William Kean Seymour (1887–1975)
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A jackdaw in Georgia,: A book of polite parodies and imitations of contemporaries and others, (1923) 2 Exemplare
A Miscellany of Poetry 1919 2 Exemplare
Collected Poems 2 Exemplare
Time stands : and other poems 1 Exemplar
Caesar Remembers and Other Poems 1 Exemplar
To Verhaeren and Other Poems 1 Exemplar
Parrot Pie 1 Exemplar
Air Pie The Royal Air Force Annual 1 Exemplar
Zugehörige Werke
Getagged
Wissenswertes
- Geburtstag
- 1887
- Todestag
- 1975
- Geschlecht
- male
- Nationalität
- UK
- Berufe
- novelist
journalist
poet
bank manager - Beziehungen
- Seymour, Gerald (son)
Wade, Rosalind (2nd wife)
Seymour, Beatrice Kean (1st wife) - Kurzbiographie
- William Kean Seymour (1887–1975) was a British writer, by profession a bank manager. He was a poet and critic, novelist, journalist and literary editor.
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The opening poem, Flute Girl is about a figure on an Athenian cup of about 480 BCE, a subject reminiscent of Keat's Ode to a Grecian Urn (though, other than the subject matter, is not like that earlier poem), and it becomes clear through the other poems that Seymour is a Keats aficionado, with several poems directly mentioning him, or indirectly alluding to him and his themes. That's fine as I like Keats, too, and what's better is that Seymour doesn't attempt pastiche - he has his own voice.
The Cats of Rome is framed as a conversational reminiscence of a stay in Rome and a meditation (I think) about isolation and the neglected poor in a city of plenty.
Of the other poems, there were few that didn't strike a chord, but those I particularly liked were In a Cool Solitude of Trees, The Snail, Cestius and Keats, Purbeck Scene, Frost, The Estuary, Carnations, Fruitage, Ghost in Garden, Weeding and Kindness.
There's nature poetry and reflections upon love, life and death. This was Seymour's last book, published in his 83rd year, five years prior to his death in 1975, so there is a feeling of youth gone, but not lost to memory, and of endings, and also of love and compassion.
This was a lucky find, one of those books that justifies the hours spent rummaging amongst dusty stacks seeking for some forgotten or unknown literary jewel.
On a Second Reading: As might be hoped for in good poetry, I found more on a second reading than I remembered having found the first time around. If I'm confirmed in my disinterest in Seymour's praise of other writers (his paeans to Keats excepted), I'm more than confirmed in my love for his nature poetry and for his reflections upon the experience and process of aging and facing death. A sadly neglected poet worthy of wider recognition.… (mehr)