❮Read❯ ➵ The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens Author Wallace Stevens – Agedanna.info

The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens very fond of the harmonium and ideas of order collections some particular favorites another weeping woman from the misery of don joost the worms at heaven s gate anecdote of men by the thousand of the surface of things the place of the solitaires the curtains in the house of the metaphysician six significant landscapes tattoo the wind shifts farewell to florida the idea of order at key west anglais mort florence all night once i stayed up and read this book cover to cover looking for a poem i thought i remembered about dancing. Autumn Refrain The skreak and skritter of evening goneAnd grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,The sorrows of sun, too, gone the moon and moon,The yellow moon of words about the nightingaleIn measureless measures, not a bird for meBut the name of a bird and the name of a nameless airI have never shall never hear And yet beneathThe stillness of everything gone, and being still,Being and sitting still, something resides,Some skreaking and skrittering residuum,And grates these evasions of the nightingaleThough I have never shall never hear that bird.And the stillness is in the key, all of it is,The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound Wallace Stevens, Ideas of Order 1936. For Easter A friend told me this is maybe the best poem in the English language, quoting bits of it as we were driving along Had to look it up Here it is.Wallace Stevens 1879 1955 Sunday Morning 1Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water lights.The pungent oranges and bright, green wingsSeem things in some procession of the dead,Winding across wide water, without sound.The day is like wide water, without sound,Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feetOver the seas, to silent Palestine,Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.2Why should she give her bounty to the dead What is divinity if it can comeOnly in silent shadows and in dreams Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or elseIn any balm or beauty of the earth,Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven Divinity must live within herself Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow Grievings in loneliness, or unsubduedElations when the forest blooms gustyEmotions on wet roads on autumn nights All pleasures and all pains, rememberingThe bough of summer and the winter branch.These are the measure destined for her soul.3Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.No mother suckled him, no sweet land gaveLarge mannered motions to his mythy mind.He moved among us, as a muttering king,Magnificent, would move among his hinds,Until our blood, commingling, virginal,With heaven, brought such requital to desireThe very hinds discerned it, in a star.Shall our blood fail Or shall it come to beThe blood of paradise And shall the earthSeem all of paradise that we shall know The sky will be much friendlier then than now,A part of labor and a part of pain,And next in glory to enduring love,Not this dividing and indifferent blue.4She says, I am content when wakened birds,Before they fly, test the realityOf misty fields, by their sweet questionings But when the birds are gone, and their warm fieldsReturn no , where, then, is paradise There is not any haunt of prophecy,Nor any old chimera of the grave,Neither the golden underground, nor isleMelodious, where spirits gat them home,Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palmRemote on heaven s hill, that has enduredAs April s green endures or will endureLike her remembrance of awakened birds,Or her desire for June and evening, tippedBy the consummation of the swallow s wings.5She says, But in contentment I still feelThe need of some imperishable bliss Death is the mother of beauty hence from her,Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreamsAnd our desires Although she strews the leavesOf sure obliteration on our paths,The path sick sorrow took, the many pathsWhere triumph rang its brassy phrase, or loveWhispered a little out of tenderness,She makes the willow shiver in the sunFor maidens who were wont to sit and gazeUpon the grass, relinquished to their feet.She causes boys to pile new plums and pearsOn disregarded plate The maidens tasteAnd stray impassioned in the littering leaves.6Is there no change of death in paradise Does ripe fruit never fall Or do the boughsHang always heavy in that perfect sky,Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,With rivers like our own that seek for seasThey never find, the same receding shoresThat never touch with inarticulate pang Why set pear upon those river banksOr spice the shores with odors of the plum Alas, that they should wear our colors there,The silken weavings of our afternoons,And pick the strings of our insipid lutes Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,Within whose burning bosom we deviseOur earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.7Supple and turbulent, a ring of menShall chant in orgy on a summer mornTheir boisterous devotion to the sun,Not as a god, but as a god might be,Naked among them, like a savage source.Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,Out of their blood, returning to the sky And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,The windy lake wherein their lord delights,The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,That choir among themselves long afterward.They shall know well the heavenly fellowshipOf men that perish and of summer morn.And whence they came and whither they shall goThe dew upon their feel shall manifest.8She hears, upon that water without sound,A voice that cries, The tomb in PalestineIs not the porch of spirits lingering.It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay We live in an old chaos of the sun,Or old dependency of day and night,Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,Of that wide water, inescapable.Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quailWhistle about us their spontaneous cries Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness And, in the isolation of the sky,At evening, casual flocks of pigeons makeAmbiguous undulations as they sink,Downward to darkness, on extended wings Notes1 In a letter to L W Payne, Jr., of March 31, 1928, Stevens draws attention to the poem s paganism Letters, 250.peignoir loose dressing gown of a woman.3 cockatoo colourful and noisy parrot.5 The Christian mass remembers Christ s crucifixion by sharing his body and blood as bread and wine with the faithful.15 sepulchre the Church of the Holy Sepulchre shelters the tomb in which Jesus body was laid on Good Friday and discovered missing on the Sunday afterward.31 Jove Jupiter.35 hinds farm workers, here shepherds.38 star pointer to the birthplace of the Christ child, as seen by the shepherds and the three kings.52 chimera bad dream, literally a she monster whose body, in Greek myth, consists of a goat s torso, a lion s head, and a snake s tail.54 gat betook themselves.74 disregarded plate Stevens had to explain to Harriet Monroe, editor of Poetry, that he meant, by this, family silverware that was no longer used Letters,183 84.100 serafin seraphim, angels.119 undulations wave like rise and falls.Online text copyright 2009, Ian Lancashire the Department of English and the University of Toronto.Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries. This is the type of book I read at 3 am when I can t sleep Stevens poetry just makes me feel so calm, even though the content in his poetry is not in fact anywhere near the realms of calm Overall, I would say, the content is hard hitting I m not going to pretend I understand all of his ideas and everything he says I definitely don t A lot of these poems leave me feeling like an idiot But when I am able to figure something out, it all starts to click and I am left with a lump in my throat Although I don t necessarily understand everything when it comes to this collection, I think that it is a good thing It just shows the high level of his talent manages to knock me off my feet Well, anyway, I got my first peak of this collection at uni I was so intrigued by it that I bought it during winter break While reading it I found out one of my professors is an editor of the edition that I bought Rad But also, the thing is, and I have thought this many times before, uni can only teach you so many things I learned much about Stevens poetry by reading it myself than what I learned from uni Like, without reading basically this whole collection, I would have never learned that Stevens is, for the most part, a Romantic He s a lot like Wordsworth, I think He inherits so many of the Romantic feelings, ideas and philosophies but he still manages to stay modern at the same time I am obsessed with the Romantic poets so in my mind, that s what makes him stand out I love the fact that he manages to tie modernism and Romanticism together, it is a real treat for me to read Even though it s not really talked about, I would say my favorite poem of his is Another Weeping Woman It is so quick and beautiful and earnest and a good poem to read when you lose one of your loved ones.Over the past couple of years I have really warmed up to poetry I m not a huge American lit person in general but I always tell people that Stevens is one of my favorites, if not my favorite American poet Everything about his work seems so personal, like when you re reading it, it feels like he is speaking directly to you It feels so natural but honestly nothing about reading his poetry is easy It is tough to figure out But I enjoyed taking the time to sit down and try to hypothesize all that is going on in his works He is dark, so dark and yet manages to feel so light, so beautiful He delivers the best of both worlds in my eyes and that s why I will revisit this collection again and again and again It never stops being so hideous and so beautiful at the same time. I don t know how to rate this, or how to review it It s like TS Eliot 8 poems out of 10 either make me feel stupid or make me hate poetry The other 2 knock me flat on my back. This book of poetry combines an earthy sensibility coupled with a philosophical speculation that appeals to me My favorite book of poetry. Stevens wrote poetry like a jeweler cuts diamonds his language is musical to the ear and prismatic in the mind s eye He often writes about the power of art specifically poetry to transform Reality She sang beyond the genius of the sea It was her voice that madeThe sky acutest at its vanishing..She was the single artificer of the worldIn which she sang And when she sang, the sea,Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone,Knew that there never was a world for herExcept the one she sang and, singing, made Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,Why, when the singing ended and we turnedToward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,Arranging, deepening, enchanting night from The Idea of Order at Key West In my life no poet has meant to me than Wallace Stevens It took years of blinking incomprehension before I really found an entry point actually, I highly recommend the wikipedia page for Harmonium, a great introduction He doesn t make things too easy, and yet once he opens up to you you can practically make your home inside his oeuvre An immensely generous poet, Stevens teaches you how to be alone, a lesson it s necessary to learn and re learn your whole life.From Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction As if the waves at last were never brokenAs if the language suddenly, with ease,Said things it had laboriously spoken. This Definitive Poetry Collection, Originally Published In To Honor Stevens On His Th Birthday, Contains Harmonium Ideas Of Order The Man With The Blue Guitar Parts Of The World Transport Summer The Auroras Of Autumn The Rock

About the Author: Wallace Stevens

Wallace Stevens is a rare example of a poet whose main output came at a fairly advanced age His first major publication four poems from a sequence entitled Phases in the November 1914 edition of Poetry Magazine was written at the age of thirty five, although as an undergraduate at Harvard, Stevens had written poetry and exchanged sonnets with George Santayana, with whom he was close through m

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