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Description

Alluring, Earth seducing, with high conceits
is the sunset that reigns
at the end of westward streets. ...
A sudden flaring sky
troubling strangely the passer by
with visions, alien to long streets, of Cytharea
or the smooth flesh of Lady Castlemaine. ...
A frolic of crimson
is the spreading glory of the sky,
heaven's jocund maid
flaunting a trailed red robe
along the fretted city roofs
about the time of homeward going crowds
— a vain maid, lingering, loth to go. ...

~ Thomas Ernest Hulme published six poems before his death. He called them his ‘Complete Poetical Works’.

The son of prosperous parents, Hulme developed early interests in debate, and was known by his school debating society as ‘the Whip’. His provocative, enthusiastic behavior got him ejected on more than one occasion from Cambridge University, where he read mathematics but did not finish a degree. On theater visits, he would shout at the actors; once, this led to a brawl with the police, and a weekend in prison. He kept a brass knuckleduster for use in the bedroom.

A man accredited with influencing Ezra Pound, Hulme is often seen as a pioneer of modernism. Member of the Second Poets' Club, which also included Ezra Pound and F. S. Flint, he was one of the first critics to write about modern painting and sculpture. One of his biographers, Robert Ferguson (The Short Sharp Life of T. E. Hulme ) calls his style that ‘of overhearing someone in the actual process of thinking’. Ian Sansom describes his words and ideas as ‘most often a defense of the obvious: people are bad; poems don’t need to rhyme; and art is not imitation. You always get the feeling when reading him that he’s coming at things from first principles.’

Hulme’s various writings include critical essays and translations. He taught English in Brussels for a time. His essays were edited posthumously by Sir Herbert Read, in Speculations (1924) and Notes on Language and Style (1929).

Hulme volunteered as an artilleryman in 1914 in France and Belgium. He kept up his writing for The New Age. Notable publications during this period for that magazine were "War Notes", written under the pen name "North Staffs", and "A Notebook", which contains some of his most organized critical writing. He was wounded in 1916. Back at the front in 1917, he was killed by a shell. .
On 28 September 1917, four days after his thirty-fourth birthday, Hulme suffered a direct hit from a large shell which literally blew him to pieces. Apparently absorbed in some thought of his own he had failed to hear it coming and remained standing while those around threw themselves flat on the ground. What was left of him was buried in the Military Cemetery at Koksijde, West-Vlaanderen, in Belgium where—no doubt for want of space—he is described simply as 'One of the War poets'."

Marcos Valle, Stacey Kent - Amando Demais ~ www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IJPlL…

Too Much

Everybody says that I speak too much

And that I've been drinking too much

And that this kind of life is worthless

Keep wandering, from bar to bar, bar to bar

They even say that I've been laughing too much

And that I tell a lot of jokes

That I don't stop smoking and that I drive my car

Too fast, arriving at the same place

Nobody knows that it happens because

I'm going to spend my life forgetting you

And the reason why I live these banal days

And because I've been sad, I've been too much sad

And that's why I speak too much

And that's why I drink too much

And that's the reason why this life is too much busy

And because my love for you is too much immense

It's because my love for you is too much

Description

Alluring, Earth seducing, with high conceits
is the sunset that reigns
at the end of westward streets. ...
A sudden flaring sky
troubling strangely the passer by
with visions, alien to long streets, of Cytharea
or the smooth flesh of Lady Castlemaine. ...
A frolic of crimson
is the spreading glory of the sky,
heaven's jocund maid
flaunting a trailed red robe
along the fretted city roofs
about the time of homeward going crowds
— a vain maid, lingering, loth to go. ...

~ Thomas Ernest Hulme published six poems before his death. He called them his ‘Complete Poetical Works’.

The son of prosperous parents, Hulme developed early interests in debate, and was known by his school debating society as ‘the Whip’. His provocative, enthusiastic behavior got him ejected on more than one occasion from Cambridge University, where he read mathematics but did not finish a degree. On theater visits, he would shout at the actors; once, this led to a brawl with the police, and a weekend in prison. He kept a brass knuckleduster for use in the bedroom.

A man accredited with influencing Ezra Pound, Hulme is often seen as a pioneer of modernism. Member of the Second Poets' Club, which also included Ezra Pound and F. S. Flint, he was one of the first critics to write about modern painting and sculpture. One of his biographers, Robert Ferguson (The Short Sharp Life of T. E. Hulme ) calls his style that ‘of overhearing someone in the actual process of thinking’. Ian Sansom describes his words and ideas as ‘most often a defense of the obvious: people are bad; poems don’t need to rhyme; and art is not imitation. You always get the feeling when reading him that he’s coming at things from first principles.’

Hulme’s various writings include critical essays and translations. He taught English in Brussels for a time. His essays were edited posthumously by Sir Herbert Read, in Speculations (1924) and Notes on Language and Style (1929).

Hulme volunteered as an artilleryman in 1914 in France and Belgium. He kept up his writing for The New Age. Notable publications during this period for that magazine were "War Notes", written under the pen name "North Staffs", and "A Notebook", which contains some of his most organized critical writing. He was wounded in 1916. Back at the front in 1917, he was killed by a shell. .
On 28 September 1917, four days after his thirty-fourth birthday, Hulme suffered a direct hit from a large shell which literally blew him to pieces. Apparently absorbed in some thought of his own he had failed to hear it coming and remained standing while those around threw themselves flat on the ground. What was left of him was buried in the Military Cemetery at Koksijde, West-Vlaanderen, in Belgium where—no doubt for want of space—he is described simply as 'One of the War poets'."

Marcos Valle, Stacey Kent - Amando Demais ~ www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IJPlL…

Too Much

Everybody says that I speak too much

And that I've been drinking too much

And that this kind of life is worthless

Keep wandering, from bar to bar, bar to bar

They even say that I've been laughing too much

And that I tell a lot of jokes

That I don't stop smoking and that I drive my car

Too fast, arriving at the same place

Nobody knows that it happens because

I'm going to spend my life forgetting you

And the reason why I live these banal days

And because I've been sad, I've been too much sad

And that's why I speak too much

And that's why I drink too much

And that's the reason why this life is too much busy

And because my love for you is too much immense

It's because my love for you is too much