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Today is the anniversary of the death of the
American poet Wallace Stevens. His work, especially his earlier work, displays a
remarkable command of descriptive language. Stevens is never ordinary in his
descriptions, perhaps due to his belief that the Self is, in some real sense, a
creator of reality—that is, the human observer, as a perceiver, defines the world for him or her self. Well, enough of
that. Here is one of my favorite Stevens poems.
Banal
Sojourn
Two wooden tubs of blue hydrangeas stand at the
foot of the stone steps.
The sky is a blue gum streaked with rose. The
trees are black.
The grackles crack their throats of bone in the
smooth air.
Moisture and heat have swollen the garden into a
slum of bloom.
Pardie! Summer is like a fat beast, sleepy in
mildew,
Our old bane, green and bloated, serene, who
cries,
“That bliss of stars, that princox of evening
heaven!” reminding me of the seasons,
When radiance came running down, slim through the
bareness.
And so it is one damns that green shade at the
bottom of the land.
For who can care at the wigs despoiling the Satan
ear?
And who does not seek the sky unfuzzed, soaring to
the princox?
One has a malady, here, a malady. One feels a
malady.