Happy Birthday, H.D.

The poet Hilda Doolittle (known as H.D.) was born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on September 10, 1886.

It is difficult for me to really realize that she was born in Pennsylvania and not Liverpool, her name sounds so My Fair Lady-ish. She spent the majority of her life outside of America, but she was, indeed, American-born. Known as “H.D.”, she is another one of those poets who benefited from her friendship (and also, sometimes love-affair with) Ezra Pound (more on Pound here). She had met him early on in America, and once she got to England, he arranged the introductions necessary to get her close to the heart of those with pull and power. Pound was at the center of the literary circles in Europe, and he was instrumental in introducing her into that world. She was also very good friends with Marianne Moore (more on her here) – I think their friendship dated back to college – they both went to Bryn Mawr.

H.D. was at the center of the Imagist movement in poetry, and is thought of as its finest representation. She lived long, however, and died in 1961, so her poetry moved on from its Imagist phase – and her most prolific and successful time as a poet was in the 50s and 60s. Pretty amazing. Her first poems were published in 1913.

When you read even a sketch of her biography, it is amazing the people with whom she intersected. She had one of those lives. She lived near the center of all of the literary and cultural upheaval of the time. She hung out with Amy Lowell, and Ford Madox Ford. Amy Lowell was responsible for bringing H.D.’s work to America.

H.D. was married, but it didn’t work out. She had a long relationship with D.H. Lawrence, before finally settling down with Bryher, a woman – her companion for years, until she died. The two moved to Paris, where they hung out with the literary ex-pat community (I mean, what I would not give for a time machine, to go hang out at one of the cafes or bars with all those poetic ex-Americans whooping it up!), and also got involved in the burgeoning business of film-making, forming a production company. So not only did H.D. hang out with Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, but also Sergei Eisenstein.

As if all of that isn’t enough, H.D. suffered a couple of nervous breakdowns and it was recommended to her that she start analysis (a revolutionary idea at the time). She was given the name of a psychiatrist. You know, maybe he could help her out with her problems. That dude’s name was Sigmund Freud.

Okay, enough with her personal life which could fill several books.

H.D. had a lifelong love affair with all things classical, and made many pilgrimages to Greece. It was her main inspiration.

Here’s a really nice post from Ted about H.D. Some great links to follow with more information about this fascinating talented woman.

Like the rest of the Imagists, H.D. was interested in direct expression (even more so than her contemporaries) – their way of rebelling against the Victorian curlycues and lengthy sentimental descriptions. H.D., at times, seems to be experimenting with how few words she can actually use. Pare it down, pare it down. Her early poems have real energy. They almost look like fragments – reminiscent of Emily Dickinson (at least what the poems look like on the page) – and H.D.’s intellectual and emotional obsession with all things Hellenic come into play here. It is almost as though those Imagist poems are fractured statues from ancient Greece – perfect, eloquent, simple, and evocative. They look like what they evoke. H.D.’s idol was Sappho (not hard to imagine why), and her overriding desire was to be overwhelmed (which explains her interest in mysticism later in her life). She wanted the poem to act as an agent, something that would not only transport her, but obliterate her. She seeked transcendence, a state of being that was exalted, high-flung. Not easy to sustain.

I love H.D.’s description of Pound from Glenn Hughes’ Imagism and the Imagists. Here, Pound acts like an agent, an old-school theatrical agent or manager, wrestling her into position – pushing her towards the “new” – and even giving her her new and mysterious moniker:

Ezra Pound was very kind and used to bring me (literally) armfuls of books to read … I did a few poems that I don’t think Ezra liked … but later he was beautiful about my first authentic verses .. .and sent my poems in for me to Miss Monroe [the editor of Poetry magazine]. He signed them for me, ‘H.D., Imagiste.’ The name seems to have stuck somehow.

H.D.’s poems, stark and simple as they are, reverberate with energy, anguish, and power. She’s marvelous.

Here’s her poem “Helen”, written in 1924.

Helen

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees, unmoved,
God’s daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funereal cypresses.

Heat

O WIND, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air–
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat–
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

And I love her poem “Lethe”. I love its incantatory rhythm. It’s almost frightening in its repetitive quality.

Lethe

NOR skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.

Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of linnet,
Nor of thrush.

Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss.

Happy birthday, H.D.!