Loren Corey Eiseley (September 3, 1907 – July 9, 1977) was a highly respected anthropologist, science writer, ecologist, and poet. He published books of essays, biography, and general science in the 1950s through the 1970s.
Eiseley is best known for the poetic essay style, called the "concealed essay". He used this to explain complex scientific ideas, such as human evolution, to the general public. He is also known for his writings about humanity's relationship with the natural world; these writings helped inspire the modern environmental movement.
Lemurs with night eyes so we might have been, or, with contingencies among the genes, we might have grown one with the bark of trees, green leaves, been fruit, oh many things, listened with sonic clicks, spread glider wings, never been men at all. I bow my head over this book, this book, curse the dark day I played with rattles in my cradle. Now, after lifetimes spent in laboratories, strata of old time, dismembered bones from this place and that, asked why, been viciously answered, why do you ask at all, chance being chance, yourself chance, who’s to care— all being permitted, violence, cruelty, lust? I answer because I do care.
Poems by the incomparable Loren Eiseley. Mr. Eiseley, an anthropologist by training, but a brilliant philosopher and writer by choice, is probably best known for his prose. In his moody, beautiful essays, he recounts his wanderings in search of bones, his ruminations on the wonders of evolution and life, and his youth on a hardscrabble farm. But he also writes poetry, and there are some brilliant pieces in this book; one which I think is the best of several collections of poetry he published. The truth is that many of his essays come close to being poetry, and if repositioned in poetic form would be so. I highly recommend this book, but if your taste runs more to prose, try The Night Country or All the Strange Hours. But, whatever, please do read Loren Eiseley.
I just re-read most of this book. It was published first in 1973 and I read it shortly after publication. These are memorable poems although Eiseley's prose writings are probably better known. I have read books of poetry that I forgot about a few weeks later, but this is not one of them. I still vividly remember the chilling poem about the tiger (The Tiger Chooses) who walks around a circle of men playing cares in a tent and then selects the one with the worst hand for his dinner, or the one about the Acoma Pueblo (The Boundary Keepers). The Poet's connection to the earth and its geology makes his perspective in poetry and prose unique. No other poet I've read sounds or reads like Eiseley. This is great.
“Some have called me Gothic in my tastes. Others have chosen to regard me as a Platonist, a mystic, a concealed Christian, a midnight optimist. Like most poets I am probably all these things by turns …”
I particularly loved “The Green Lion” and “It is the Rain That Tells You,” but I have underlined amazing lines in many of the poems.
Redundant and verbose, I found “Assassins” a laborious read. A couple lines show true sparks, though, and exploring prehistory always has a fan here, which kept the collection above one star for me, barely. I hear Eiseley’s non-fiction is better, but getting this exhausted by his poetry is putting further reading to the edge of my radar.
I love, love, love Loren Eiseley's naturalist essays. He is my favorite in that genre. But his poetry is not as good. It's good, mind you, but not nearly as powerful or as engaging as his essays. This collection was enjoyable but didn't light my fire except for two really really fine efforts, the very last poem, entitled "The Mist on the Mountain," and a poem on page 105 entitled "New Men, New Armor," which was worth reading through the whole book for.
Loren Eiseley was a professional archeologist and paleontologist known more for his prose than his poetry. His poetry is both fun and insightful. Eiseley’s poems address how the natural world and the spiritual world reflect each other. This collection is along the lines of Mary Oliver or Annie Dillard.