Lorine Niedecker – Poet of Place
Lorine Niedecker (1903-1970) is a twentieth-century, second-wave, Modern American poet often identified with the Objectivists. Living most of her life on the shores of the Rock River near Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, she is perhaps best known as a poet of place who wrote about the Blackhawk Island that she loved. Her work, however, ranges from modernist folk poetry (NEW GOOSE, 1946) to haiku-like forms to long poems like “Lake Superior” and “Wintergreen Ridge” (NORTH CENTRAL, 1968). She is admired for the subtlety of her tightly crafted, nuanced and deliciously ironic poems, as well as for her total devotion to her calling. More…
The newest issue of the Solitary Plover is now available here.
Go to https://www.fortlibrary.org/wisconsinpoems/ to register for this live Zoom event. “Through This Door: Wisconsin in Poems,” is a new anthology edited by Margaret Rozga and Angela C. Trudell Vasquez. It includes work by a wide range of Wisconsin poets, including...
The summer issue of the Solitary Plover is now available here. Features include: Two poems by Lorine Niedecker Text of David Pavelich's presentation at the 2017 Poetry Festival Images of Lorine in summer and a selection of original poetry.
The “cottage” where Lorine and Al lived on Blackhawk Island.
Lorine on her screen porch.
Lorine’s cabin on Blackhawk Island
Photo of Blackhawk Island Road on the way to Lorine’s house.
Lorine in Milwaukee 1964.
What horror to awake at night and in the dimness see the light. Time is white mosquitoes bite I’ve spent my life on nothing
There’s a better shine on the pendulum than is on my hair and many times . . . . I’ve seen it there.
Good deed, my love. The ele- ment of folk- time. Nerves are my past monogamy, said her arms going farther. Rock me out.
For best work you ought to put forth some effort to stand in north woods among birch
Hi, Hot-and-Humid That June she's a lush Marshmushing, frog bickering moon pooling, green gripping fool keep cool
The land of four o’clocks is here the five of us together looking for our supper. Half past endive, quarter to beets, seven milks, ten cents cheese, lost, our land, forever.
Van Gogh could see twenty-seven varieties of black in cap- italism.
I’ve been away from poetry many months and now must rake leaves with nothing blowing between your house and mine
Fog-thick morning— I see only where I now walk. I carry my clarity With me.
Not all harsh sounds displease— Yellowhead blackbirds cough through reeds and fronds as through pronged bronze
Don’t shoot the rail! Let your grandfather rest! Tho he sees your wild eyes he’s falling asleep, his long-billed pipe on his red-brown vest.