Wallace Stevens: from Harmonium

Wallace

Stevens from Harmonium

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wallacestevens stevenswallace wallacestevens stevenswallace wallacestevens from Harmonium stevenswallace wallacestevens stevenswallace wallacestevens stevenswallace wallacestevens stevenswallace wallacestevens R E A D | M O R E | P O E T RY

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Published by Charybdis Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 15 14 13 12

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The editors of the Read More Poetry Series understand that because poetry is no longer taught in schools or critically reviewed as a viable art form, new readers, unfamiliar with poetry’s demands, will find the world of poetry difficult to access. The Read More Poetry Series was created to bring poetry to the public in a portable and affordable form to make poetry more accessible and to open the door to the rich resources of our poetic heritage.

“I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw / Or heard or felt came not but from myself; / And there I found myself more truly and more strange.”

–Stevens

from Tea at the Palaz of Hoon

Contents from Harmonium (1923) Earthy Anecdote The Paltry Nude Starts On a Spring Voyage Infanta Marina Domination of Black Metaphors of a Magnifico The Snow Man Another Weeping Woman From the Misery of Don Joost Anecdote of Men by the Thousand The Place of Solitaires Depression Before Spring Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock The Emperor of Ice-Cream Bantams in Pine-Woods Anecdote of the Jar Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Earthy Anecdote Every time the bucks went clattering Over Oklahoma A firecat bristled in the way.

Wherever they went, They went clattering, Until the swerved In a swift, circular line To the right, Because of the firecat.

Or until they swerved In a swift, circular line To the left, Because of the firecat.

The bucks clattered.

The firecat went leaping, To the right, to the left, And Bristled in the way.

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Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes And slept.

The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage But not on a shell, she starts, Archaic, for the sea.

But on the first-found weed She scuds the glitters, Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent And would have purple stuff upon her arms, Tired of the salty harbors, Eager for the brine and bellowing Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her, Blowing upon her hands And watery back.

She touches the clouds, where she goes In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meager play 4

In the scurry and water-shine, As her heels foam— Not as when the goldener nude Of a later day Will go, like the centre of sea-green pomp, In an intenser calm, Scullion of fate, Across the spick torrent, ceaselessly, Upon her irretrievable way.

Infanta Marina Her terrace was the sand And the palms and the twilight.

She made of the motions of her wrist The grandiose gestures Of her thought.

The rumpling of the plumes Of this creature of the evening Came to be sleights of sails 5

Over the sea.

And thus she roamed In the roamings of her fan, Partaking of the sea, And of the evening, As they flowed around And uttered their subsiding sound.

Domination of Black At night, by the fire, The colors of the bushes And of the fallen leaves, Repeating themselves, Turned in the room, Like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind.

Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks Came striding.

And I remember the cry of the peacocks.

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The colors of their tails Were like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, In the twilight wind.

They swept over the room, Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks Down on the ground.

I heard them cry—the peacocks.

Was it a cry against the twilight Or against the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, Turning as the flames Turned in the fire, Loud as the hemlocks Full of the cry of the peacocks?

Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?

Out of the window, I saw how the planets gathered Like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind.

I saw how the night came, 7

Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks.

I felt afraid.

And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.

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, 8

And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Metaphors of a Magnifico 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.

This is old song That will not declare itself‌ Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are Twenty men crossing a bridge Into a village.

That will not declare itself Yet is certain as meaning‌ 9

The boots of the men clump On the boards of the bridge.

The first white wall of the village Rises through the fruit-trees.

Of what was it I was thinking?

So the meaning escapes.

The first white wall of the village‌ The fruit-trees‌ Another Weeping Woman Pour the unhappiness out From your too bitter heart, Which grieving will not sweeten.

Poison grows in this dark.

It is in the water of tears Its black blooms rise.

The magnificent cause of being, 10

The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world Leaves you With him for whom no phantasy moves, And you are pierced by a death.

From the Misery of Don Joost I have finished my combat with the sun; And my body, the old animal, Knows nothing more.

The powerful seasons bred and killed, And were themselves the genii Of their own ends.

Oh, but the very self of the storm Of sun and slaves, breeding and death, The old animal, The senses and feeling, the very sound And sight, and all there was of the storm, Knows nothing more.

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Anecdote of Men by the Thousand The soul, he said, is composed Of the external world.

There are men of the East, he said, Who are the East.

There are men of a province Who are that province.

There are men of a valley Who are that valley.

There are men whose words Are as natural sounds Of their places As the cackle of toucans In the place of toucans.

The mandoline is the instrument Of a place.

Are there mandolines of western mountains?

Are there mandolines of northern moonlight?

The dress of a woman of Lhassa, 12

In its place, Is an invisible element of that place Made visible.

The Place of Solitaires Let the place of the solitaires Be a place of perpetual undulation.

Whether it be in mid-sea On the dark, green water-wheel, Or on the beaches, There must be no cessation Of motion, or of the noise of motion, The renewal of noise And manifold continuation; And, most, of the motion of thought And its restless iteration, In the place of the solitaires, Which is to be a place of perpetual undulation.

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Depression Before Spring The cock crows But no queen rises.

The hair of my blonde Is dazzling, As the spittle of cows Threading the wind.

Ho! Ho! But ki-ki-ri-ki Brings no rou-cou, No rou-cou-cou.

But no green queen comes In slipper green.

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 14

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.

Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock The houses are haunted By white night-gowns.

None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings.

None of them are strange, With socks of lace 15

And beaded ceintures.

People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles.

Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.

Bantams in Pine-Woods Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt!

Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.

Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.

Your world is you. I am my world.

You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

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Anecdote of the Jar I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill.

It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it, And sprawled around, no longer wild.

The jar was round upon the ground And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.

The jar was gray and bare.

It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird I

Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Wallace Stevens

(October 2, 1879 - August 2, 1955)

Wallace Stevens studied at Harvard then went to New York Law School to become a lawyer. After a brief stint as a journalist, he was hired by a bonding company and rose up the ranks to become vice president. After a merger, he left New York City to work at the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company where he also became vice president.

If we had to judge Stevens by his career alone, he would seem a rather dull but materially successful man. What we wouldn’t see is his rich interiority. We would never know, were we to catch him on his long walks around Hartford, that he was composing his poems as he walked, making his words, making his worlds, making himself. To see Stevens on the surface is to see an insurance lawyer.

But to learn that this man of conservative mein is one of the greatest American poets of the 20th century, a tenfoot poet among inchlings, is to receive a cosmic wink and admonishing nudge: Never judge a book by its cover.

These poems are from Stevens’s first book, Harmonium, published by Knopf in 1923 when the poet was forty-four years old — a late, but great, start from a Modern master.

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