TOP103-DES100
This Old Poem #103:
The Poets Laureate Special Edition #11:
Robert Penn Warren’s Evening Hawk
Copyright © by Dan Schneider, 11/13/04

  Robert Penn Warren may be just about the most feted writer to ever appear in the TOP series. He won 2 Pulitzer Prizes for poetry, another for fiction, dozens of others back when such awards actually, occasionally, went to good writers- + he also served as the American Poet Laureate from 1986-1987. &, in truth, unlike many of the other Southern poets of his heyday- collectively called The Fugitive poets (after a magazine of that name that published Southern poets) RPW was actually a good poet- occasionally very good.
  Here’s the dread online bio/blurb: 

  Robert Penn Warren was born in Guthrie, Todd County, Kentucky, on April 24, 1905. He was the oldest of three children; others being Mary, the middle child,  and Thomas, the youngest. His parents were Robert Franklin Warren, a proprietor and banker, and Anna Ruth Penn Warren, a schoolteacher. In the fall of 1911 he entered the Guthrie School from which he graduated at age 15. He did not then enter college as his mother felt he was too young and went instead, in September, 1920, to Clarksville High School, Clarksville, Montgomery County, Tennessee, graduating after the full school year. In the spring of 1921 he suffered an injury to his left eye from a rock throwing incident perpetrated by his younger brother. The injury eventually led to removal of the eye. During the summer of 1921, he spent six weeks in Citizens Military Training Corp, Fort Knox, Kentucky, where he published his first poem, "Prophecy", in The Messkit. He earlier had obtained an appointment to the United States Naval Academy but because of the eye the appointment was cancelled and in the fall of 1921 he entered Vanderbilt University at age 16.
  While at Vanderbilt he came under the tutelage of some of the foremost teachers in literature such as Allen Tate, John Crowe Ransom, and Andrew Lytle, and became the youngest member of the group of Southern poets called the Fugitives, which included John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, Donald Davidson, and Merrill Moore. Warren's first poems were published in The Fugitive, a magazine which the group published from 1922 to 1925. The Fugitives were advocates of the rural Southern agrarian tradition and based their poetry and critical perspective on classical aesthetic ideals. From 1925 to 1927, Warren was a teaching fellow at The University of California, where he earned a master's degree. He studied at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar and returned to the United States in 1930. He taught at Vanderbilt, Louisiana State, The University of Minnesota, and Yale University. With Cleanth Brooks, he wrote Understanding Poetry (1938), a textbook which has widely influenced the study of poetry at the college level in America. In August, 1925 he entered the University of California as a graduate student and teaching assistant. Here he met his first wife, Emma "Cinina" Brescia. In 1927 he received his M.A. from University of California and, in the fall, entered Yale University on fellowship. In October, 1928 he entered New College at Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar receiving his B.Litt. in the spring of 1930.
  He secretly married Emma Brescia in the summer of 1929, a marriage that was to end on June 28, 1951.On December 7, 1952, he married Eleanor Clark. This marriage produced two children, Rosanna Phelps Warren and Gabriel Penn Warren.
  Warren was a poet, critic, novelist, and teacher. He taught at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tennessee, Southwestern College, Memphis, Tennessee, University of Minnesota, Yale University, and Louisiana State University. While at LSU he founded and edited, along with Cleanth Brooks and Charles W. Pipkin, the literary quarterly, The Southern Review. As a poet, he was appointed the nation's first Poet Laureate, February 26, 1986. He published sixteen volumes of poetry and two---Promises: Poems, 1954-1956 and Now and Then: Poems, 1976-1978---won Pulitzer Prizes. Warren published ten novels. One novel, All the King's Men, won a Pulitzer Prize. Two novels, All the King's Men and Band of Angels were made into movies. In addition he published a book of short stories, two selections of critical essays, a biography, three historical essays, a study of  Melville, a critical book on Dreiser, a study of Whittier, and two studies of race relations in America. As of this writing, he is the only author to have won the Pulitzer for both fiction and poetry.
  Other honors include Bollingen Prize, National Medal for Literature, and Presidential Medal of Freedom. Warren's first published novel was Night Rider, Houghton, (1939) and was about the tobacco war (1905-1908) between independent tobacco growers in Kentucky and large tobacco companies. His last published novel was A Place to Come To, Random House, (1977) which is, to a certain extent, autobiographical.
  Along with Cleanth Brooks he collaborated to write the text books, Understanding Poetry, Holt, (1938), 4th edition, (1976) and Understanding Fiction, Crofts, (1943), 2nd Edition, Appleton-Century-Crofts, (1959). He was one of the leading representatives of the New Criticism and these works helped revolutionize the teaching of literature by bringing the New Criticism into general practice in America's college classrooms.
  From the 1950's until his death September 15, 1989, from cancer, Warren lived in Connecticut and at his summer home in Vermont. He is buried at Stratton, Vermont, and, at his request, a memorial marker is situated in the Warren family gravesite in Guthrie, Kentucky.

  Enough pandering. On to the poem in question:

Evening Hawk

From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last tumultuous avalanche of
Light above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
               His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that of the honed steel-edge, we hear
The crashless fall of stalks of Time.

The head of each stalk is heavy with the gold of our error.
Look!  Look!  he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.

          Long now,
The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics.  His wisdom
Is ancient, too, and immense.  The star
Is steady, like Plato, over the mountain.

If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.

  This is a poem that is not bad (there, I hope that I’ve satisfied those who say I only pick obviously bad poems to rip!)- but it has an almost leaden feel of Classicism- too many forced capital T Times, & ultradramatic modifiers- tumultuous, guttural, steel-edge, crashless, heavy, unforgiven, ancient, immense. Ok, we get the Ozymandian overtones! That said, some need to remain to give the last line its sting, BUT there needs to be more simple description. As the canard goes- show, don’t tell.
  I’ll show you….what I mean:

Evening Hawk

From plane of light to plane, wings dipping through
Geometries and orchids that the sunset builds,
Out of the peak's black angularity of shadow, riding
The last avalanche of light
Above pines and the guttural gorge,
The hawk comes.
               His wing
Scythes down another day, his motion
Is that we hear,
The fall of Time.

Look!  Look! he is climbing the last light
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.

The last thrush is still, the last bat
Now cruises in his sharp hieroglyphics.

If there were no wind we might, we think, hear
The earth grind on its axis, or history
Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar.

  The basic difference is that I have removed the reverberating VOICE OF DOOM from behind the poem. It now is tighter, & less trite. As comparison, just look at this similar poem RPW penned & compare it to the original of Evening Hawk.

Mortal Limit

I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

There--west--were the Tetons.  Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations.  Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck?  Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?

Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it
Hang motionless in dying vision before
It knows it will accept the mortal limit,
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore

The breath of earth?  Of rock?  Of rot?  Of other such
Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?

  Note how this poem is much more ‘show’ than ‘tell’. I knew he had it in him! 

Final Score: (1-100):

Robert Penn Warren’s Evening Hawk: 75
TOP’s Evening Hawk: 85

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