Title: The House of Sleep
Author: Bartlett, Elizabeth
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The House of Sleep" ***


[Illustration: Cover art]



[Illustration: Frontispiece]



THE HOUSE OF SLEEP

Elizabeth Bartlett


_The House of Sleep_ was originally published in 1975 by Autograph
Editions in Colima, Mexico, and is now out-of-print.  The author's
literary executor, Steven James Bartlett, has decided to make the
book available as an open access publication, freely available to
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-NoDerivs license, which allows
anyone to distribute this work without changes to its content,
provided that both the author and the original URL from which this
work was obtained are mentioned, that the contents of this work
are not used for commercial purposes or profit, and that this work
will not be used without the copyright holder's written permission
in derivative works (i.e., you may not alter, transform, or build
upon this work without such permission).  The full legal statement
of this license may be found at:

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/legalcode

[Illustration: Creative Commons logo]



  To Paul

  When you gave me a painting of hammocks,
  I knew:

  The dreamer tells the truth, the self awake
  does not.

  For years I raged against the images
  you drew.

  How they stared, gloomy shrouds, whenever I
  forgot.

  To rest, be still--I swore that was a way
  of death.

  Yet find more lives in sleep than I have years
  ahead.



  THE HOUSE OF SLEEP


  by

  Elizabeth Bartlett


  AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

  Colima, Mexico

  1975



  Copyright © 1975 by Elizabeth Bartlett

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this
  book in whole or in part in any form.

  First Edition

  Acknowledgement: some of these poems have appeared in
  The Virginia Quarterly



  BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  Poems of Yes and No
  Behold This Dreamer
  Poetry Concerto
  It Takes Practice Not to Die
  Threads
  Selected Poems
  Twelve-Tone Poems



  THE HOUSE OF SLEEP



  It is a house with many doors,
  no two alike.

  I am at home in all its rooms
  of time and place.

  My changing person, gender, speech
  hold no surprise.

  I know who I am in my sleep,
  behind my face.

  If you ask which of them is false
  and which is true

  Enter the house with me and call,
  I'll answer you.



  Here inside the darkness,
  the eye of light opens

  As mind travels inward
  to a fourth dimension.

  There is no perspective
  of other or outside.

  Both obverse and reverse
  are simultaneous

  While past and present form
  a folding wave that flows

  Now backward, then forward
  in one eternal dream.



  I found it as a child,
  a house that was all mine

  Where I could think and be
  whatever I believed.

  Half of me stayed outside
  on guard, aware of spies

  The inner self went free
  to wonder as it pleased.

  Leaving the day behind,
  I came upon the night

  And there I dreamed of things
  past all imagining.



  Memory is no stranger
  in the house of sleep.

  It comes as a visitor
  for a reunion.

  If a private occasion,
  with the family

  Or else with those forgotten
  who have long been gone.

  The waiting house is ready
  for us to gather.

  Together or separately
  our memories meet.



  Waking in the night,
  I have wondered where I am

  Knowing I have been away
  and not yet returned.

  I lie still and wait
  between absence and presence

  Conscious of being witness
  to my sleep and wake.

  Here's body, inert,
  prepared to revert to clay.

  O wanderer with my lamp,
  how dim grows the light.



  Flying effortlessly
  I escape gravity

  And seaborne, breathe through gills
  to swim past coral isles

  Where I emerge on shores
  that climb up ancient roads.

  Always, my origins
  enact some past within

  Recalling elements
  of former existence.

  Save two, that I renounce:
  bloodrust fire, fleshtorn ground.



  Here I need no clock
  to tell me what time it is.

  The day, season, year
  conform to no calendar.

  No compass or map
  points my route or direction.

  Sensation is all:
  the shape and sound of feeling.

  I learn what I think
  by choice of symbols, meanings.

  I invent my world
  as much as it invents me.



  A baton like a pendulum
  swings back and forth.

