Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925), in brief, was an early 20th century American poet, who was part of the Imagist movement in poetry ("A Brief Guide to Imagism" via poets.org. "Imagism" via wikipedia).

Amy is a fascinating character. In poetry circles, I suspect, she is best known for her feud with Ezra Pound (touched on in the wiki article linked above) and her posthumous 1926 Pulitzer Prize. Amy was a Boston heiress*, a lesbian who loved cigars and Keats, and a tireless champion of the modern poetry she was a part of. Her poetry readings were theatrical events and she was immensely popular with audiences. "Her theatricality, along with the forcefulness of her sweeping pronouncements about the state of contemporary poetry, earned her a devoted, almost cult following of fans who mobbed train stations to get her autograph (thus necessitating police escorts) and who packed auditoriums to standing-room-only capacity in order to hear speak."

Amy was also willing to use her money to publish modern poets and she moved to London at one point, and began to fund anthologies which allowed the poets represented to chose his or her best work, rather than be chosen editorially by Pound.

This collection of Lowell's poetry is a great introduction to the poet and her work. It has just the right amount of biography and commentary on her verse, and good representation of her often 'exuberant' work. It also includes her poetry inspired by, and her translations from, Chinese poetry.

Two of my personal favorites:

OPAL

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.

(The Independent, August 1918)

SEPTEMBER, 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through
sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open
windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
and note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

(Pictures of the Floating World, September 1919)

There are links embedded above to articles on Amy Lowell, the Imagist Movement...etc

Good poetry written by American poet Amy Lowell, a book to dip into. ( )