Solmar Verses VI

Sunny moves her hands to the Peruvian flute,
Smooths away the angers in the blood,
Pounds out the grief from the insides of lungs,
Makes muscles that held the impossible yield to bay-rummed touch.

She is even grateful for you,
Feels your pain with her eyes,
Turns it into a smile that is all you
Although there is only her inside,

Like she is empty where you are
And you have nothing that is hers:
The brave way she navigates the mystery
Without needing to think where she is.

That is the way she heals us,
By exorcising the demon of mind
That always lurks, always waits
For a better explanation

When none was ever necessary,
And the words the flute sings
Can be heard through the waves they turned into,
How there is consolation in living.

Solmar Verses V

In another world
These note scrawlers
Would be poets
And would be reading
Poetry books by the poolside,
But in this place
There are no poets.
The water merely drowns,
Laughter restricts,
The bodies are bones,
The spoken words clothes,
While the pink leaps off the walls
And the palms keep
The more cerebral beats
Of a wind that says too much
To be heard.

No, my spot is in the balcony
Sharing papaya with the ghosts
In the empty chairs,
Saying things
Unspeakable to others,
While the little birds
Quote Octavio Paz:
"Una silaba diafana como el silencio."
We see what is invisible,
The real around which
So many struggle,
La sol, cielo, viento, tierra, arboles
Piedra abismo.

What the wind says
The waves repeat
With perfect intricacy,
What the sun says
To retreating sea
Is transparent.
What are these words
People use,
That barely move faces,
Prompt silence
And a moving away?
It's not the smooth turn of palm,
The reiteration of surf
By the curve of the hill,
The firm indentations in sand.

Solmar Verses IV

Why did the nuns riot here in 1585
When the priory was 100 miles away?
There are many theories -- the brick will never tell,
The partially reconstructed parchment lies,
The somewhat intact urns have other things to do
Than to add up the glitches in this tale --
In the stories of the ages
And the sun that still obeys
All one can see is the wistful face
Willed from the most negligible of circumstantials.

In the other room, the coffee brews,
Papaya is sliced, the maps are out
To plot some imagined intersection of plans,
The floats need to be blown up, poolside cabanas
Reserved, the lotions like God's blessings
That can never be enough spread.
This spot of so much mystery
Has solidified to fact:
The food is more expensive there than here,
They must be down by 8 to guard the umbrellas,
When the smooth jazz percolates through the parakeet scrawl
They'll blow up the rafts for a dollar and a quarter.

The white rock beyond it all, shining like a saint,
Replies with neither what you want it to say
Nor what it knows. It just allows
The historian to be called lazy
And the rest of the vacationing family
To be cursed with the present's judgments,
Their tasks, and how they do them.

Solmar Verses III

Yet ... some great pain
Arrives at the airport,
Loads onto the blue vans,
Sits listless through the variations
Of sun, sea and sand
Manufactured by the tropical machine.

At night it wears balloon hats
At El Squid Roe hospital of pain,
Where sushi chef orderlies
Dance without smiles
And force-feed tequila
To the conga line
As they administer
Emergency shocks
To nervous systems:
Flashing lights, shivering liquids,
Go-go platforms pounding
In dark deafening sound.

Such extremities are needed
To relieve the misery of living
Without feasible dreams.
A skeleton hangs on a noose
In red socks and Nike shoes
To warn against the dangers
Of not partying.

Solmar Verses II

Or could it be what's on the
Other side of the wall
Is what was re-enacted?

The voices were no more
Than gusts in caves,
Secreted to alphabets.

Experience at a distance
Led to assumptions
Of what is:

The golden seaweed braids
That lured me out before
Generalized to amber,

So the echo spray,
The batter-spreading surf,
The spatter that persists inside the ear

Were moving hands,
Imploring eyes,
Phonetic lips:

Powders for the painter
To render the transparent
Boundaries of his world

And find a face
In the edge of wind
Distinct from the air,

It moves at a remove
From the sea
As from me,

Seemingly asking to be caught
In flagrant delecti, the naked,
What is not.