  Across the universe it moves
  in perfect time

  Leading an orchestra of stars
  through measured space.

  A score arranged with such grandeur,
  I merely hear

  Its echoes through the walls of sleep--
  how faint, how far

  While my heart beats to the rhythm
  of earth's passage.



  The twelve hours of the night
  are paths between the stars.

  Whichever one you take
  leads to this centered house

  If you speak the password
  to those who guard the gates.

  You must not look at them
  or touch them on the way

  Lest you be left alone
  and hear the triple bark.

  For the rest, safe journey
  and sweet dreams until dawn.



  How the bedtime refrain still echoes
  through the house:

  "Good night, sweet dreams, see you tomorrow."
  Was it wish

  Or something more substantial for child
  to sleep on

  Like a pillow filled throughout the night
  with promise?

  Which was kept and shall be kept in years
  yet to come

  When all the yesterdays that made me,
  wake at dawn.



  In genesis the dream began
  and came to life

  By dividing the form from void,
  the dark from light

  And parting the sea from dry land,
  mother from child

  Gave image its own reflection
  by day and night

  But kept the sleeping and waking
  for seem and like

  That the timeless and undying
  remain in-sight.



  Our dreamscape is a Mil Cumbres
  across the years.

  Peak after peak they rise like crests
  above a sea

  In which we plunge, swim, dive and drown
  beneath each wave.

  Yet breath returns and eyes grow clear
  from time to time

  As all stands still, becalmed, at rest,
  and we can see

  There, where we were.  Here, where we are.
  How far.  Which way.



  It was a garden of people
  at all seasons.

  I saw hands at work everywhere,
  none of them still.

  Some were planting new souls
  in the fresh earth.

  Others went about the weeding,
  pruning, hoeing

  Their baskets filled with human plants
  of every kind.

  While leaves, endless leaves kept falling
  all around me.



  Among the Joshua trees,
  I saw a stone cross

  Both claiming world salvation
  from brush, sand and thorn

  While I stood on a mountain,
  waiting for the ark

  To save me from destruction,
  drowned by floods of sun.

  But the fiery waves rose up
  forty days and nights

  And there was not a sign of
  clouds, and no dove came.



  A bird stopped me
  as I started to walk across.

  "You can not enter the circle,
  you have no wings."

  So I went back
  and I looked for them on the earth.

  But none of all the winged insects
  knew where mine were.

  So I went on
  and I looked for them in the sea.

  And the fish told me of angels
  who looked like birds.



  With this ring I thee wed,
  said the moon, said the earth.

  I saw it overhead,
  a crystal band of ice

  Through which the eye of God
  bore witness once again

  To living light and love
  within the cosmic void.

  I heard the vows exchanged
  between the cold and dark

  Then with my own, warm breath
  I wed the night and slept.



  Through the mirror and through the fog,
  all things reverse.

  I see the right side on the left,
  the left side, right.

  I see the shapes of what has been
  behind, transposed.

  A camera floats above my head
  as dreams submerge.

  A shadow moves beyond my feet
  in backward stride.

  The mirror and the fog are one,
  and I, enclosed.



  What was the Eskimo
  doing in the tropics?

  What was the Hottentot
  doing in the arctic?

  Caught between the two,
  I asked what choice was mine?

  Having to freeze or burn,
  I felt, was too extreme.

  Yet heart elected south
  and brain elected north

  Since a temperate zone
  in heaven was no more.



  I wanted to lift
  the poor and ignorant soul

  To feed and clothe it,
  to give it eyes and ears.

  I led it away
  from hunger, cold and terror

  Helping it to climb,
  to trust my choice of freedom.

  But when I let go,
  the peak opened with wide jaws

  For the slip, the fall--
  and I grabbed the soul, and ran.



  What shall I be,
  I asked of Tarot cards and stars

  That I might live
  as fits my tastes, beliefs and cares?

