About this poet

Robert Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, on September 24, 1935, where he spent his first eight years on the south shore of Long Island. He discovered a love for poetry after reading Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Kubla Khan, and developed an affinity for the "haunted reality of words." Early influences also included Charles Baudelaire, Ezra Pound, and Guillaume Apollinaire.

After receiving an undergraduate degree in 1955 from the City College of the City University of New York, Kelly studied for three years at Columbia University. Co-founder of the Chelsea Review (now Chelsea) and Trobar magazine, he began devoloping a poetics he referred to as Deep Image, referencing the "deep structure" of linguistics.

After publishing his first collection of poems, Armed Descent, in 1961, Kelly's notion of the vernacular's "vulgar eloquence" was expanded and fortified by the influence of poets Robert Duncan and Charles Olson. As Kelly stated in an interview with The Modern Review, "When I began to know their work, and explore their solutions, real and imaginary, to the isolation of the ego in a world of music, I began to speak less of Deep Image" (the same term was later redeveloped by the poet Robert Bly, and used by Galway Kinnell and James Wright, among others).

He has gone on to publish more than fifty poetry titles, including Kill the Messenger Who Brings Bad News (1980), which received the Los Angeles Times First Annual Book Award. Other titles include Red Actions: Selected Poems 1960-1993 (1995), Lapis (2005), and May Day (Parsifal Press, 2007).

Kelly has also written a collection of essays and manifestoes, In Time (Frontier Press, 1972), was co-editor (with Paris Leary) of the anthology A Controversy of Poets (Doubleday Anchor, 1965), and has written several volumes of short fiction. His poems and stories have been translated into Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian, German, and Serbian. He has also served as contributing editor to a number of magazines, including Conjunctions and Poetry International.

As Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris state in volume two of the anthology Poems for the Millennium, "Kelly is heir to both Pound & Zukofsky in his vision of the poet as a 'scientist of the whole . . . to whom all data whatsoever are of use / world-scholar.'"

He has received an Award for Distinction from the National Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters and a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. He has taught at Wagner College, the State University of New York at Buffalo, and as the Tufts University Visiting Professor of Modern Poetry. He has also served as Poet in Residence at Yale University (Calhoun College), the California Institute of Technology (Caltech), Kansas University, Dickinson College, California Institute of the Arts, and the University of Southern California.

He currently serves as Asher B. Edelman Professor of Literature and Co-Director of the Program in Written Arts at Bard College, where he has taught since 1961.

Orpheus

Robert Kelly, 1935

Orpheus can never look back at the real woman trailing behind him out of hell, the woman that anybody could see with ordinary eyes. Orpheus must keep his eyes firmly fixed on the imaginal Eurydice before him, towards whom he has struggled all his life. She is not imaginary, not at all, but realer than any mere apparency, than any momentary act of seeing. He must move always towards that perfect image of his wife, and so sustain himself and his song. If ever he turns back, that is, regresses into seeing his wife as an ordinary woman, she is lost. And he is lost.

Robert Kelly

Robert Kelly

Robert Kelly was born in Brooklyn, New York, on September 24, 1935,

by this poet

poem
Science explains nothing
but holds all together as
many things as it can count

science is a basket
not a religion he said
a cat as big as a cat

the moon the size of the moon
science is the same as poetry
only it uses the wrong words.
poem
Long over, what's on the tree
shivers. Sky hides behind
white-faced, giving flesh to branch,
a red leaf

or yellow far enough away,
what Broch called ''the style
of old age," simplified
of images,

lean in the perfection of the bough,
naked & half-undone. Clouds break,
rain against a hidden sun,
the form
poem
Once when I read the funnies
I took my little magnifying glass
and looked too close.

Forms became colors and colors
were just arrays of dots
and between the dots I saw the rough bleak
storyless legend of the pulp paper
empty as the winter moon

and I dreaded it.
I had looked right through,
when I wanted a