Solmar Verses I

Against the intelligence of violence,
Its silken rage and flowery ardor,
Are so many murmurs beneath what the surf breaks
As the mezcal makes them care
About speaking more than being heard,
Like a raw and lusty wind that longs to swirl
As if its laugh could echo in the numb jars
And could slowly rub its hands against the walls.

The laughter has the blue of the liqueurs,
The harp guitars' arpeggios of sea,
The things that make us believe each other
Under bubbling salsa drums with limbs akimbo,
And shiver inside like the dark leaves of mesquite.
It's so much water falling
In a calm of bristling wind.

But it's always 3 AM somewhere.
A different kind of breaking
Expresses itself then,
As the void crashes in
With a dissonant lull that cannot resolve
Except as unanswerable objection.
It seethes against all resistance
With voices, glasses, chairs,
Finding the contention instead is mere air.

Stevens Textplication #41: O Florida, Venereal Soil

“A poet looks at the world,” Stevens once said, “the way a man looks at a woman.” That is the theme of this poem from 1922, which marked a welcome stage in his poetic development towards more direct emotional honesty. In it he provides his own unique take on the invisible lover/muse theme that is a standby of poets throughout history, from Homer to Dante to Machado to Montale, to name but a few. Yes, the word “venereal” means sexual desire, as well as some of the diseases that stem from it, but he’s primarily referring to the Roman Goddess Venus, who conveniently ruled both love (including sexual love) and beauty (as well as being the ruling planet of Stevens’ astrological sign Libra). Here is the poem:

A few things for themselves,

Convolvulus and coral,

Buzzards and live-moss,

Tiestas from the keys,

A few things for themselves,

Florida, venereal soil,

Disclose to the lover.

The dreadful sundry of this world,

The Cuban, Polodowsky,

The Mexican women,

The negro undertaker

Killing the time between corpses

Fishing for crayfish...

Virgin of boorish births,

Swiftly in the nights,

In the porches of Key West,

Behind the bougainvilleas,

After the guitar is asleep,

Lasciviously as the wind,

You come tormenting,

Insatiable,

When you might sit,

A scholar of darkness,

Sequestered over the sea,

Wearing a clear tiara

Of red and blue and red,

Sparkling, solitary, still,

In the high sea-shadow.

Donna, donna, dark,

Stooping in indigo gown

And cloudy constellations,

Conceal yourself or disclose

Fewest things to the lover --

A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,

A pungent bloom against your shade.

One of the points made about the last poem, “A High-Toned Old Christian Woman,” was the uncompromising nature of the muse. Here you see it dramatized in the effect it has on a hapless man, who is powerless before her as he would not be before the most alluring lover.

“A few things for themselves … disclose to the lover” speaks to the mystery at the heart of love, the tendency at least in males to chase down the elusive prey by searching in small objects associated with the beloved for clues as to her true nature, and more importantly her true feelings. Such seemingly inconsequential things as jewelry worn, her favorite animal, or even the bicycles on the street she lived on can “disclose” no less than a wink, an unexpected touch or a rich laugh, the feelings of the beloved, and in so doing bring her closer.

When the imagined lover, as here, is hidden within the entire Sunshine State, these clues range wildly, from sensual in form of convolvulus, an invasive yet beautiful genus of weed with its word sound shockingly like “vulva,” and coral, whose pink color is associated with both Venus and the female body, to life-affirming (“live-moss”) to rife – as South Florida is – with decay, in the form of buzzards who feed on putrefying flesh and undertakers so inured to death they pass the time fishing. She sends, in other words, “mixed signals” that are too various and “sundry” to reveal anything but the “things in themselves.” This “dreadful” conclusion culminates in the speaker calling the beloved a “virgin of boorish births,” which notes the disparity between the feminine ideal and the banal children that come out of her – the gap between the ideal Beatrice and her reality. There is only the barest hint of her presence, in the form of tiestas, the local headwinds that come from the South.

