Sunday, January 3, 2010

Selections from Wallace Stevens, or, a stormy night in a century of sighs.

“Oh, la…le pauvre!

I shall run before him,

With a curious puffing.

He will bend his ear then.

I shall whisper

Heavenly labials in a world of gutturals

It will undo him.”


“The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.

The moon is in the folds of the cloak.”


Pour the unhappiness out

  From your too bitter heart,

  Which grieving will not sweeten.


  Poison grows in this dark.

  It is in the water of tears

  Its black blooms rise.


  The magnificent cause of being,

  The imagination, the one reality

  In this imagined world


  Leaves you

  With him for whom no phantasy moves,

  And you are pierced by a death.”

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