Archive for the ‘Wallace Stevens’ Category

It Was She And Not The Sea We Heard   Leave a comment

Joy on the beach (1 of 1) blogThe Sea of Cortas — Image by kenne

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

— from The Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens
(Click Here To Read The Complete Poem)

Fenceline –The Look of Things, Left What We Felt   Leave a comment

Fenceline-B&W-72Fenceline: “The Look of Things, Left What We Felt” — Image by kenne

A Postcard from the Volcano

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. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion’s look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is … Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

— Wallace Stevens

Being Content With Wakened Birds   Leave a comment

Eastern Blubird-0515-72Male Eastern Bluebird in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne

She says, “I am content when wakened birds,

Before they fly, test the reality

Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;

But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields

Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

— from Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens

 

A Summary and Analysis of Wallace Stevens’ ‘Sunday Morning’

The Blast of The Self   1 comment

Aspen Draw Fall Colors 2013-8364 blog IIAn Aspen Fall — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In a letter dated 4/26/03, by brother Tom wrote:

“I am in the midst of ‘trying’ to memorize a poem . . .
‘Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour’ by Wallace Stevens . . .
never mind why . . .
although the exercise was triggered by a piece by
George Steiner in which he wrote:

‘The danger is that the text or music will lose what physics
calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive powers within
the echo chambers of the self.'”

Tom was aware that what is committed to memory
and susceptible to recall constitutes  “The Blast of  The Self,”
an intensity of outward attention — interest, curiosity,
a healthy obsession was a motivation stronger
even than love or hatred or fear.

— kenne

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room 

In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

— Wallace Stevens

Bird On A Stick   1 comment

SCVN Weds Walk 08-01-12Bird On A Stick — Photo-Artistry by kenne

“The final belief is to believe in a fiction,
which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else.
The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction
and that you believe in it willingly.”

― Wallace Stevens

Grasshopper Bouquet   Leave a comment

Hiking, Marshall Gulch, SCVNGrasshopper Bouquet —  Photo-Artistry be kenne

The most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.

— Wallace Stevens

The Truth   Leave a comment

Rose Lake July 2013Rose Lake, Santa Catalina Mountains — Digital Art by kenne

One imagines him as a prodigious morning walker
And a lonely metaphysician pausing in the park,

A rose rabbi, a sturdy man on a wide path
Dreaming of a sky washed clean by doubt.

One pictures him under the umbrella
Pines and buttonwoods on the way to work,

Imagination’s largest thinker conjuring up
Songs of human radiance twanging in the mist.

One thinks of him by the lake in a rain:
Mirrors on mirrors mirroring the emptiness.

— from At the Grave of Wallace Stevens by Edward Hirsch

 

 

The Final Belief . . .   Leave a comment

Cooks Camp TrailDesert Hibiscus — Image by kenne

“The final belief
is to believe in a fiction,

which you know to be a fiction,
there being nothing else.

The exquisite truth
is to know 
that it is
a fiction and that

you believe in it willingly.”

— Wallace Stevens

Fall Colors II   1 comment

fall-colors-1-of-1-art-iii-blogFall Colors II — Computer Art by kenne

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

— Wallace Stevens

Baby Come Walk With Me   1 comment

Rose Lake July 2013A trail near Rose Canyon Lake in the Santa Catalina Mountains — Computer Painting by kenne

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
where I will do
anything for you — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
where no previous day
will be like this — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
sharing moments of bliss
and transcendental longings — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
reading Wallace Stevens
and escape by metaphor — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
outlining the contours
of our experience — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

Baby come walk with me
around the lake
creating our own cosmos
resembling the Creation — 
delaying not, hurrying not.

— kenne

(“delaying not, hurrying not” from  Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman)

“Moccasin”   Leave a comment

Bark (1 of 1) art blog“Moccasin” — Beetle Paths Art by kenne

”The genuine artist is never “true to life.”
He sees what is real,
but not as we are normally aware of it.
We do not go storming through life
like actors in a play. Art is never real life.”

— Wallace Stevens

 

Butterfly On Rainbow Flowers   1 comment

Yard flowers (1 of 1)-2Grunge Art blogButterfly on Rainbow Flowers — Computer Art by kenne

”The genuine artist is never
‘true to life.’
He sees what is real,
but not as we are normally aware of it.
We do not go storming through life like
actors in a play.
Art is never real life.”

— Wallace Stevens from “On Poetic Truth,” 

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