By: Brian Berger

Spare, coiled works of un­settling philosoph­ical rigor

By: Mark Kingwell

There is a kind of artist whose career makes no sense.

By: Joshua Glenn

His ennui and spleen were visceral reactions to emergent neoliberalism.

By: Lucy Sante

“Poetry should be made by all. Not by one.”

By: Alix Lambert

He wrote about fear, boredom, insecurity, sadness, and confusion.

By: Devin McKinney

In his poetry, Nature is eerily alive, a conspiracy of omens.

By: Brian Berger

She starred in four films that made her a noir icon.

By: Brian Berger

“I’d only written these things for the sake of the sounds.”

By: Lucy Sante

Jules Verne on laudanum, and four other writers rolled into one.

By: Amanda French

He wrote poems with punch.

By: Peggy Nelson

He insisted that he was a poet, no matter what the medium.

By: Tim Carmody

“It is not at all with ideas that one makes poetry. It is with words.”

By: David Smay

He wrote poetry of love glimpsed as a mystery from within the teeth of sex.

By: Brian Berger

“Master of the whimsical tone, the unexpected insight, the hidden bite.”

By: Matthew Battles

The life of ROBERT GRAVES (1895–1985) is as an impenetrable forest, tree ravaging tree in a primordial war of the word. Himself the subject of more books than most authors can reasonably hope to write, […]