Wallace Stevens

[Virgil]

My two favorite passages from Sunday Morning are:


She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings...
...
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

and,

Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darknessw, on extended wings.

That is such a great poem Nick. Welcome to lit net.

I'm not sure which part is my favorite. It's all great. How about I highlight the second stanza:

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In 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 unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

[quasimodo1]

from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose

from Uncollected Poems

PHASES

"La justice sans force est contredite, parce qu'il y a toujours
des mechants; la force sans la justice est accusee'" --Pascal

I. There was heaven,
Full of Raphael's costumes;
And earth,
A thing of shadows,
Stiff as stone,
Where Time, in fitful turns,
Resumes
His own. . . . .

A dead hand tapped the drum
An old voice cried out, "Come!"
We were obedient and dumb.

II. There's a little square in Paris,
Waiting until we pass.
They sit idly there,
They sip the glass.

There's a cab-horse at the corner,
There's rain. The season grieves.
It was silver once,
And green with leaves.

There's a parrot in a window,
Will see us on parade,
Hear the loud drums roll--
And serenade.

III. This was the salty taste of glory,
That it was not
Like Agamemnon's story.
Only, an eyeball in the mud,
And Hopkins,
Flat and pale and gory!

IV. But the bugles, in the night,
Were wings that bore
To where our comfort was;

Arabesques of candle beams,
Winding
Through our heavy dreams;

Winds that blew
Where the bending iris grew;

Birds of intermitted bliss,
Singing in the night's abyss;

Vines with yellow fruit,
That fell
Along the walls
That bordered Hell.

V. Death's nobility again
Beautified the simplest men.
Fallen Winkle felt the pride
Of Agamemnon
When he died.

What could London's
Work and waste
Give him--
To that salty, sacrificial taste?

What could London's
Sorrow bring--
To that short, triumphant sting?

VI. The crisp, sonorous epics
Mongered after every scene.
Sluggards must be quickened! Screen,

No more, the shape of false Confusion.
Bare his breast and draw the flood
Of all his Babylonian blood.

VII. {Belgian Farm, October, 1914}
The vaguest line of smoke, (a year ago),
Wavered in evening air, above the roof,
As if some Old Man of the Chimney, sick
Of summer and that unused hearth below,

Stretched out a shadowy arm to feel the night.
The children heard him in their chilly beds,
Mumbling and musing of the silent farm.
They heard his mumble in the morning light.

Now, soldiers, hear me: mark this very breeze,
That blows about in such a hopeless way,
Mumbling and musing like the most forlorn.
It is that Old Man, lost among the trees.

VIII. What shall we say to the lovers of freedom,
Forming their states for new eras to come?
Say that the fighter is master of men.

Shall we, then, say too the lovers of freedom
That force, and not freedom, must always prevail?
Say that the fighter is master of men.

Or shall we say to the lovers of freedom
That freedom will conquer and always prevail?
Say that the fighter is master of men.

IX. Life, the hangman, never came,
Near our mysteries of flame.

When we marched across his towns,
He cozened us with leafy crowns.

When we marched along his roads,
He kissed his hand to ease our loads.

Life, the hangman, kept away,
From the field where soldiers pay.

X. Peace means long, delicious valleys,
In the mode of Claude Lorraine;
Rivers of jade,
In serpentines,
About the heavy grain;

Leaning trees,
Where the pilgrim hums
Of the dear
And distant door.
Peace means these,
And all things, as before.

XI. War has no haunt except the heart,
Which envy haunts, and hate, and fear,
And malice, and ambition, near
The haunt of love. Who shall impart,

To that strange commune, strength enough
To drive the laggard phantoms out?
Who shall dispel for it the doubt
Of its own strength? Let Heaven snuff

The tapers round her futile throne.
Close tight the prophets' coffin-clamp.
Peer inward, with the spirit's lamp,
Look deep, and let the truth be known.

[1914}

{Pascal quote...Justice without force is powerless; force without justice is tyrannical.}

[Virgil]

Is this the poem that was discovered Quasi? I read the first few stanzas and it sounded great, very much like early Stevens. I will come back to read it in its entirety a little later. I don't have the time or proper frame of mind. Thanks.

[quasimodo1]

Yes, Virgil, "Phases" is the one, definitely world war II related (or is it WWI), you can sense the younger idealism coming through yet as ironic and complex as only Stevens can be. The translation of the Pascal quote is a bit tentative... do you know it? I know you're busy so post later on if possible.

[jinjang]

"La justice sans force est contredite, parce qu'il y a toujours
des mechants; la force sans la justice est accusee'" --Pascal

My translation:
The justice without force is contradicted, because there are always bad people; the force without the justice is accused.

The original sounds so awkward. Let him do the math instead.

Great poem!

Either fate or some other force drove people to war.
War has its futility and vain glories. After so many lives lost and searching for peace, people realize:

"War has no haunt except the heart,
Which envy haunts, and hate, and fear,
And malice, and ambition, near
The haunt of love. Who shall impart,"

Wrapping up a war is a lot more daunting task. Trying to dispel such phantoms that drove people to war is when people woke up to a dismal realization of

"The tapers round her futile throne.
Close tight the prophets' coffin-clamp.
Peer inward, with the spirit's lamp,
Look deep, and let the truth be known."

It is an excellent poem and I hope I interpreted as well as the poet intended.

Reference to Raphael and Claude Lorraine is my favorite part since it helps my imagination. I searched for Hopkins in vain but I figure it must be a general who fell to his death.

