Poems List

And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum.

The Comedian as the Letter C, III, st. 4

2

Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges, Into twenty villages, Or one man Crossing a single bridge into a village.

Metaphors of a Magnifico [1923]

2

The book of moonlight is not written yet.

The Comedian as the Letter C [1923], pt. III, st. 1

4

Two Figures in Dense Violet Light

Two Figures in Dense Violet Light
I had as lief be embraced by the portier of the hotel
As to get no more from the moonlight
Than your moist hand.
Be the voice of the night and Florida in my ear.
Use dasky words and dusky images.
Darken your speech.
Speak, even, as if I did not hear you speaking,
But spoke for you perfectly in my thoughts,
Conceiving words,
As the night conceives the sea-sound in silence,
And out of the droning sibilants makes
A serenade.
Say, puerile, that the buzzards crouch on the ridge-pole
and sleep with one eye watching the stars fall
Beyond Key West.
Say that the palms are clear in the total blue.
Are clear and are obscure; that it is night;
That the moon shines.
290

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII


I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
280

The River of Rivers in Connecticut

The River of Rivers in Connecticut
There is a great river this side of Stygia
Before one comes to the first black cataracts
And trees that lack the intelligence of trees.
In that river, far this side of Stygia,
The mere flowing of the water is a gayety,
Flashing and flashing in the sun. On its banks,
No shadow walks. The river is fateful,
Like the last one. But there is no ferryman.
He could not bend against its propelling force.
It is not to be seen beneath the appearances
That tell of it. The steeple at Farmington
Stands glistening and Haddam shines and sways.
It is the third commonness with light and air,
A curriculum, a vigor, a local abstraction . . .
Call it, one more, a river, an unnamed flowing,
Space-filled, reflecting the seasons, the folk-lore
Of each of the senses; call it, again and again,
The river that flows nowhere, like a sea.
290

The Snow Man

The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
318

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad

The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
316

The Plot Against the Giant

The Plot Against the Giant
First Girl
When this yokel comes maundering,
Whetting his hacker,
I shall run before him,
Diffusing the civilest odors
Out of geraniums and unsmelled flowers.
It will check him.
Second Girl
I shall run before him,
Arching cloths besprinkled with colors
As small as fish-eggs.
The threads
Will abash him.
Third Girl
Oh, la...le pauvre!
I shall run before him,
With a curious puffing.
He will bend his ear then.
I shall whisper
Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals.
It will undo him.
272

The Emperor of Ice-Cream

The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
282

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Identification and basic context

Wallace Stevens was an American poet. He often used his full name, Wallace Stevens, but is not widely known for pseudonyms or heteronyms. He was born on October 2, 1879, and died on August 2, 1955. Stevens came from a middle-class family of German and English descent. He was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, and spent much of his adult life in Hartford, Connecticut. He was an American citizen and wrote exclusively in English. His life spanned a period of significant industrialization and cultural change in the United States.

Childhood and education

Stevens was born into a Lutheran family and was exposed to a religious upbringing. His father was a lawyer. He attended Reading High School. Stevens showed an early aptitude for language and poetry. He studied at Harvard University, where he was part of the Harvard Lampoon and graduated in 1897. He then attended New York University School of Law, graduating in 1903. Early influences included the poetry of Walt Whitman and the philosophical ideas of Friedrich Nietzsche.

Literary trajectory

Stevens began writing poetry early in his life, but his first major collection, 'Harmonium,' was not published until he was 44 years old. His literary career developed steadily, with distinct phases marked by thematic and stylistic evolution. He published several subsequent collections, including 'Ideas of Order,' 'The Man with the Blue Guitar,' 'Transport to Summer,' and 'The Auroras of Autumn.' Stevens was not extensively involved with literary magazines or anthologies during his life, preferring to focus on his book publications. He was not known as a critic or translator in a public capacity.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Major works include 'Harmonium' (1923), 'The Man with the Blue Guitar' (1937), and 'Collected Poems' (1954). Dominant themes in his poetry are the imagination, reality, perception, beauty, death, and the search for order and meaning in a changing world. Stevens is known for his philosophical explorations and his abstract yet vividly imagined landscapes. His style is characterized by its intellectual rigor, rich vocabulary, and musicality. He experimented with form, often using a syllabic count and intricate internal rhymes, but he also wrote in free verse. His poetic voice is often detached, philosophical, and authoritative, though sometimes imbued with a sense of awe or wonder. His language is precise and evocative, creating dense imagery and exploring complex ideas. Stevens is associated with American Modernism, though he maintained a somewhat solitary position within the movement.

Cultural and historical context

Stevens's poetry reflects the cultural and intellectual ferment of early 20th-century America, a period of rapid industrialization, urbanization, and evolving philosophical thought. He lived through World War I and World War II, though these events are not overtly central to his work, which tends to focus on internal landscapes and the act of perception. He was a contemporary of other major American Modernists like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, but his style and concerns were distinct. His work often engaged with philosophical ideas of the time, such as existentialism and phenomenology.

Personal life

Stevens was married to Elsie Viola Kachel. His personal life was largely kept separate from his public literary persona. He was a successful insurance executive for much of his career, working for the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company. This dual career as a poet and businessman is a notable aspect of his life. His personal beliefs were complex, evolving from a Lutheran upbringing to a more secular and philosophical outlook.

Recognition and reception

Stevens's work gained significant recognition during his lifetime, culminating in the National Book Award for Poetry in 1955 for 'Collected Poems.' He also received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry posthumously in 1956. His place in American literature is that of a major, albeit somewhat enigmatic, figure of Modernism. While highly regarded by critics and academics, his work's intellectual demands have sometimes limited its popular appeal compared to more accessible poets.

Influences and legacy

Stevens was influenced by poets like Walt Whitman and Arthur Rimbaud, as well as philosophers such as Friedrich Nietzsche and George Santayana. His own work has profoundly influenced subsequent generations of poets, particularly in its exploration of the imagination and its sophisticated use of language. His inclusion in the literary canon is secure, and his poems are widely studied in academic settings. His work has been translated into numerous languages, attesting to his international dissemination.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Stevens's poetry invites multiple interpretations, often focusing on the interplay between the subjective experience of the individual and the objective reality of the world. His work is frequently analyzed through the lens of philosophy, particularly concerning epistemology and aesthetics. Debates often revolve around the role of art and the artist in providing order and meaning to existence.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Stevens's long career as an insurance executive, seemingly divorced from his poetic life, is a significant curiosity. He was known for his meticulous attention to detail, both in his business and his poetry. He often wrote his poems on the backs of envelopes or other scraps of paper. He was known to be reserved and private.

Death and memory

Wallace Stevens died of heart failure on August 2, 1955. His 'Collected Poems' were published shortly before his death, ensuring his major works were consolidated. His legacy is maintained through ongoing critical study, academic inclusion, and the enduring impact of his unique poetic vision.