Born on this day November 9, 1923, James Schuyler grew up in East Aurora, New York, before moving to Italy and eventually settling in Manhattan. Schuyler’s work is characterized by a profound sensitivity to the nuances of everyday life and a deep appreciation for the natural world. He used these elements to craft poetry that is both accessible and profound, offering readers a unique window into the human experience.
Schuyler’s early life was marked by personal struggles, including mental health issues that led him to spend time in a psychiatric institution. However, it was during these challenging times that he began to explore poetry as a means of expressing his emotions and perceptions. His first collection of poems, Alfred and Guinevere, was published in 1958 and was praised for its innovative use of language and unconventional narrative style.
Over the course of his career, James Schuyler produced numerous collections of poetry, including The Morning of the Poem, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1981. His poems are known for their vivid imagery, conversational tone, and keen observation of the mundane. His work often blurs the line between prose and poetry, challenging traditional notions of form and structure.
Despite his personal challenges, James Schuyler’s contribution to modern poetry cannot be overstated. His work has influenced countless poets and continues to be studied and celebrated today. His ability to find beauty in the ordinary and express it with such eloquence set him apart as one of the most important voices in American poetry. James Schuyler’s life and works serve as a testament to the transformative power of poetry, showing us that even in our darkest moments, there is potential for profound creativity and expression.
December 26, 1969
Dear Kenward,
What a pearl
of a letter knife. It’s just
the thing I needed, something
to rest my eyes on, and always
wanted, which is to say
it’s that of which I
felt the lack but
didn’t know of, of no
real use and yet
essential as a button
box, or maps, green
morning skies, islands and
canals in oatmeal, the steam
off oyster stew. Brown
agate, veined as a woods
by smoke that has to it
the watery twist of eel grass
in a quick, rust-discolored
cove. Undulating lines of
northern evening—a Munch
without the angst—a
hint of almost amber:
to the nose, a resinous
thought, to the eye, a
lacquered needle green
where no green is, a
present after-image.
Sleek as an ax, bare
and elegant as a tarn,
manly as a lingam,
November weather petrified,
it is just the thing
to do what with? To
open letters? No, it
is just the thing, an
object, dark, fierce
and beautiful in which
the surprise is that
the surprise, once
past, is always there:
which to enjoy is
not to consume. The un-
recapturable returns
in a brown world
made out of wood,
snow streaked, storm epi-
center still in stone.
-James Schuyler
Curated by Jennifer
