Aftermath, a poem by Amy Lowell

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Amy Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925) was an American poet of the Imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, She is best known for bringing the Imagist movement to America. Her environment was literary and sophisticated, and when she left private school at 17 to care for her elderly parents, she embarked on a program of self-education. Lowell's poetic career began in 1902 when she saw Eleonora Duse, a famous actress, perform on stage. Overcome with Eleonora's beauty and talent, she wrote her first poem addressed to the actress. They met only a couple times, but never developed a relationship. Eleonora inspired many poems from Amy, which triggered her career. 

Amy was criticized for many more things that did not actually reflect her skill as a poet. Critics were offended by her lesbianism, by the way she wore men's shirts and smoked cigars, and even by her obesity. They argued that she must not have experienced true passion, reflecting a common prejudice that women who are overweight cannot possibly be sexual beings. Her literary career suffered and she did not achieve the status as a poet that she seeked. The first published collection of her poetry, A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass, appeared in 1912. An additional group of uncollected poems was added to the volume The Complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell, published in 1955. Lowell posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926. As we celebrate National Poetry Month, enjoy this poem Aftermath, by Amy Lowell.

Aftermath

By Amy Lowell

I learnt to write to you in happier days,

And every letter was a piece I chipped

From off my heart, a fragment newly clipped

From the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,

Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.

To make a pavement for your feet I stripped

My soul for you to walk upon, and slipped

Beneath your steps to soften all your ways.

But now my letters are like blossoms pale

We strew upon a grave with hopeless tears.

I ask no recompense, I shall not fail

Although you do not heed; the long, sad years

Still pass, and still I scatter flowers frail,

And whisper words of love which no one hears.