,I walked the halls with my eyes closed.Alert to the subtle signs I was passing a window,the light that penetrates the darkness.Counting out my steps,I seldom got past twenty before I opened my eyesfor a quick peek, a readjustment.It was peaceful once to walk in self-imposed blindnessearly in the morning before the children arrived,or in the sudden quiet at the end of the day.I would imagine myself walking overthe footsteps my children madein this place where I first came as a young motherthen walked into old age.Now I move only toward your remembered imageand I know what I was practicing for all these years.You are meeting me for lunch with sandwiches and drinks.Am I getting closer?You will only stay until I open my eyes.I am counting my steps,twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. than the remote Morse of a plane,a whittled moon and the wheelof Orion into the sea.The August night steams on. The Prize is underwritten by Tor House Foundation Board member John Varady with additional support from Honorary Board Member Allen Mears and Board member Lacy Buck. Visiting Tor House: Robin's Family, Friends, Acquaintances and Those He Influenced ... resulted in the first definitive study of Jeffers' life and poetry. Kim Stafford will judge. The Robinson Jeffers Tor House Foundation, affiliated with the National Trust for Historic Preservation, is a nonprofit organization of volunteer members established in 1978 to acquire, maintain and provide for public access to Tor House, Hawk Tower and the surrounding gardens. A decade ago, hermother. Suggest Correction. She’s held the Nadya Aisenberg Fellowship at The MacDowell Colony and an Individual Excellence Award from the Ohio Arts Council. Jeffers died in his sleep at the Tor House on January 20, 1962. Publication details and submission statistics for this project are not available through our site. 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