Gloomy grammarians in golden gowns,
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.
Meekly you keep the mortal rendezvous,
Eliciting the still sustaining pomps
Of speech which are like music so profound
They seem an exaltation without sound.
Funest philosophers and ponderers,
Their evocations are the speech of clouds.
So speech of your processionals returns
In the casual evocations of your tread
Across the stale, mysterious seasons. These
Are the music of meet resignation; these
The responsive, still sustaining pomps for you
To magnify, if in that drifting waste
You are to be accompanied by more
Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.
The key word in the poem is the addressee, the “you,” who is
identified as “grammarians.” This is an exceedingly old word, one that
predates the modern idea of grammar as a set of rules for language. The closest
analogue to “grammarian” in modern parlance is “philologist” (admittedly not a
particularly contemporary term either), someone who studies word derivations, preserves texts, and offers interpretations. There were
two major schools of grammarians in the ancient world, the Greek, who focused
on literary art as we might conceive it, and the Hebrew, who focused primarily
on religious texts. This creates a double meaning for the word, and the poem, as
Stevens addresses scholars both literary and religious, and shows them how to address,
or discuss, the texts they use as a rod of power in the human sphere.
These grammarians make a grand and appropriately alliterative
entrance in the poem, like a cloud moving across the sky: “Gloomy grammarians
in golden gowns”. They are clouds to block the light, yet they wear the clothes
of light-bringing authority. The speaker, when addressing them, continues the metaphor: “meekly
you keep the mortal rendezvous,” suggesting their role, that of showing heaven
to mortals, is a dreary, unobtrusive and almost contractual duty.
Their “manner” is to “elicit” – call to expression – “the
still sustaining pomps…” Pomps is another archaic word Stevens retrieves – like
a grammarian – seemingly to cover his real intentions. Separate from “pomp,” it
is an ostentatious display of exaggerated self-importance. In that context, the
rest of the sentence suggests an inflated manner of expression completely at
odds with the paucity of meaning in what is said: “… pomps / Of speech which
are like music so profound / They seem an exaltation without sound.” One could
of course take this the opposite way, that the grammarians are guardians and
cultivators (as they presumably suppose) of the most sublime expressions of the
human connection to the divine – one too fine to even be heard by mortal ears (at least without a "guide").
These opposite readings come together in the sense that what is left of all the
hubbub for us non-grammarians is silence.
On a non-literal level "pomps" suggests the appearance of fluffy clouds as they move through the sky, akin to the metaphor of pom-poms. But whether the pomps in
question are the texts dissected by the scholars or the textual interpretations
created by the scholars creates additional ambiguity that makes it appropriately hard for the reader to give these clouds definition. One must hold in mind when
considering/addressing the nature of these clouds rolling across the poem the
dual possibility that both the source
texts themselves (at least as the interpreters conceive them) and the interpretations (aka the “lit
crit shit” that Kenneth Rexroth aptly called “the fog machine”) are equally
vapor.
The next sentence appears to confirm that by referring directly to the sources
of interpretation, themselves interpretations (of reality): “Funest
philosophers and ponderers, / Their evocations are the speech of clouds.” “Funest”
is one of Stevens’ most noted unusual words. It stands out in the entire poem,
and its meaning stands out in the context of its use: “Causing death or
disaster, fatal, catastrophic, deplorable.” How could philosophers and
ponderers be so hazardous? Simply because, in trying to determine the meaning
of life, they are stuck instead with the insolvable question of “what is death?”
Thus those who would reflect on their thoughts end up stuck thinking
about death rather than life. This is “the speech of clouds” because it goes
literally above our heads.
The speaker goes back to addressing the grammarians: “So
speech of your processionals returns / In the casual evocations of your tread /
Across the stale, mysterious seasons.” Processionals are the books that contain
litanies and hymns for use in religious processions, most notably funerals. In
that metaphor, the only sound or maybe sense (“speech”) in what’s collected in
the book to commemorate death is found in the funereal “tread” – "the manner or sound of someone walking" – of the
grammarians themselves, completely outside of the book or its spoken/sung contents. In
other words, there are, as people often say at death, no words. The seasons
themselves (an apt metaphor for the cycle of life and death) are both “stale”
and “mysterious,” reinforcing the sense that there is nothing in words or even celebrations
to add freshness or meaning to what is inherently unknowable.
“These,” the speaker continues, referring to the steady beat
of the grammarians’ steps, “Are the music of meet resignation; these / The
responsive, still sustaining pomps for you / To magnify.” Meet – or just –
resignation – or acceptance – of the enormity of death can only be found in the
ceremony of silently carrying the coffin away. The almost imperceptible sound
of that is the true text to interpret. This is not simply a bitter and mocking
rejoinder to those who would comfort us by explaining the reasons for suffering
and death, it is also a statement that there is something real in that sound
itself, like a cat padding across a tin roof when it is raining, that makes it more
important than the words people use, as if it opens up a vein of suggestion
that connects the human to what is beyond human. The true poetic, in other
words. Stevens plays here on the sound of the word “pomps” to suggest what the
honoring feels like, a gentle (and
tangible) “pomp” of feet. This sound, the poetic residue of experience rather
than the mind’s chapter and verse explanations, is what is responsive and
can be, the speaker asserts, magnified.*
After all the juggling of literal with figurative, literary with spiritual, contemplated
with experienced, created with interpreted, addressing as
speaking to with addressing as responding to, and life with death, the poem’s final
lines shoot a Stevensian arrow through all the grandiloquence as if it was so
much tawdry scenery: “if in that drifting waste / You are to be accompanied by
more / Than mute bare splendors of the sun and moon.”
It’s an exponential leap to say, after vague and fanciful suggestions as to the identity of the clouds in the poem’s title, that they are
“drifting waste.” “That’s the rationalist,” as Stevens wrote in another poem,
the one who can’t escape literal reality enough to see anything beyond the impenetrable
surface. All grammarians are consigned to this prison of meaninglessness unless
they embrace what could be called everything from fanciful imagination
to mystical consciousness: the natural, invisible and highly personal way feelings
are generated and deepened in response to, for example, the desultory
hesitation of feet. It may or may not be “real”, but without it even the sun
and moon are just shiny objects, without voice (“mute”) or meaning (“bare”).
Stevens, then and now, is old-fashioned enough to still be hopeful
such a thing might actually happen.
* Note the similarity
of the words used here (pomps, tread) to the similarly constructed Cortege for Rosenbloom, where the funeral procession also self-importantly dishonors the
dead.