  First, be a prince,
  with pleasures, treasures, all desires.

  Then, be a priest,
  with holy thoughts of love divine.

  Third, a peasant,
  with simple needs and natural ways.

  Last, as poet,
  combine the three--or curse your fate.



  It looked like a mountain
  with garden terraces

  A holiday setting
  and dazzling in sunshine

  Where one could be at ease
  to stroll and meet old friends

  Exploring all the paths
  unhurried by the years

  Feeling the light within
  increase with heightened joy

  While going up and on
  from terrace to terrace.



  I went down
  into the vaults of time's library

  Down through sunless, airless corridors
  staffed by ghosts.

  Down the winding halls and cobbled stairs
  daubed with earth

  Past the rows
  of book graves in a cemetery

  Of old words,
  until I came to the last, first one

  When I heard a rumble, saw a flash
  and woke dumb.



  I followed God
  until he stopped at a crossroads.

  On the one side
  was a cliff high above the sea.

  On the other,
  a dense woods baited with summer.

  Future unknown,
  I asked which way was I to go?

  He pointed left,
  where the sun bowed low in the west.

  And God, I asked?
  To the right, he said and vanished.



  It was a long road through a fog
  that swirled like clouds

  And many were going with me,
  behind, ahead

  Though no one spoke or stopped, moved past
  or turned aside.

  But when we reached the edge of time,
  I grew afraid

  Until one found me there and smiled
  and took my hand

  Then led me step by step again,
  a little child.



  First, the night came to me
  in the shape of a moth.

  With a soft flick like breath,
  its wing-tips grazed my head.

  Then, from a hollow tree,
  a hoot owl mourned its cry

  And as I turned to look,
  I thought the moon turned, too.

  Beyond the road, a skunk.
  Within my room, a rose.

  So I sat up, I think,
  while the night spoke and spoke.



  I hear the word incessantly
  as a chorus

  A word whose voices are composed
  of all my years

  Like a requiem long rehearsed
  in every key

  And begun the day of my birth,
  inside of me

  A word sung for my soul's repose
  while I am here

  An earthling, bent on a journey
  still amorphous.



  How to find the way back
  by subway, streetcar, bus...

  Can a hill disappear
  or the stream in a park?

  The morning's scent of rolls,
  the sound of skates at dusk

  Laundry roofs, coalbin chutes,
  wagons, carts, iron stoops...

  Like footprints in the snow,
  the memories fall and drift.

  I walk, I look, I ask,
  a shadow in the past.



  I ran to say goodbye
  to the last railway train

  Whose old, musty freight cars
  were creaking at the joints.

  In it, tons of paper,
  unpublished manuscripts

  Heading for the graveyard
  like passengers turned ghosts.

  At the rear, an organ,
  installed in the caboose

  Began the slow, slow march,
  while the wind mourned and blew.



  O most blessed and damned of women,
  so greatly loved!

  I know by my dreams that your own
  have never died.

  Before there was Egypt or Troy,
  you were a slave.

  Before Tristram or Abelard,
  your face was pale.

  While poets made heaven and hell
  to prove your charms

  Your passion, beauty, grief and joy
  slept in my arms.



  With all that space to explore,
  how could I resist?

  Finding my own place out there,
  the wonder of it!

  A stretched canvas came in view,
  linen, framed in gold

  With a palette never used,
  meant for me alone.

  I dipped my brush and painted
  the place I loved best

  Then forever set my claim:
  north, south, east and west.



  I had to go on and on,
  the search was not done.

  Winding corridors,
  walls leading from door to door.

  Mice, lions, sheep, chickens, frogs,
  unassorted odds.

  Nothing suited--quite--
  despite the resemblances.

  I heard voices, laughter, groans,
  sounds foreign to mine.

  Mirrors, symbols, signs...
  twice, I almost found myself.



  The room was full of eyes,
  whichever way I looked.

