Poet Laureate: Joseph Auslander
Joseph Auslander
(1897-1965) Auslander, who was born in Philadelphia and graduated Harvard College, was appointed in 1937 as the first Consultant in Poetry without a definite term and served four years. He was noted for his war poems, and his best-known work is "The Unconquerables" (1943), a collection of poems addressed to the German-occupied countries of Europe.
Auslander became the Library’s first Consultant in Poetry in 1937. He vigorously carried out his responsibilities — seeking sponsors for the Library’s literary programs, gifts of manuscripts, and organizing public readings by poets of note. Librarian MacLeish disapproved of his methods and style but, recognizing his ability to build the Library’s collections, appointed him to the newly established post of Gift Officer. Auslander resigned his position at the end of March 1944.
Yes, you have taken everything from me:
Beauty and love and all the measureless
Impatience of proud April; even our sea
Shouting under the gulls; all loveliness
Of form and sound and colour; all that we
Had touched; the curve of things we used to press
Glowing against our senses; mystery
And movement. . . everything taken. . . taken. . . Yes,
Even the little brave irrelevancies
Like brooding water, dripping water-cress,
The cool dark noise of cropping; cruising bees
On hot gold expeditions--even these
You took from me--Oh spare me your caress,
Leave me at least my own stark loneliness!
(Text from The Best Poems of 1923)
Soliloquy in the Grove
I.
The sultry cicalas in your citron trees
Clash gongs and cymbals of impossible brass;
The hot noon throbs with their monotonies,
And seems, because of these,
Insufferably hotter than it was
When, side by side with Plato, you would pass
Along the luxurious margins of soft grass,
Cooling the corybantic revelries
Of worse than wasps or bees,
In silvery fountains of the spirit's singular felicities.
O bandy-legged and beloved ghost,
The limpid fervour of whose mind to some
Is bread and honeycomb;
Relentless nectar of the locust, bitter
As blood or salt, the pure and sunny frost
Of inquisition like the wasp's, but neater --
If only once again your lemon trees
Could hear that caustic tongue;
If only muddled times among,
Ours, alas, the most,
Your passion for cold truth, O Socrates,
Could penetrate. . . .
Faugh! there is nothing now save garrulous folly,
And settled melancholy,
And hate,
And the despot hammering loudly at the gate!
-1-
(From More Than Bread: A book of poems)
Don't you love those first two lines? I love alliteration. No wonder he was put in charge of the poetry of our nation.