All that changes at night. “Swiftly … after the guitar is asleep, lasciviously” she not only appears, but is “tormenting, insatiable.” This vivid – and highly charged – personification of nighttime Florida as the most disruptive of lovers “discloses” the extraordinary effect of unfamiliar beauty on one sensitive enough to its effect, specifically the way it seems to speak from beyond human terms. It also suggests the “insatiable” beautiful object herself wants communication as well, that it is two way.

There is some discomfort, however, in the natural world interacting with that of the human. The next stanza presents an alternative, one presumably preferable for the Goddess of harmony and order, to “sit, / A scholar of darkness, / Sequestered over the sea.” She should, in other words, remain distant from humans, and carry on whatever existence she has without disturbing her or our isolation. The humans can make metaphors as they will of her unknowable appearance, describing the windswept colors as a “clear tiara” and imagining her as so engulfed by the sea that she sparkles. Despite this attempt at rhetorical distancing, red is mentioned here twice, as if the straight reporting of the color cannot help but merge into a more sensual desire.

Thus unsatisfied, the speaker turns to address her directly, as “Donna, donna, dark,” using the Italian honorific for “lady.” He begs her to “conceal” herself or “disclose fewest things to the lover,” as if he needs her modesty for the sake of his own too-powerful desires. This is despite her already wearing an “indigo gown,” the most hidden garb imaginable, and “stooping in … cloudy constellation,” already well-concealed among the stars. The point is clearly that even the barest hints of poetry in the natural world are too much for his amours.

Instead he asks, ironically, for something more tangible, a physical hand to display the fruits of her exotic sphere of earth, and a scent to remember her, a “pungent bloom” set off against her “shade,” which could be her shadowy presence or her ghostly absence. He wants more, that is to say, less. It is a poet’s cry for normalcy, to stop the urgent voice from beyond the physical world. She clearly seems “real” to him, but she can only be “imagined” in the non-poetic/prosaic world where most humans – including, it seems, our speaker – live.

Despite the man’s noble intention to shoo the mistress away, the poem makes the contrary case that he is terminally smitten and will not, like so many before him, be able to live again in the place that existed before she started pining for him. It will take many years for Stevens to finally say farewell to Florida.

The Suicide Light

The time of day has grown stale 
The light can't distinguish what's seen
The blue only answers to the horizon

As insight becomes repetition
The familiar an insoluble maze

For the people are now what they seem
Unable to answer the melodies played
And becoming a background in gray

Who make, as they walk the stage,
The scenery disappear

Variations on a Bumper Sticker

                                                          My other horse is a ghost.

I've seen these clouds before,
Although they're newly formed,
And though the palms are more
Than a million years old,
It's like they're saying now
Their first words.
The cars have headlights on
As if they're in a funeral
But there's nothing dead enough
For us to see,
Just things that are escaping
From the prison of what is:
The wait for rain
Where there won't be any coming,
The memory of seeds
Long since blown away,
And the willingness to stand
Next to all this pain
As if the painter of grays
Could understand her paintings,
Why they were carried away.

Impressions of Decadent Sea

Morning comes like tiger stripes
     to flap upon the swells
Like gulls that pull invisible sails
             across the agate tinsel,
As the sea's kind pewter serves up 
     beads of sun like runny eggs
And distant grapefruit shining
             topped with Maraschino cherry.

From our pirate masque we call the clouds
     macabre along the Baja,
As the rolling boil of blue sends would-be shapes
              to the unseen:
The blue translucent dunes, the bolts of sun obsidian,
     all the unborn shores and fields to know
In the moment they are gone, and in between,
              the thing we call the void.

But the sea protects its fishes, makes every gleam

      of sun seem jumping life

As phantom fins rope weedy skeins
             as if on mystery feeding,

Yet a dolphin breaks the plane 
      to children squealing

And rainbow spray bears languidly away

             from white-capped frosting.

