above the forest of the parakeets,
a parakeet of parakeets prevails,
a pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(the rudiments of tropics are around,
aloe of ivory, pear of rust rind.)
his lids are white because his eyes are blind.
he is not paradise of parakeets,
of his gold ether, golden alguazil.
except because he broods there and is still,
panache upon panache, his tails deploy
upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
his tip a drop of water full of storms.
but though the turbulent tinges undulate
as his pure intellect applies its laws,
he moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
he munches a dry shell while he exerts
his will, yet never ceases, perfect cock,
to flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
(from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose, p. 65)
* * * * *
This is pure Stevens' sound-poetry at its best. I'm sure there are all sorts of meaning that can be read into it, and lots of deity-punning, but I'm just enjoying the sound-images and the rhythms of pomp and circumstance. Anca Rosu's book would probably be good to consult on this poem, and if I have time this evening I certainly will.