The Dao of Wallace Stevens

to the one of fictive music, by wallace stevens

sister and mother and diviner love,
and of the sisterhood of the living dead
most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
and of the fragrant mothers the most dear
and queen, and of diviner love the day
and flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
its venom of renown, and on your head
no crown is simpler than the simple hair.

now, of the music summoned by the birth
that separates us from the wind and sea,
yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes,
by being so much of the things we are,
gross effigy and simulacrum, none
gives motion to perfection more serene
than yours, out of our imperfections wrought,
most rare, or ever of more kindred air
in the laborious weaving that you wear.

for so retentive of themselves are men
that music is intensest which proclaims
the near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
and of all vigils musing the obscure,
that apprehends the  most which sees and names,
as in your name, an image that is sure,
among the arrant spices of the sun,
o bough and bush and scented vine, in whom
we give ourselves our likest issuance.

yet not too like, yet not so like to be
too near, too clear, saving a little to endow
our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs
the difference that heavenly pity brings.
for this, musician, in your girdle fixed
bear other perfumes.  on your pale head wear
a band entwining, set with fatal stones.
unreal, give back to us what once you gave:
the imagination that we spurned and crave.

(from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose, pp. 70-71)

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This is apparently one of Stevens' signature pieces.  From it Ronald Sukenik took the title of his book "Musing the Obscure."  And didn't someone else take, "Feigning with the Strange Unlike?"  I like this poem because I find echoes of Stevens' earlier, more 'classical' poetry blended with many of the notes of his own unique fugue.

I like that he sees poetry as 'out of our imperfections wrought,' and that it isn't 'renown' that is the motivation of the poet, rather 'on your head/no crown is simpler than the simple hair.'  This poem, like most of Stevens' poems, bears repeated reading.

I will attempt to read what some of the scholars have had to say about this poem, and will add to the post over the next couple of days.

theory, by wallace stevens

i am what is around me.

women understand this.
one is not duchess
a hundred yards from a carriage.

these, then are portraits:
a black vestibule;
a high bed sheltered by curtains.

these are merely instances.

(from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose, p. 70)

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I agree with pat here.  he's got it.  but what a deep knowing it is, isn't it?

gubbinal, by wallace stevens

that strange flower, the sun,
is just what you say.
have it your way.

the world is ugly,
and the people are sad.

that tuft of jungle feathers,
that animal eye,
is just what you say.

that savage of fire,
that seed,
have it your way.

the world is ugly,
and the people are sad.

(from stevens, collected poetry & prose, p. 69)

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i think that for poets like stevens and williams, using ordinary language in poetry, and in this case, in rhymes, in repetitions and couplets, was innovative.  the theme of this poem was also counter-poetic in their day.  Poets were supposed to write about how beautiful, how exquisitely painful, how inspiring the world, life, love and death, and so forth, are. 

I love wallace stevens on 'the sun.'  In this case, it's 'that strange flower, the sun."  I can live with that phrase for many days, so you may not see me around for a while.  Who needs more?

i haven't had time to read the commentaries lately, you may have noticed.  will hope to return to that at some point in time, just not right now.

'the world is ugly and the people are sad.'  i remember, actually, feeling that when i visited some of the depressed mining communities in 'upstate' pennsylvania when i was a child.  certainly, wallace stevens must have encountered that attitude in his day, but it seems as if he was much more interested in 'that tuft of jungle feathers, that animal eye."

the wind shifts, by wallace stevens

this is how the wind shifts:
like the thoughts of an old human
who still think eagerly
and despairingly.
the wind shifts like this:
like a human without illusions,
who still feels irrational things within her.
the wind shifts like this:
like humans approaching proudly,
like humans approaching angrily.
this is how the wind shifts:
like a human, heavy and heavy,
who does not care.

(from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose, p. 68)

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There used to be an old expression, 'there's been a shift in the wind,' to indicate a change in the feeling, tone or mood of a group or of a significant person, like a boss, or a difficult relative.  I hardly ever hear it anymore, but maybe it was more prevalent during a simpler time, when people lived closer to the agricultural world.  My father was a seaman, so the concept of a 'shift in the wind' was important and meaningful at our house.

Anyway, the 'psychological wind' meant here does shift in an irrational way, even for those who believe they have no illusions, and perhaps don't.  Interesting that Stevens sees the human who 'doesn't care' as 'heavy.'  Not easily shifted by the wind, I should think, but apparently Stevens disagrees.  However, our own mood can easily shift when we are around someone who is depressed, who 'doesn't care.'  Perhaps this is what he alludes to.

architecture i-v, by wallace stevens

i
what manner of building shall we build?
let us design a chastel de chastete.
de pensee....
never cease to deploy the structure.
keep the laborers shouldering plinths.
pass the whole of life earing the clink of the
chisels of the stone-cutters cutting the stones.

ii
in this house, what manner of utterance shall there be?
what heavenly dithyramb
and cantilene?
what niggling forms of gargoyle patter?
of what shall the speech be,
in that splay of marble
and of obedient pillars?

iii
and how shall those come vested that come there?
in their ugly reminders?
or gaudy as tulips?
as they climb the stairs
to the group of Flor Coddling Hecuba?
as they climb the flights
to the closes
overlooking whole seasons?

iv
let us build the building of light.
push up the towers
to the cock-tops.
these are the pointings of our edifice,
whish, like a gorgeous palm,
shall tuft the commonplace.
these are the window-sill
on which the quiet moonlight lies.

v
how shall we hew the sun,
split and make blocks,
to build a ruddy palace?
how carve the violet moon
to set in nicks?
let us fix portals, east and west,
abhorring green-blue north and blue-green south.
our chiefest dome a demoiselle of gold.
pierce the interior with pouring shafts,
in diverse chambers.
pierce, too, with buttresses of coral air
and purple timbers,
various argentines,
embossings of the sky.

(please continue reading this poem's final two stanzas in some handy volume)

(from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose, pp. 66-67)

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This poem seems to set out Wallace Stevens' vision for his poetry: a lifelong activity with the goal of creating an edifice, an opus of work, just as the medieval artisans spent lifetime(s) creating the cathedrals of europe.  We see many motifs that we will revisit in his work: the palm, the colors (violet, coral, purple, ruddy, etc), the crystals (stones), the spires and various motifs of ascension.