poem index

poet

Mina Loy

1882-1966 , London , United Kingdom
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Mina Loy was born in London on December 27, 1882. She studied art in England and Germany and achieved some success as a painter; her paintings were included in the prestigious Salon d'Automne show in Paris, 1905. After several years in the heart of Parisian literary and arts society, Loy moved to Florence, where she spent time with the Futurists and with expatriate artists and writers, including Gertrude Stein. She began publishing poetry in magazines during this period. When World War I began, she served as a volunteer nurse in a hospital before moving to the United States in 1916.

Loy became a part of the avant-garde movement in New York City. She was recognized for her feminism and her modern verse, and her poems, especially her wartime work, often dealt with sex. However, her poetry also disturbed a few of her more conservative contemporaries. Marianne Moore found herself uneasy in Loy's company, and Amy Lowell was so incensed by the publication of Loy's "Love Songs" in Others magazine that she refused to submit any more work to the periodical. Conrad Aiken encouraged readers to "pass lightly over the . . . tentacular quiverings of Mina Loy," and John Collier cited Loy's verse as an example of "the need for objective standards." Still, Loy had many admirers, among them William Carlos Williams, Marcel Duchamp, and the members of the New York Dada group—including the poet and boxer Arthur Cravan, whom she married in 1918. 

In 1923 Loy returned to Paris, where she published Lunar, Baedecker (Contact Publishing, 1923). After this poetry collection, she turned her attention to visual arts and prose. Also an artist, Loy has been labelled a Futurist, Dadaist, Surrealist, feminist, conceptualist, modernist, and post-modernist. Experimenting with media in her artwork, she moved from oil to ink by World War I, then lighting fixtures in the late 1920s, and finally to sculptures featuring items collected from the streets and garbage cans of Manhattan. She allied herself with her visual art more than her writing, claiming at the end of her life that she "never was a poet."

Loy became reclusive in her later years, and lacked any interest in building a reputation for herself. Mina Loy died September 25, 1966, in Aspen, Colorado, leaving behind an unfinished biography of Isadora Duncan and an unpublished collection of poems she had written during the 1940s.

In 1921 Ezra Pound wrote to Marianne Moore: "Is there anyone in America except you, Bill and Mina Loy who can write anything of interest in verse?" But for decades, the avant-garde poet Loy was virtually invisible next to many of her fellow modernists. While she makes colorful appearances in the biographies of many other writers and artists, including those of Djuna Barnes, Marcel Duchamp, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Marianne Moore, and Gertrude Stein, Mina Loy had no biography of her own until 1996, when Becoming Modern: The Life of Mina Loy (by Carolyn Burke, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1996) was released along with a new edition of her poems, The Lost Lunar Baedeker.


Selected Bibliography

Poetry
The Lost Lunar Baedeker (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1996)
The Last Lunar Baedeker (Jargon Society, 1982)
Lunar Baedeker & Time-Tables (J. Williams, 1958)
Lunar, Baedecker (Contact Publishing, 1923)

Prose
Insel (Black Sparrow Press, 1991)

by this poet

poem
Face of the skies
preside
over our wonder.

Fluorescent
truant of heaven
draw us under.

Silver, circular corpse
your decease
infects us with unendurable ease,

touching nerve-terminals
to thermal icicles

Coercive as coma, frail as bloom
innuendoes of your inverse dawn
suffuse the self;
our every corpuscle
poem

We might have coupled
In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
Where wine is spilled on promiscuous lips

We might have given birth to a butterfly
With the daily news
Printed in blood on its wings.
 

poem
We have flowed out of ourselves	
Beginning on the outside	
That shrivvable skin	
Where you leave off	
 
Of infinite elastic	        
Walking the ceiling	
Our eyelashes polish stars	
 
Curled close in the youngest corpuscle	
Of a descendant	
We spit up our passions in our grand-dams	        
 
Fixing the extension