   
Still something deep resists, as peaks drive restless tribal lines 
       in long irritations of current

To neither yield nor connect, just collide 

             continually, without consequence,

Sheared off plumes of sea that express

      the milk of impossibility,

Forever torn by white and wrinkled black
             like slackened fabric pulled back tight.
     
The waves smooth out by afternoon
     from the white steam iron of sun,
Wool brushed to burnished pearl
             that swirls, and lists in golden light, as

Smoke like a Portuguese Man-of-War appears,
      waves nebulize in mist that hits the deck
Like teapot fog, releasing every vision back

              to fresh white nothingness, born-again sea.

The blue grows bolder as it slips the dying sun

     and its peach-skin purple implications,

Whose circle bangs around our brains 'til

               fish scales rise against the spiral

Of man-made lamps on the inky whirl, where
     we impose what we want on the ocean,
Still churning in this final wilderness
               in search of the familiar.

Odes by Hölderlin: Nature and Art, or Saturn and Jupiter

From on high you rule the day and with your law

It flourishes, you hold the scales, Saturn’s son!

And divide the lot and rest gladly

In the fame of immortal sovereign arts.

But in the underworld, so the singers say,

Where you expelled the holy father, your own,

To fathomless lamentation, the

Savages of justice stand before you,

The innocent god of the golden age: once

As fluent, even greater than you are now,

Though he uttered no commandment and

No mortals ever called him by his name.

For he’s cast down! Or ashamed at your lack of

Gratitude! And if you want to stay, and serve

The elders, begrudge him that, before

All, to gods and man, who the singers call!

For how all your lightning that comes from the clouds

Comes from him, what's yours, see! So give back in word

To him what you’ve made, for from Saturn’s

Peace every power acquired arises.

And I have something living only in my

Heart, dawning and felt, what you’ve manufactured, 

And it lives in your cradle in me,

Ecstasy, as the age drifts into sleep:

Then I know you, Cronus! Then I hear you, wise

Master, who, like ourselves, is a son of time,

Giving to us laws and proclaiming

What is recovered from the holy dusk.

---------------------------------------------------------

Natur und Kunst oder Saturn und Jupiter

Du waltest hoch am Tag und es blühet dein

Gesetz, du hältst die Waage, Saturnus Sohn!

Und teilst die Los' und ruhest froh im

Ruhm der unsterblichen Herrscherkünste.

Doch in den Abgrund, sagen die Sänger sich,

Habst du den heilgen Vater, den eignen, einst

Verwiesen und es jammre drunten,

Da, wo die Wilden vor dir mit Recht sind,

Schuldlos der Gott der goldenen Zeit schon längst:

Einst mühelos, und größer, wie du, wenn schon

Er kein Gebot aussprach und ihn der

Sterblichen keiner mit Namen nannte.

Herab denn! oder schäme des Danks dich nicht!

Und willst du bleiben, diene dem Älteren,

Und gönn es ihm, daß ihn vor allen,

Göttern und Menschen, der Sänger nenne!

Denn, wie aus dem Gewölke dein Blitz, so kömmt

Von ihm, was dein ist, siehe! so zeugt von ihm,

Was du gebeutst, und aus Saturnus

Frieden ist jegliche Macht erwachsen.

Und hab ich erst am Herzen Lebendiges

Gefühlt und dämmert, was du gestaltetest,

Und war in ihrer Wiege mir in

Wonne die wechselnde Zeit entschlummert:

Dann kenn ich dich, Kronion! dann hör ich dich,

Den weisen Meister, welcher, wie wir, ein Sohn

Der Zeit, Gesetze gibt und, was die

Heilige Dämmerung birgt, verkündet.