  Over walls, ceiling, floor,
  they darted back and forth

  Their eyelash hands and feet
  mocking me and my book.

  "You can not get away,
  I've told you that before."

  Daddy longlegs reaching,
  still haunting, still speaking.

  "A spider ghost, you say?
  The harvest comes, daughter."



  They tossed the pillow
  from one hand to the other.

  With roars of laughter,
  it zipped, it flew, was caught and thrown.

  My seams ripped open,
  scattering my heart outside.

  Slowly, painfully,
  I gathered it together

  And lay down to sleep,
  clutching my life, my pillow.

  Feathers of dead birds,
  sterile echoes of lost flights.



  A bill collector appeared,
  flourishing old bills.

  "Your father gone, and mother,
  who will pay for these?"

  I turned to the telephone,
  one disconnected.

  I looked inside the mailbox,
  full of dead letters.

  I searched through files and desk drawers,
  all bankbooks cancelled.

  Only one thing left to do--
  to wake, and escape.



  It was a lettuce morning,
  crisp in pale sunlight.

  By noon it was canary,
  cat's eye and corn grain.

  As shadows crept through the hills,
  the sea turned bilious.

  Dusk spilled a goodbye tunnel
  down a shifting sky.

  Then driftwood, fuming the air
  with its smoke and cough.

  After night crashed, we picked up
  plans for tomorrow.



  When will the words be opened
  and the book unsealed?

  Not till the time of the end
  of empires and beasts.

  Then will the dream be written
  according to men?

  Not till the signs and vision
  have become as one.

  How shall we learn to know them
  as true evidence?

  Not till all human senses
  merge with light again.



  They were gone for days,
  the hunters and fishermen

  Challenging the beasts
  who claimed the land and the sea.

  The young sang their praise
  all through the gloried summer

  While the women danced
  and gave them welcoming feasts.

  How their deeds warmed us
  winter nights! how bright the blaze!

  Now, we are fearful
  and cold.  We need more old men.



  I turned back
  the thick, heavy calendar of years

  Laboring,
  page by century by page of scroll

  To restore
  the undiscovered new world once more

  Hoping to
  reverse the winds and tides, west to east

  To exchange
  the ships, the crews, the conquests and all.

  But gained what
  by throwing Columbus overboard?



  Shakespeare and Cervantes
  died the same day and year.

  So too Diogenes
  and Great Alexander

  Although each said farewell
  in places far apart.

  What extinguished both flames
  at one instant of time?

  A whirlwind in the night
  or a merciful rain?

  May a storm at my death
  help me find my partner.



  All of us who saw it from the ground
  testified

  It was the tortoise that fell and killed
  Aeschylus.

  So Christ, Socrates, Galileo
  were killed, too.

  We, the groundlings who witnessed their deaths,
  swear to you

  It was the tortoise each time.  It fell
  from the air.

  Some say eagles, by letting them fall.
  But who knows?



  I watched his clay flesh
  take its changing form from thought

  And fling the fiction
  of his birth-by-chance to scorn.

  Science, he would say,
  is another way of life...

  Without a flutter
  or doubt to betray his eyes.

  Such utter belief,
  I found it hard to resist

  Suspending my own--
  he holds his world with such ease.



  Then she who had been my wise teacher
  in the past

  Came and stood at the foot of my bed,
  calling, "Child...

  I have come to say goodbye to you
  at long last

  For I join The Great Intelligence
  this same night

  There, where the substance of all shadows
  is pure light..."

  Which vanished, as I wept in the dark,
  blind and wild.



  Not too much light left,
  I collect the candle's tears.

  Prodigal before
  of the sun and its seasons

  Now I search the night
  for glowworms or gleams of snow.

  Asleep open-eyed,
  I turn my wax world slowly

  Around a lifetime
  of continents and oceans

  Till the last star shrinks,
  then shudders, and then goes out.



  I saw it emptied
  room by room and piece by piece

  Until the house stood vacant
  of all but its bones.

