“… you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon …”
—Wallace Stevens, The Motive for Metaphor
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“… you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon …”
—Wallace Stevens, The Motive for Metaphor
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The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.
- Wallace Stevens 🌼
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Brigit Pegeen Kelly's death in October 2016 took away one of the finest living poets. Her three books offer exemplary work. In poem after poem she displays a rare ability to complicate the lyric. She fashions a speaker who resists becoming a self. She pushes her poems towards a hermetic zeal no one had visited with more purpose since Emily Dickinson. The American poet Stephen Dobyns expressed what many felt when he described her as 'one of the very best poets now writing in the United States. In fact, there is no one who is any better.'
Eavan Boland discusses the work of the poet Brigit Pegeen Kelly who died last year.
(originally published in Poetry Ireland)
Wallace Stevens’ last poem
Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan Of tan with henna hackles, halt! Damned universal cock, as if the sun Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail. Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. Your world is you. I am my world. You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat! Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines, Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs, And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.
Wallace Stevens, Bantams in the Pine-Woods
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Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grapes Made sharp air sharper by their smell These had a being, breathing frost; And least will guess that with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left what we felt At what we saw.
Wallace Steven, "A Postcard from the Volcano"
"The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain" -- Wallace Stevens
“The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain” by Wallace Stevens
There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain.
He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.
It reminded him how he had needed A…
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Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descended The western day through what you called The loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard? What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears? What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained, And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard. I was myself the compass of that sea:
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.