BANG!! by Amy Lowell: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This is a long, multi-part poem by Amy Lowell that unfolds across three vivid scenes: two little girls chasing a bee and playing in a garden, a woman writing letters during the American Revolution with trumpet-vine flowers blazing outside, and a glamorous, decadent night in 18th-century Venice filled with falling leaves and masked revelers.
The poem
The blue flower tears across like paper, And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine. "If we could fly, we could catch him." The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face, As she stares after the bee. "We'll follow him in a dove chariot. Come on, Stella." Run, children, Along the red gravel paths, For a bee is hard to catch, Even with a chariot of doves. Tall, still, and cowled, Stand the monk's-hoods; Taller than the heads of the little girls. A blossom for Minna. A blossom for Stella. Off comes the cowl, And there is a purple-painted chariot; Off comes the forward petal, And there are two little green doves, With green traces tying them to the chariot. "Now we will get in, and fly right up to the clouds. Fly, Doves, up in the sky, With Minna and me, After the bee." Up one path, Down another, Run the little girls, Holding their dove chariots in front of them; But the bee is hidden in the trumpet of a honeysuckle, With his wings folded along his back. The dove chariots are thrown away, And the little girls wander slowly through the garden, Sucking the salvia tips, And squeezing the snapdragons To make them gape. "I'm so hot, Let's pick a pansy And see the little man in his bath, And play we're he." A royal bath-tub, Hung with purple stuffs and yellow. The great purple-yellow wings Rise up behind the little red and green man; The purple-yellow wings fan him, He dabbles his feet in cool green. Off with the green sheath, And there are two spindly legs. "Heigho!" sighs Minna. "Heigho!" sighs Stella. There is not a flutter of wind, And the sun is directly overhead. Along the edge of the garden Walk the little girls. Their hats, round and yellow like cheeses, Are dangling by the ribbons. The grass is a tumult of buttercups and daisies; Buttercups and daisies streaming away Up the hill. The garden is purple, and pink, and orange, and scarlet; The garden is hot with colours. But the meadow is only yellow, and white, and green, Cool, and long, and quiet. The little girls pick buttercups And hold them under each other's chins. "You're as gold as Grandfather's snuff-box. You're going to be very rich, Minna." "Oh-o-o! Then I'll ask my husband to give me a pair of garnet earrings Just like Aunt Nancy's. I wonder if he will. I know. We'll tell fortunes. That's what we'll do." Plump down in the meadow grass, Stella and Minna, With their round yellow hats, Like cheeses, Beside them. Drop, Drop, Daisy petals. "One I love, Two I love, Three I love I say..." The ground is peppered with daisy petals, And the little girls nibble the golden centres, And play it is cake. A bell rings. Dinner-time; And after dinner there are lessons. 1777 I The Trumpet-Vine Arbour The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight. They bray and blare at the burning sky. Red! Red! Coarse notes of red, Trumpeted at the blue sky. In long streaks of sound, molten metal, The vine declares itself. Clang!--from its red and yellow trumpets. Clang!--from its long, nasal trumpets, Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise. I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight. It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets, I only know that they are red and open, And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat. My quill is newly mended, And makes fine-drawn lines with its point. Down the long, white paper it makes little lines, Just lines--up--down--criss-cross. My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill; It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen. My hand marches to a squeaky tune, It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes. My pen and the trumpet-flowers, And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest. "Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George. What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager. Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for. Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target! Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top Through Father's spy-glass. The red city, and the blue, bright water, And puffs of smoke which you made. Twenty miles away, Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck, But the smoke was white--white! To-day the trumpet-flowers are red--red-- And I cannot see you fighting, But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada, And Myra sings "Yankee Doodle" at her milking. The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine, And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air. II The City of Falling Leaves Leaves fall, Brown leaves, Yellow leaves streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall again. The brown leaves, And the streaked yellow leaves, Loosen on their branches And drift slowly downwards. One, One, two, three, One, two, five. All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves-- Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. "That sonnet, Abate, Beautiful, I am quite exhausted by it. Your phrases turn about my heart And stifle me to swooning. Open the window, I beg. Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins! 'Tis really a shame to stop indoors. Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself. Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air! See how straight the leaves are falling. Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe, It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle. Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'? You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey? Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?" "Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'? A pinch more rouge on the right cheek, And Venus herself shines less..." "You bore me, Abate, I vow I must change you! A letter, Achmet? Run and look out of the window, Abate. I will read my letter in peace." The little black slave with the yellow satin turban Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes. His yellow turban and black skin Are gorgeous--barbaric. The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings Lies on a chair Beside a black mantle and a black mask. Yellow and black, Gorgeous--barbaric. The lady reads her letter, And the leaves drift slowly Past the long windows. "How silly you look, my dear Abate, With that great brown leaf in your wig. Pluck it off, I beg you, Or I shall die of laughing." A yellow wall Aflare in the sunlight, Chequered with shadows, Shadows of vine leaves, Shadows of masks. Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant, Then passing on, More masks always replacing them. Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels, The sunlight shining under their insteps. One, One, two, One, two, three, There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall, Filigreed at the top with moving leaves. Yellow sunlight and black shadows, Yellow and black, Gorgeous--barbaric. Two masks stand together, And the shadow of a leaf falls through them, Marking the wall where they are not. From hat-tip to shoulder-tip, From elbow to sword-hilt, The leaf falls. The shadows mingle, Blur together, Slide along the wall and disappear. Gold of mosaics and candles, And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams. Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections. A cloak brushes aside, And the yellow of satin Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement. Under the gold crucifixes There is a meeting of hands Reaching from black mantles. Sighing embraces, bold investigations, Hide in confessionals, Sheltered by the shuffling of feet. Gorgeous--barbaric In its mail of jewels and gold, Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks; And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall, Flutter, Fall. Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. Blue-black, the sky over Venice, With a pricking of yellow stars. There is no moon, And the waves push darkly against the prow Of the gondola, Coming from Malamocco And streaming toward Venice. It is black under the gondola hood, But the yellow of a satin dress Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger. Yellow compassed about with darkness, Yellow and black, Gorgeous--barbaric. The boatman sings, It is Tasso that he sings; The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles, And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn. But at Malamocco in front, In Venice behind, Fall the leaves, Brown, And yellow streaked with brown. They fall, Flutter, Fall.
This is a long, multi-part poem by Amy Lowell that unfolds across three vivid scenes: two little girls chasing a bee and playing in a garden, a woman writing letters during the American Revolution with trumpet-vine flowers blazing outside, and a glamorous, decadent night in 18th-century Venice filled with falling leaves and masked revelers. Each section captures a moment in time, painted in rich, sensory colors. Together, they reflect on how beauty, play, and history all move on — nothing remains static for long.
Line-by-line
The blue flower tears across like paper, / And a gold-black bee darts away in the sunshine.
"If we could fly, we could catch him." / The sunshine is hot on Stella's upturned face,
Tall, still, and cowled, / Stand the monk's-hoods;
Up one path, / Down another,
The dove chariots are thrown away, / And the little girls wander slowly through the garden,
Along the edge of the garden / Walk the little girls.
A bell rings. / Dinner-time;
The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, / And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
My quill is newly mended, / And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
"Yankee Doodle," my Darling! It is you against the British, / Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top / Through Father's spy-glass.
Leaves fall, / Brown leaves,
"That sonnet, Abate, / Beautiful,
The little black slave with the yellow satin turban / Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
A yellow wall / Aflare in the sunlight,
Gold of mosaics and candles, / And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Blue-black, the sky over Venice, / With a pricking of yellow stars.
Tone & mood
The poem shifts its tone across three sections but maintains a sensory and vivid style throughout. The opening garden section feels warm, playful, and nostalgic, as Lowell reflects on childhood with a sense of affection mixed with a hint of irony. The Revolutionary War section introduces a tense yet tender mood, capturing the voice of someone who is waiting and writing, longing to be doing something else. The Venice section is rich and somewhat sinister, beautiful on the surface but revealing a hollow depth beneath. What unites all three parts is Lowell's dedication to using color and sound as a form of emotional expression — instead of telling you how to feel, she immerses you in red trumpets and yellow satin, allowing you to experience those emotions for yourself.
Symbols & metaphors
- The bee — The bee that the girls chase but never catch represents the fleeting, unpredictable essence of joy and freedom. It isn't about capturing it to find value — its ability to escape is what makes it significant.