  No paintings, no books,
  no flowers, fruits or music.

  A silence anonymous
  as space void of time.

  "Wait," my body cried,
  "do not board up the windows!

  "The owner left a message:
  she's coming home soon."



  Because I longed
  to comprehend the infinite

  I drew a line
  between the known and unknown

  From zero base
  to its apex point opposite

  Thus dividing
  all past time from all future time

  And all of space,
  the positive from negative.

  Where both sides met,
  they formed the infinite present.



  I saw the church bend its steeples,
  ears to the ground

  Then place its pulpit on the roof
  to speak to God

  Proclaiming the kingdom of men
  at last had come

  Who gave each day its daily bread,
  whose will was done

  That none be tempted to trespass
  or do evil

  Seeing the power and glory
  on earth, fulfilled.



  I am not one.
  Among the many I am part.

  I do not know
  how many or who, where they are.

  Each has a name,
  a face, an age--none of them mine.

  Yet are we all
  cells of the selfsame root in time.

  No closer ties
  bind us to those we call our own.

  For we are one,
  living each other's lives, unknown.



  The sign said City of Dogs
  and I went inside.

  The streets, laid out as kennels,
  were strangely quiet.

  Posted German Shepherd guards
  merely curled their lips

  And growled as I passed by them
  into the main office.

  The huge picture startled me.
  Nothing else was there.

  Only Big Brother, the Chief,
  who looked down and stared.



  Why, with so much obsidian,
  coal, pitch and tar

  Was it so hard, I ask of God,
  to make black black

  Or, given milk, snow, lilies, pearls,
  to make white white?

  Yet nowhere is there creature found
  to have black bones

  Or, among the many species,
  one with white blood.

  I could question other colors:
  yellow, red, brown?



  I see them,
  a standing army six million strong.

  They are armed
  with the weapons of our memory.

  On all fronts,
  they keep watch, to warn and remind us.

  At our call,
  they rise from the graveyard of our minds

  And advance,
  immune to hunger, guns, barbed wire, gas...

  Their mission:
  to rescue time from its own worst foe.



  I know them, the assassins,
  by the way they breathe

  As they slip behind the wheel
  to strangle the road

  As they dive-bomb through the air
  to explode the night.

  I hear the changing rhythms
  of their pulse, speech, steps

  As they finger the trigger,
  as they grasp the knife.

  I clock the surge of passions
  in their race with death.



  Outside the house
  were beggars, thugs, maniacs, thieves.

  An alien world
  as perceived through curtained windows.

  Seen from afar,
  the fires, riots, car wrecks, brawls

  Made me recoil
  and threatened the night while I slept.

  Nor found I joy
  in revels, circuses and feats

  My skin thin, too,
  for the rocks, the drums, the stampedes.



  They came marching by the billions,
  armies of ants.

  From woods and fields, on roads and streets,
  through walls, roofs, stairs

  An all-out attack on V-Day,
  V versus man.

  Fire ants, flyers, drivers, cutters
  for ground, sea, air.

  Overrunning, overcoming,
  world-wide, as planned.

  Timed to the hour and minute,
  none of us spared.



  I spoke to God and Devil,
  waiting for reply.

  I whispered into both ears,
  having seen two sides.

  I told of men and women,
  of youth and of age

  Of joy, love, goodness, beauty,
  and their counterface.

  Each question and emotion
  met with silent dread.

  One listened to the living
  and one, to the dead.



  Butterfly wings, a pair of lungs,
  a bivalve shell.

  I see the M and W
  traced on my palms.

  Maple keys, antlers, feathers, ferns,
  the tails of fish.

  The one design repeats itself
  in endless halves.

  Mountain to valley, spring to fall,
  high tide to low.

  We are each other's counterpart,
  together, whole.



  Map in hand,
  I studied the surfaces and depths

  Of the land
  assigned to me for exploration.

