Susan Howe: The essence of Wallace Stevens: Roses, roses. Fable and dream. The pilgrim sun.
A poem is a glass, through which light is conveyed to us.
“March… Someone has walked across the snow,
On my way home, I see a small stream rushing along under ice. Maybe the nature of a particular can be understood only in relation to sound inside the sense it quickens. Setting sun. A mourning dove compounds invisible declensions.
“Deep dove, placate you in your hiddenness.”
“March… Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what.”
“Singeth spells.” The poetry of Wallace Stevens makes
me happy. This is the simple truth. Pleasure springs from the sense of fluid
sound patterns phonetic utterance excites in us. Beauty, harmony, and order are
represented by the arrangement, and repetition, of particular words on paper.
No matter how many theoretical and critical interpretations there are, in the
end each new clarity of discipline and delight contains inexplicable
intricacies of form and measure.
The last poems Wallace Stevens gathered together
under the general title The Rock are moving, lyric meditations
on the civil and particular. As if from some unfathomable source, knowledge
derived from sense perception fails, and the unreality of what seems most real
floods over us. As a North American poet writing in the early twenty-first
century, I owe him an incalculable debt, for ways in which, through word
frequencies and zero zones, his writing locates, rescues, and delivers what is
various and vagrant in the near at hand.
As Emily Dickinson put it:
“The
Zeroes—taught us—Phosphorous— /
We learned to like the Fire.”
****
“Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”
Stevens wrote “The Course of a Particular” when he was 73. It was
published in The Hudson Review (Spring 1951) along with “Final
Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour,” but omitted by accident (according to the
poet) from his 1954Collected Poems. “The Snow Man,” written almost
exactly thirty years earlier, is eerily similar. (Both fifteen-line poems
progress in tercets from “one” to “no one.”) Perhaps, sounding its spectral
refraction, he subtracted his second cold pastoral accidentally on purpose.
Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind,
Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less.
It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.
Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less.
It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.
The leaves cry… One holds off and merely hears the cry.
It is a busy cry, concerning someone else.
And though one says that one is part of everything,
It is a busy cry, concerning someone else.
And though one says that one is part of everything,
There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved;
And being part is an exertion that declines:
One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.
And being part is an exertion that declines:
One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.
The leaves cry. It is not a cry of divine attention,
Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry.
It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves,
Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry.
It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves,
In the absence of fantasia, without meaning more
Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing
Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all.
Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing
Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all.
Most critics read the season as autumn. For me, its lyric
austerity defines late February weather in Guilford, Connecticut. Often on
afternoon winter walks out on the quarry during this coldest month, there is
hardly any foliage to cry in the raw air. Some brittle oak leaves still cling
to their branches like tattered camouflage while tiny salt hay spindles scud
across withered grass and frost-worked asphalt. Smoke-drift from indoor
woodstoves is another vagrant variant. So is the coldness of green. The idea
that green can be cold comes to me from Thoreau, who notes pine-green coldness
in winter woods and the way light straggles.
For Stevens, “Today
the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind, / Yet the nothingness of
winter becomes a little less. / It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.”
“Shapen” is an obsolete past participle. This wild word relic softly and
serenely concerns no one. Its pastness echoes in the sound of wind soughing
through pitch pines.
On my way home, I see a small stream rushing along under ice. Maybe the nature of a particular can be understood only in relation to sound inside the sense it quickens. Setting sun. A mourning dove compounds invisible declensions.
“Deep dove, placate you in your hiddenness.”
In an essay titled “The Present State of Poetry” in American
Poetry at Midcentury, Delmore Schwartz recalled: “In 1936 Stevens read his
poems for the first time at Harvard—it was probably the first time he had ever
read his poetry in public—and the occasion was at once an indescribable ordeal
and a precious event. Before and after reading each poem, Stevens spoke of the
nature of poetry…the least sound counts, he said, the least sound and the least
syllable. His illustration of this observation was wholly characteristic: he
told of how he had wakened that week after midnight and heard the sounds made
by a cat walking delicately and carefully on the crusted snow outside his
house.”... read more: