It turns out Wallace Stevens was born in October, so boom, there we go. Even though I know I have featured his poems here before (twice at least), I really love his poetry. In fact, one year ago, last October, so who knows, this may be a regular October thing. This is something I did not realize until I started doing these posts, because as far as I recollect, I never encountered his work before this.
Plus, that rant about everything lacking in modern poetry wasn’t solely about lyricism; it was also about cleverness, precision, word choice, all of that, and who exemplifies everything there? Wallace Stevens, that’s who.
Who was he, anyway? I don’t think I ever asked that before, but as usual, Poetry Foundation has a bit of biographical information:
Wallace Stevens is one of America’s most respected 20th century poets. He was a master stylist, employing an extraordinary vocabulary and a rigorous precision in crafting his poems. But he was also a philosopher of aesthetics, vigorously exploring the notion of poetry as the supreme fusion of the creative imagination and objective reality. Because of the extreme technical and thematic complexity of his work, Stevens was sometimes considered a difficult poet. But he was also acknowledged as an eminent abstractionist and a provocative thinker, and that reputation has continued since his death. In 1975, for instance, noted literary critic Harold Bloom, whose writings on Stevens include the imposing Wallace Stevens: The Poems of Our Climate, called him “the best and most representative American poet of our time.”
There we go, style, word choice, precision. Whole bunch more at the link, because this is one of the longest biographical essays I can remember seeing at Poetry Foundation. He apparently had quite a happy and fulfilling life, as far as I can tell, and I’m pleased about that as well. He didn’t pass away until 1955, so some of his poems are public domain and some aren’t. Hmm. I love Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, but I’ve posted it here before.
Here’s a suitable and very short poem for autumn:
What syllable are you seeking,
Vocalissimus,
In the distances of sleep?
Speak it.
*
***
*
It’s not winter yet, but we can see winter in the distance, so how about this:
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.
*
***
*
The name of this one caught my attention. Apparently Stevens was more offended by swans as a literary cliche than by actual swans.
The soul, O ganders, flies beyond the parks
And far beyond the discords of the wind.
A bronze rain from the sun descending marks
The death of summer, which that time endures
Like one who scrawls a listless testament
Of golden quirks and Paphian caricatures,
Bequeathing your white feathers to the moon
And giving your bland motions to the air.
Behold, already on the long parades
The crows anoint the statues with their dirt.
And the soul, O ganders, being lonely, flies
Beyond your chilly chariots, to the skies.
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