  Flesh engraved,
  the contours clearly showed the main routes

  Time had paved
  for me to follow by sun and stars.

  Whether eyes
  misread the signs or feet betrayed me

  All the skies
  my palms enclosed led far out to sea.



  THE SAILOR'S STORY

  1

  Evenings on cobbled streets
  leading down to the wharves

  Where boys matched oars with men,
  straining pride and muscle

  Their boats nosing the wind
  to catch the next tide's run.

  But it was not fish food
  I hungered for, or proof

  As I walked back each time,
  the youngest son of five

  With alien eyes and thoughts
  reaching out to starboard.



  2

  There was no goodbye
  that last night, no righteous words.

  I left silently
  with no one to look at me

  But my own shadow,
  the wind lifting my footsteps

  Down stone passageways,
  lantern, pack and gear in hand.

  Until, there it was,
  riding at anchor, far out.

  I paused a moment
  and then ran, homeless, from home.



  3

  Always a convoy
  for the long sea voyages

  The ship like a whale
  or a shark with pilot fish

  The hills receding
  as our masts climbed up the sky

  And I knew it would be weeks
  before we returned

  Though we had strong sails, good winds
  and plenty of hands.

  Yet I never can recall
  the last trip of all.



  4

  I remember the islands
  flashing in the sun

  Mostly barren rocks
  and slopes of tattered vineyards

  The waterfronts deserted
  except by seabirds

  No one to trade with
  and our vessel filled with jars.

  So we headed past the coast
  toward open ocean

  Where strange crews hailed us,
  and for honey, gave us salt.



  5

  Then came fever
  and all the sick were put ashore.

  We had good care:
  warm milk, vinegar baths and beds.

  When my head cleared,
  there was a road along the cliffs

  Which I followed
  past the village behind the goats

  Feeling the ground
  steady and true for a good house.

  Until sunset,
  when I saw the sea flowing west.



  6

  So I left that past
  and shipped into the future

  A boy born on land
  with sea legs, a strange creature

  Neither fish nor fowl,
  yet something of each, between.

  My head at the bow,
  my feet at the stern, who dreamed

  Whose ribs creaked and strained
  to outride wind, tide and stars.

  Blood of the sailor,
  a part of me forever.



"Her poems give one a sense of intelligence and sensibility."
  Wallace Stevens.

"Her work is clear, swift, and strong."
  Mark Van Doren

"Her poems assuredly justify the writer, and should
console the right reader (if anything can)."
  Marianne Moore

"I like her poems; they think, and they mean what they say."
  Conrad Aiken

"Certainly impressive work."
  Kenneth Rexroth

"Mature, her poems have a bite to them."
  Richard Eberhart

"The new form is most interesting; the poems beautiful
and distinguished."
  Allen Tate



The poems in this book are written in a new form--they
are called twelve-tone poems.  The form was adapted by
the author from Arnold Schoenberg's musical system, using
speech sounds in place of notes.



This autographed edition is limited to 100 copies, designed
and illustrated by Paul Bartlett.  The poems are set in Regal
14 type on Westland stock.  Printed by Impresora Gutenberg,
Colima, Mexico.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Bartlett (1911-1994) was an American poet and writer
noted for her lyrical and symbolic poetry, creation of the new
twelve-tone form of poetry, founder of the international non-profit
organization Literary Olympics, Inc., and known as an author of
fiction, essays, reviews, translations, and as an editor. She is
not to be confused with the British poet (1924-2008) of the same
name. For more detailed information about her life, work, and
critical commendations, see the Wikipedia article
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Bartlett_%28American_poet%29.

Bartlett's most notable achievements include:

* Creation of a new form of poetry, "the twelve-tone poem,"
adapting Arnold Schoenberg's musical system to the verbal, accented
sounds of language. Called "the Emily Dickinson of the 20th
Century," her concise lyrics have been praised by poets, musicians,
and composers alike.