Just Slightly Above the Ground

The eucalyptus silence
Yearns for comprehension

Mere knowledge is not enough
When the world below doesn't know

So it poses an illusion
That even the sleeping can dream

Of some higher realm where
There's no second free from perfection

And it leans into our hungry
Numbness with coy forgiveness

For knowledge of the light
Will always stand apart

Unyielding and not understood
The best we can do is call it beauty

What stirs our sentience
Without reaching our wound

The boughs will slow to stillness
To absorb what we cannot

The Prince of Minutiae

The kitchen window tree
Tries to talk to me
As if I am some hero
Moving plate canoes
Through cataract cascades
But I'm not even able to see
How the fish ever circling the bowl
Has the universe entire
Swimming through her.

Stevens Textplication #40: A High-Toned Old Christian Woman

Now we come to the part of the program known as The Mother Poem. Typical for its genre, it displays little of the original wound it is there ostensibly to conquer. The depth of emotion behind it must inevitably remain sublimated. However this IS Stevens, so as usual there is something larger and more universal to take away from it.

From 1922, it’s called “A High-Toned Old Christian Woman”, and it also marks the first use of a concept that would later obsess Stevens, most famously in “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction,” that of necessary fictions humans need to create to live full lives. This poem is pretty famous in its own right. Here it is:

              Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.

              Take the moral law and make a nave of it

              And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,

              The conscience is converted into palms,

              Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.

              We agree in principle. That's clear. But take

              The opposing law and make a peristyle,

              And from the peristyle project a masque

              Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,

              Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,

              Is equally converted into palms,

              Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,

              Madame, we are where we began. Allow,

              Therefore, that in the planetary scene

              Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,

              Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,

              Proud of such novelties of the sublime,

              Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,

              May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves

              A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

              This will make widows wince. But fictive things

              Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.

Imagine, if you can, the curse of being born a poet in a household where the highest value is fealty to the biblical word. The chief requirement for being a poet – a topic Stevens would understandably come to explore time and again – is to take direction from an oracle known as The Muse. She is, as has been demonstrated as far back as Plato, an exclusive mistress who does not take the received wisdom of others kindly, especially that which is designed to organize – a.k.a. control – human society. Instead she urges her acolytes to remain in a state of intoxicated mystery, forever reaching just beyond the surface of things for a truth that dissolves just as it moves beyond the thing. The “poetry,” epithets and hymns of the Christian religious tradition enforce, on the other hand, a rigid set of beliefs in terms of right action, consequences and the will to salvation. On the surface, however, they seem to be poetry, the only true poetry, in fact, a pious believer (like Stevens’ mother) would unwaveringly conclude.

To be denied, thus, one’s calling to live life in the heightened state of poetic awareness is in a real sense a tragedy – at least to the sense of identity, place in the world and in the family. It is a primal wound, in fact, so deep, it cannot be looked at directly, but deflected with a series of “winces,” turned, in other words, into a gay but somewhat painful comedy.

Stevens enlists help for his cause in the form of his college mentor George Santayana, the philosopher of beauty, who argued in Interpretations of Poetry and Religion (the book he published when he was friends with Stevens at Harvard) that religion and poetry are both, equally, fictions, in that they express our longing for the ideal and give our lives direction. Aha, said the young Stevens, sharpening his blade, but the older Stevens, having let for the sake of familial piety the youthful possibility of poetry slip away (except in the courting of a woman his parents disapproved of), knew all too well how impossible it was to use such a subtle philosophical rock to move a high-toned old Christian woman from her hard place. But now, almost a decade after her death, firmly ensconced in his poetry vapor bar, he can carry on the argument in his head, on his own terms.

Suitably soused, he one-ups Santayana by declaring that poetry is, in fact, the superior illusion (“the supreme fiction, madam”). He proceeds, with an argument that grows progressively more convoluted, to tell us why. The alert reader will detect the anger in the passage that follows:

Take the moral law and make a nave of it

And from the nave build haunted heaven.

It is at once an elegant and clear-headed description of how religion may be perceived as a “fiction” as well as a vicious put-down of the belief system of people like his mother. The emotional sense is poetically expressed through the repetition of the word “nave.” Literally, a nave is the central part of a Christian church, where the parishioners worship, but it sounds exactly like “knave,” a dishonest or unscrupulous person. In the context this suggests that the Christian church uses “moral law” (implied to be objective in some sense) to make dishonest fools of people, who proceed to help the church construct a “haunted” afterlife (implied to be a fantasy).

