#wallace stevens

[academic-vampire]

“…𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔶 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔯…”

-Wallace Stevens, “Sunday Morning”

[apoemaday]

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

by Wallace Stevens

I. Among twenty snowy mountains,   The only moving thing   Was the eye of the blackbird.   II. I was of three minds,   Like a tree   In which there are three blackbirds.   III. The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.   It was a small part of the pantomime.   IV. A man and a woman   Are one.   A man and a woman and a blackbird   Are one.   V. I do not know which to prefer,   The beauty of inflections   Or the beauty of innuendoes,   The blackbird whistling   Or just after.   VI. 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.   VII. 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?   VIII. I know noble accents   And lucid, inescapable rhythms;   But I know, too,   That the blackbird is involved   In what I know.   IX. When the blackbird flew out of sight,   It marked the edge   Of one of many circles.   X. At the sight of blackbirds   Flying in a green light,   Even the bawds of euphony   Would cry out sharply.   XI. He rode over Connecticut   In a glass coach.   Once, a fear pierced him,   In that he mistook   The shadow of his equipage   For blackbirds.   XII. The river is moving.   The blackbird must be flying.   XIII. It was evening all afternoon.   It was snowing   And it was going to snow.   The blackbird sat   In the cedar-limbs.

[apocryphics]

Wallace Stevens

[dabiconcordia]

“The yellow glistens. It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin.” ― Wallace Stevens

[funeral]

She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires.

Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning

[everythingwecomeacross]

“There is a universal poetry that is reflected in everything.”—Wallace Stevens

[entheognosis]

[daweyt]

Wallace Stevens, from “The Collected Poems; ‘Sunday Morning,’” published c. 1954.