* Publication of 16 books of poetry, a group of edited anthologies,
and more than 1,000 poems, short stories, and essays published, for
example, in _Harper's_, _Virginia Quarterly_, _New York Times_,
_North American Review_, _Saturday Review_, _Prairie Schooner_,
and in numerous international collections.

* Recipient of many fellowships, grants and awards, including NEA,
PEN Syndicate, fellowships at the Huntington Hartford Foundation,
Montalvo, Yaddo, MacDowell, Dorland Mt. Colony and Ragdale, travel
grants, and honors for introducing literature as part of the
Olympics.

* Founder of the Literary Olympics, to restore literature,
specifically poetry, as a vital part of the Olympics as it once
had been in ancient Greece.

Bartlett's poetry came to the attention of leading poets, writers,
and critics as diverse as Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, Mark
Van Doren, Conrad Aiken, Allen Tate, Alfred Kreymborg, Robert
Hillyer, Louis Untermeyer, Rolfe Humphries, John Ciardi, Richard
Eberhart, Richard Wilbur, Maxine Kumin, Robert M. Hutchins,
Kenneth Rexroth, William Stafford, and others. Over the years,
Bartlett maintained an active and extensive correspondence with
eminent poets, writers, and literary critics; evident throughout
this collected literary correspondence are strong statements
attesting to the importance of her work. Extensive permanent
collections of Elizabeth Bartlett's papers, literary correspondence,
publications, unpublished manuscripts, and art have been
established, one as part of the Archive for New Poetry maintained
by the Mandeville Department of Special Collections at the
University of California, San Diego, and the second by the Rare
Books Collection of the University of Louisville. Bartlett's
readings of her poetry have been recorded for the Library of
Congress, Yale, Harvard, Stanford, and other collections.

Bartlett's twelve-tone form of poetry was introduced in her book,
_Twelve-Tone Poems_, published in 1968. In Bartlett's words: "The
12-tone poem is a new form.... It was inspired by Arnold
Schoenberg's musical system. The poem consists of 12 lines,
divided into couplets. Each couplet contains 12 syllables, using
the natural cadence of speech. The accented sounds of the words
are considered tones. Only 12 tones are used throughout the poem,
repeated various times. As a result, the poem achieves a rare
harmony that is purely lyrical, enriching its imagery and meaning."

About this work, Allen Tate wrote: "The new form is most
interesting, the poems quite beautiful and distinguished."
Encouraged by this and other commendatory responses to her
twelve-tone poems by poets, musicians, and composers including
Stephen Sondheim, Bartlett continued to develop the new form.
_The House of Sleep_, published in 1975, was the result, consisting
of 62 poems related to dreams and written in the new form. Of these
poems, William Stafford wrote: "There is a trancelike progression
in these poems, in which all unfolds quietly, with a steady holding
of a certain pervasive tone." Robert M. Hutchins wrote: "I am much
impressed. The poems seem to me what is called an important
contribution, and a beautiful one."

A third collection of twelve-tone poems, _In Search of Identity_,
was published in 1977, further establishing the diversity and
versatility of ways in which Bartlett was able to make use of the
new form. A fourth collection of twelve-tone poems was published
in 1981, _Memory Is No Stranger_.

Her husband, Paul Alexander Bartlett (1909 – 1990) was an American
writer, artist, and poet. He made a large-scale study of more than
350 Mexican haciendas, published novels, short stories, and poetry,
and worked as a fine artist in a variety of media. For more
detailed information about his life and work, see the Wikipedia
article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Alexander_Bartlett.

Elizabeth Bartlett's son, Steven James Bartlett (1945 – ), is a
psychologist and philosopher who has many published books and
articles in the fields of philosophy and psychology. For more
detailed information about his life and work, see the Wikipedia
article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steven_James_Bartlett.



[Illustration: Back cover]





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The House of Sleep" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.