The attack only intensifies from here, if that’s possible:

Thus, / The conscience is converted into palms, 

Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.

Again, on one level it’s a seemingly innocuous philosophical proposition. The believers transform their intuitively known moral law into grace through the use of symbols, in order to identify with the ideal who will bring to Earth the higher law (in the form of the palm branches Jesus’ followers spread for his final return to Jerusalem). They become vessels (cithern is a hollow-bodied stringed instrument somewhere between a lute and a guitar) who live in the desire for God’s word. The passage could equally be read, however, as its messy poetic antithesis: that belief in the Christian dogmas turns the human conscience (and by extension the soul) into a meaningless symbol, to be left with no more consciousness and will than a musical instrument on which the meaningless choir book is played. This sense is heightened, once again, by word sound. The word “cithern” echoes “cistern,” a holding tank for water that is at its linguistic root a prison or dungeon but in Stevens time most commonly referred to toilet tanks.

This bizarre Dr. Philosophy and Mr. Poetry schizophrenia continues as if Mr. Poetry isn’t even there: "We agree in principle. That's clear.” In other words, the philosopher logically may be able to find some common ground (in theory) for his sagacious understanding of the root of religious practice. It’s funny, pathetic, bitter and tragic as the poet tries to assert it. This poet, like so many before and after, has a hard time explaining himself to others.

This “opposing law” of poetry is not exactly, however, what the speaker has in mind with which to “make a peristyle … (a continuous porch of Greco/Roman columns around the perimeter of buildings, often enclosing, as in this case, an courtyard) [that will] project a masque (a lavish dramatic entertainment in the royal courts of Europe, usually based on classical rather than Christian themes) / Beyond the planets.” The “opposing law” clearly references – as a philosopher undoubtedly would – the ancient world, which had its own moral laws and monuments to higher powers. It is opposing only because it was opposed and ultimately defeated by Christianity, not because it represents some contrasting principle of darkness or evil. The reference to planets is also sly, given that the stars and planets were understood and named in the classical world, while the Christian world was often mired in the cosmological confusion created by the Bible. The idea is that the classical ideals could aspire beyond the understood planets, to the great unknown, with the implication that this was something unavailable to the Christian tradition.

The Greek alternative referenced here is also, of course, the birthplace of poetry muses and man as the measure of all things. “Thus” it offers a richer source of expression than the rigid church:

Thus, our bawdiness, / Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last, / Is equally converted into palms, / Squiggling like saxophones.

The Greek tradition honored the principle of life by elevating the temple prostitute as the most revered of humans. The term “bawd” means prostitute, so it’s not as simple as saying sexual debauchery is equal to religious ritual (although that is clearly what the passage suggests). “Indulged at last” invokes the firm hand of puritanical repression yes, but “Unpurged by epitaph” evokes a focus on life rather than the Christian preoccupation with death, or rather, viewing life only in terms of a final accounting. A less constricted, more sexual human “is equally converted” (bringing back Santayana’s formulation) to palms, a symbol of victory over death that ironically predates Greek as well as Christian cultures but was shared by both.* The meaning, of course, is that immortality is not limited to the Christian religion. But into this straightforward formulation comes again our Mr. Poetry, with the line that I personally would kill for: “palms, squiggling like saxophones.” It’s hard to get lustier than saxophones, or more evocative of the heightened state of being our decadent modern life can create for us. Yet the simile, for all the rich associations it connects, does not mean anything literal. The heaven of poetry is equally as elusive as that of Christianity.

Thus, “palm for palm, / Madame, we are where we began.” Neither the poet nor the unnamed Christian woman have unobstructed access into ultimate truth. And neither Stevens nor his mother can ever find common ground in what are, truly, separate spheres of reality.