- Yellow and black — The combination of yellow and black weaves through the Venice section like a recurring theme. Yellow represents beauty, wealth, and visibility, while black evokes secrecy, danger, and emptiness. Together, they create what Lowell describes as 'gorgeous — barbaric': a world that captivates with its beauty, even as it reveals its corruption.
- Falling leaves — The autumn leaves in Venice are the poem's strongest symbol of time passing and beauty fading. They surround every scene in the Venice section, paying no mind to the glamour and intrigue unfolding below them.
- The trumpet-vine flowers — The red trumpet flowers in the Revolutionary War section are both stunning and reminiscent of battle—their 'braying and blaring' ties them to the war that the narrator can't witness. They represent history brought to life in a garden.
- The dove chariot — The monkshood flower turned dove chariot captures childhood imagination in all its vividness and transience. It's crafted, raced in a wild pursuit, and discarded — a striking representation of how children create and leave behind entire worlds.
- The quill — The narrator's quill in the arbour section symbolizes the writer's powerlessness against the flow of history. She can only create 'fine-drawn lines' as armies march on. Writing serves as both her link to the war and a way to keep it at arm's length.
Historical context
Amy Lowell was a key figure in the Imagist movement, which favored vivid, concrete images over vague feelings. She included this poem in her 1916 collection *Men, Women and Ghosts*, which features dramatic scenes and historical snapshots. The poem unfolds in three sections that cover about two centuries: the garden scene captures the essence of late Victorian or Edwardian childhood, the arbour section is set in 1777 during the American Revolution, and the Venice section brings to life the decadence of 18th-century Venetian society. Lowell drew significant inspiration from French Symbolism and Japanese haiku, evident in her use of color to convey emotions and her ability to let images speak for themselves. Additionally, she was among the first American poets to openly explore women's inner lives and friendships, with the gentle tone of the opening garden scene showcasing that commitment.
FAQ
The title isn't explained in the poem, and that's part of what makes it effective. It acts like a sudden noise that grabs your attention before the tranquil garden scene unfolds — highlighting the stark contrast between the striking title and the soft, sensory world that follows. It also resonates with the 'clang' and 'blare' of the trumpet-vine section, reinforcing the idea that beauty and history often appear unexpectedly throughout the poem.
They are published as a single poem, featuring strong thematic links — the passage of time, fleeting beauty, and the tension between private life and public history — yet they lack shared characters or a continuous storyline. Imagine them as three paintings displayed in the same room: each one is distinct, but collectively they convey a message that none can express on their own.
The poem doesn't mention his name, but it's evident that the narrator writes to a man she loves who is serving in Washington's Continental Army. The phrase 'Yankee Doodle, my Darling' intertwines the personal and political — her affection for him is deeply connected to the cause he’s fighting for.
The Ridotto was a well-known public gambling house in Venice that opened its doors in 1638 and closed in 1774. It was among the first legal casinos in Europe and served as a hub of social activity in Venice, where people donned masks and mingled regardless of their social status. Lowell uses this setting to immerse the Contessa in an environment filled with pleasure, performance, and moral ambiguity.
It's Lowell's recurring phrase for the Venetian world, capturing two conflicting ideas without resolving them. The beauty is undeniable — the gold, the satin, the mosaics — but so is the underlying cruelty: the enslaved boy, the secret intrigues, the empty social rituals. Lowell neither condemns nor celebrates; she simply acknowledges both aspects simultaneously.
No fixed form at all. This is free verse, and Lowell uses line length and white space as tools for expression. Short, staccato lines like 'Leaves fall, / Brown leaves,' establish a slow, drifting rhythm. In contrast, the long, rushing lines in the trumpet-vine section generate noise and urgency. The form always supports the underlying emotion.
Monkshood (aconitum) is a tall garden flower featuring a unique hooded petal along with two smaller petals that, when separated, resemble a little carriage with two figures—a playful observation that children have made for centuries. Lowell's description is botanically spot on, lending a sense of legitimacy to this imaginative connection.
Lowell doesn't conclude the poem because it’s not about making an argument — it’s about conveying a feeling. The gondola glides toward dawn, the leaves continue to fall, and then the poem simply ends. This absence of resolution is intentional: time flows, beauty fades, and there’s no definitive statement on any of it.