Posts Tagged ‘ Wallace Stevens ’

IV of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird | Illustrated Poetry

Okay! It’s week 4 and stanza IV of 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).  You can read the whole poem here and see my illustrated stanzas III, and III. Original video (of afternoon sunlight through half-closed venetian blinds) by Emily Grossman, GIF and composition by me. Enjoy!

Source: IV of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird | Illustrated Poetry

First Known When Lost: Two Rabbits And A Paramour

A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts

The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur —

There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of.  It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter.  The grass is full

And full of yourself.  The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,

You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone —
You sit with your head like a carving in space
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass.

Wallace Stevens, Parts of a World (1942).

Source: First Known When Lost: Two Rabbits And A Paramour

Do we want to live analogously to how experimental poets write?

Squandermania and other foibles: The Present State of Poetry (Another Installment of… Of Being Quiet!)

Wallace Stevens house, Westerly Terrace, West Hartford, CT

Squandermania and other foibles: The Present State of Poetry (Another Installment of… Of Being Quiet!).

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens | aus unruhigen Träumen

Caspar David Friedrich, Winterlandschaft Mit Kirche [Winter Landscape with Church], 1811 (National Gallery, London).

aus unruhigen Träumen.

Domination of Black by Wallace Stevens | aus unruhigen Träumen | Dec 14

Henri Rousseau, The Dream, 1910 (MOMA).

aus unruhigen Träumen.

In the House of the Hangman 1904 | Zeitgeist Spam


Of Mere Being by Wallace Stevens

Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze distance.

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Wallace Stevens (1954)
from Opus Posthumous

Wallace Stevens: Hartford’s Private Poet | The Courant


Wallace Stevens | The Courant

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

  by Wallace Stevens


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


I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.


I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.


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.


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?


I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.


At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.


The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.


from  The Academy of American Poets