“Allow, / Therefore,” – the note of desperate pleading comically made to seem like an uncontestable formulation …

that in the planetary scene / Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed, / Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade, / Proud of such novelties of the sublime, / Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk, / May, merely may, madame, / whip from themselves / A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.

The key word here is “flagellants,” a long-standing Christian cult who furiously whip themselves in public while singing hymns in order to pay penance and honor the suffering of Jesus. They are qualified as “disaffected” (unwilling to support the authorities) because for most of Christian history such practices were considered heretical, to the point that many flagellants were burned at the stake! They are “well-stuffed” because, like play animals and dolls, their insides (in this case blood) come out when the skin is ripped. They exhibit the Christian sin of “pride” in “smacking” [hitting] their “muzzy” [woozy] “bellies on parade” [in public display]. Stevens drippingly dismisses their novelty “of the sublime,” presenting them, perhaps the most extreme yet pious of true believers, as representative of the Christian faith. He even mimics the sound they make as they walk along whipping themselves, as if it was a popular tune. While the bitter poet has scorched the earth with his high-rhetorical bludgeon, the philosopher is still willing to concede that this self-flagellation “may, merely may” create a connection with the higher planes of consciousness, or as the poet more sensually (and quotably) shows (rather than tells), “a jovial hullaballoo among the spheres.”

Then, just as we begin to believe this poetic rant disguised as argument can’t get any weirder, widows make their appearance:

This will make widows wince. But fictive things

Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.  

What is the “this” that “will make widows wince?” The sight of zealots whipping themselves? The reminder in the sight of heavenly hullaballoo that their husbands are no longer with them? The blasphemy of comparing the penitential sacrament to something as unsacred as poetry? Instead of clarifying, the poem distances itself further into the mystery: “fictive things / Wink as they will.” Leaving aside the enigma of just what a “fictive thing” is, “wink” could be read in any of three ways: to close and open one eye to acknowledge something shared between two, to pretend not to notice something bad or illegal, or to shine or flash intermittently, like a star. “Fictive things”, read as things created by the imagination, poetry specifically (since it is “the supreme fiction”), really do all of these kinds of winking: they acknowledge shared secrets and jokes, avoid topics that aren’t “poetic,” and can assume the quality of natural or ethereal objects. As we’ve seen, these qualities are not predictable, and cannot be produced systematically, they more or less naturally appear (“as they will”).

There’s a marvelous sense of freedom expressed here, that the responses of the widows (for whom we are presumably supposed to feel compassion) don’t have to be explained or accounted for, because the spirit of poetry metes out its own, ineffable sense of justice. The muse, rather than being traumatized by the sight of widows/mothers wincing, is actually strengthened by it, because the emotional material that comes out of such pain creates great art. Thus after purging all the anger of being denied, the poet can finally earn out of the experience the palm branch of victory.

*It is also an important symbol to Stevens, as indicated by the title of the very book we are using for this series, The Palm at the End of the Mind.

Momentary Reveries of Summer

The swirl of excess desire
Is inhaled by invisible bees
While the lover inside merely breathes,
Waiting, with the world, for attention,
So to become an extension
Of the stars, moon and sea etc.

All the stiff forms
That taunted my perception
Melt translucent
In empathy eyes.

Still the metallic brick
Keeps us gripped to the cliff,
For what is behind
— Mind interpenetrating mind —
The whole that is already there
Too much to bear...

Something holds onto shape here.
What is bird must only be bird
To turn into anything else.

Two New Moon Intentions

I.
The bags were sticky with the refuse we'd collected
As sand birds scavenged scraps blown to the tar
And the low sun mist turned the tattooed six-year-olds gold
And the sea froth yellow. The few who remained
To stare at the foam
Still hoped for a new way to see.

II.
The day the chemtrails stopped
The Hollywood Bowl howled,
The caves of LA emptied,
Its hillsides posed for portraits,
And the pueblo voiced itself
In street flute and rough timbales.
It pulled the homeless from their smoke,
Families out of balloons,
To extricate the real from summer fountains...
An afternoon of waiting turned
To a merger between equals with the sun.

