Thanks, Robert, for typing in these wonderful poems. The problem with any discussion of Bogan is "Where do we start?"
She left us only about 100 poems, composed between 1923 and 1968. She is an intensely cerebral poet, in that there is no real sense of place, little imagery. What there is, is a purity of line and syntax which is dazzling and an over-riding grief that often borders on despair. The best of her poems are simply stripped to the bone. Though I'll confess that when it comes to the "deep image," the young mage poem and the poem to her brother leave all the American imitators of Neruda gasping in her dust.
I had never read Bogan or Francis until Dick Wilbur urged me to seek them out "in the middle of my journey." So although critics have cited both of them among my influences, that's not really true. I just marveled to see these wonderful voices manipulating the short line much as I try to do today--but fifty years before me.
Robert, I know little about Bogan's life. Perhaps you could share your thoughts on the person who gave birth to these wonderful verses.
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