One must read poetry with one's nerves.
Wallace StevensMots clés poetry
The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain
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 place to go to in his own direction
How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds
For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:
The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged
Where he could lie and gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.
Mots clés poetry
The people in the world, and the objects in it, and the world as a whole, are not absolute things, but on the contrary, are the phenomena of perception... If we were all alike: if we were millions of people saying do, re, mi, in unison, One poet would be enough... But we are not alone, and everything needs expounding all the time because, as people live and die, each one perceiving life and death for himself, and mostly by and in himself, there develops a curiosity about the perceptions of others. This is what makes it possible to go on saying new things about old things.
Wallace Stevens... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves,
So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound.
Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self,
Impalpable habitations that seem to move
In the movement of the colors of the mind.
Confused illuminations and sonorities,
So much ourselves, we cannot tell apart
the idea and bearer - being of
the idea....
Mots clés an-ordinary-evening-in-new-haven
Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
Wallace StevensMots clés light-dark
Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.
Wallace StevensMots clés beauty
THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATE
I
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations - one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.
II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Mots clés poem
The exceeding brightness of this early sun
Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Mots clés poetry darkness light
in the presence of extraordinary actuality, consciousness takes the place of imagination.
Wallace StevensFrom oriole to crow, note the decline
In music. Crow is realist. But, then,
Oriole, also, may be realist.
Mots clés poets
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