[Nick Capozzoli]

Quasi,

Where did you find "Phases?" It must be some very early stuff that Stevens did not wish to preserve for posterity, with good reason. It doesn't have anything that I recognize as Steven's genius.

Nick

[quasimodo1]

To Nick: I have this collection of Stevens' collected work....everything he ever wrote as far as anybody knows and this one, obviously, from his earlier days. Great in it's own way, don't you think? q1

[Nick Capozzoli]

To Nick: I have this collection of Stevens' collected work....everything he ever wrote as far as anybody knows and this one, obviously, from his earlier days. Great in it's own way, don't you think? q1

It's interesting. I wouldn't call it great poetry. Kind of sophomoric and ho-hum to my taste. What is the title of the collection, who published it, and when? I'd like to get a copy. It has nothing of Stevens' genius, but I suppose it would be interesting to a reader trying to flesh out Stevens' poetic maturation.

Nick

[Virgil]

It's interesting. I wouldn't call it great poetry. Kind of sophomoric and ho-hum to my taste. What is the title of the collection, who published it, and when? I'd like to get a copy. It has nothing of Stevens' genius, but I suppose it would be interesting to a reader trying to flesh out Stevens' poetic maturation.

Nick

Other than a few lines, which I agree are not the quality of Stevens' mature poetry, the poem is not bad, especially when you consider this wasn't polished for publication. I certainly wouldn't consider it a great poem. Actually there are echoes to my ear of Steven's "Peter Quince at the Clavier". From part four of Perter Quince:

IV

Beauty is momentary in the mind --
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.

The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.

Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Still I see your point Nick. There are moments in it that are promising, but there are some rather mudane lines. And it does get kind of didactic toward the end.

[jinjang]

Was it not common knowledge that the sun diverts our attention from the intellectual to the sensual? It benumbs and bewitches both reason and memory such that the soul in its elation quite forgets its true nature and clings with rapt delight...

from Death in Venice by Thomas Mann

The quote may not quite fit in this case, but

Mr. Quasimodo1 is the sun who gently nudges and encourages to appreciate poems to incompetent pupils like me, which is much more than any literature professors ever did for me. Who is any supercilious person to say otherwise if I say I like it?

[quasimodo1]

I do take exception to Nick's sophmoric remark; would love to have written something like that, especially with a war in the backround, as Freshman, Senior or PHD.

[quasimodo1]

from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose

from Uncollected Poems

INSTANT OF CLEARNESS
{by Jean Le Roy}

I feel an apparition
at my back,
an ebon wrack,
of more than man's condition,
that leans upon me there;
and then in back, one more;
and then, still further back,
still other men aligned;
and then, toujours plus grands, immensities of night,
who, less and less defined
by light,
stretch off in the black:

ancestors from the first days of the world.

Before me, I know more,
one smaller at the first, and then one smaller still,
and more and more, that are my son and then his sons.

They lie buried in dumb sleep,
or bury themselves in the future.

And for the time, just one exists:
I.
Just one exists and I am time,
the whole of time
I am the whole of light.

My flesh alone, for the moment, lives,
my heart alone gives,
my eyes alone have sight.
I am emblazoned, the others, all, are black.
I am the whole of light!
And those behind and those before
are only routineers of rounding time.
In back, they lie perdu in the black: the breachless grime,
(just one exists and I am time)
in front, they lie in the ruddyings
of an incalculable ether that burns and stings.
My will alone commands me: I am time!
Behind they passed the point of man,
before they are not embryo-- I, only, touch with prime.
And that will last long length of time,
think what you will!

I am between two infinite states
on the mid-line dividing,
between the infinite that waits
and the long-abiding,
at the golden spot, where the mid-line swells
and yields to a supple, quivering, deep
Inundation.

What do we count? All is for us that live!
Time, even time, and the day's strength and beam.
My fellows, you that live around me,
are you not surprised to be supreme,
on the tense line, in this expanse
of dual circumstance?
And are you not surprised to be the base
on which the eternal poising turns?
To know that, without you, the scale of lives
would sink upon death's pity under-place?
And are you not surprised to be the very poles?

Let us make signals in the air and cry aloud.
We, must leave a wide noise tolling
in the night;
and, in the deep of time,
set the wide wind rolling.

{translated 1918}

{from Notes… INSTANT OF CLEARNESS… The French poem is titled "Instant de Clare'" In Stevens manuscript, the title "Instant of Clearness" is canceled and above it is written, in another hand, "Moment of Insight"}

[quasimodo1]

from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose

from Uncollected Poems

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT

To the imagined lives
Evoked by music,
Creatures of horns, flutes, drums,
Violins, bassoons, cymbals--
Nude porters that glistened in Burma
Defiling from sight;
Island philosophers spent
By long thought beside fountains;
Big-bellied ogres curled up in the sunlight,
Stuttering dreams. . . . . . {1916}

[Virgil]

from Stevens, Collected Poetry & Prose

from Uncollected Poems

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT

To the imagined lives
Evoked by music,
Creatures of horns, flutes, drums,
Violins, bassoons, cymbals--
Nude porters that glistened in Burma
Defiling from sight;
Island philosophers spent
By long thought beside fountains;
Big-bellied ogres curled up in the sunlight,
Stuttering dreams. . . . . . {1916}

Oh that sounds like a good one. Is that another early one? I imagine so by that date. "Nude porters"? That's beginning to sound like the mature Stevens. (Note: I don't mean the nude porters sounds like the mature Stevens, just the overall voice itself.)

[quasimodo1]

Hey Virgil, I was having a hard time pulling a visual on those porters. Thanks.