Reflections on the Homeless Man in the MAGA Hat

I.

The hanging tree
Says “marry me”,
Carved by the knife
Of Lady Liberty
In impeccable bloodlines.

The slaves were not slaves,
The dead did not die,
But these, these …
In vehicles rumbling
With gold exhaust plumes
And jeweled bumpers
Like upholstered elephants of yore
With Emirs fanned by fronds
Of rock ’n’ roll
With their entire sheikdoms behind them
As they disregard the curbside powerless
No matter how much they wave

Their HappyCups^TM in desperation.

There’s no justice in the world
Though there are those who seek it anyway.

II.

She wanted me to play
With boys my own age
She said,
The one who taught me
How the world is insufficient,
But these boys were just neglected,

Swam in the latent violence
The therapist coaxed out
With the foam-covered shafts
They used to pummel me.
He liked the way I was present for them,
Or maybe he wanted to diddle me,
At any rate I was invited to a Red Sox game
As if this was a real family
And we could eat at least hot dogs together
While we seethed in our animosities.

I still feel guilty for saying no.
How could it have been so hard to refuse
Gifts to the homeless
If I had a real home
Or professional intervention
If I was actually sane?
The thought that still taunts me
Is how disappointed he was,
How hard he tried to get me
To change my mind, his voice
Of despair, as if the angels
Sent a guide down here
To re-arrange some chairs.
I’d like to think he knew
What I knew, 

That creeps with badges

Don’t seem like the law
But still he seems as clueless
To any flaw in his constitution
As my family, friends and dog,
Who said it’s only a baseball game,
Can’t you be friends with anyone?
The fact that time has revealed 

My instincts as correct
Makes the pit in my stomach worse,

That I couldn’t be strong enough
To serve him.

That’s the scam, they say,
But what if he really believed it?
Like I believed in my own madness,
My need to be left alone?

An old friend, the best in all things,
Especially human compassion,
Was sent away last week
For a long, long time.
His crime was too heinous to say,
But nobody who knew him
Was really surprised,
For he had that gleam in his eye,
To serve or to die.
It was like a cancer invaded his will
And the truth long repressed
Had to speak in his voice.
He mentioned the priest,
As a confidence, in passing,
As if he hadn’t prepared to share
That since we met,
And he said it helped him understand
The pain others felt.

We give and give and give and give
But it’s only what we offer.
When the other side asks
For what’s needed
We don’t know, we don’t know,
The pathos for others
Bleeds into terror
And nothing short of our soul
Gives more than a voyeur’s silence.

III.
How many children are in these boxcars?
How many sex slaves will it take
To deliver this evening’s propaganda?
How can compassion fight evil?
When the emperor smiles
At the subjects in chains,
How can our hearts freeze
In the face of his misery?

Too powerful to be sacrificed,

Too weak to end the bleeding,

And he, after all, is the one who

Fears judgment from subjects

Whose judgments are all of

Themselves, under his watchful eye.

So tarnished with horror

At the depth of his secrets,

Compassion is all he can see.

Odes by Hölderlin: Encouragement

{Second version}

Echo of the heavens! Holy heart! Why, why

Did you become silent among the living,

Sleeping, free of those broken from God

And cast forever down inside the night?

Does the ethereal light still keep vigil?

And does the old mother, the earth, still bear fruit?

And though the spirit is no longer

Practiced, doesn’t love smile still on justice?

Only you are gone! But the heavenly ones

Incite and the breath of nature exhales, to

Shape the silence, like a barren field,

In the exhilaration of one soul.

O hope! That soon, soon the groves will no longer

Sing life's praises alone, because it is time

For the tongue of mankind to pronounce

And proclaim the beautiful soul again,

So the element forms out of a bonding

With loving mortals, and only then reaches

The breast of the earth, where it unfolds,

Thanks to pious children, the infinite,

And our days are again, as flowers, bestowed

Wherever you, out of heaven’s sun, exchange

Sight in silence, and are glad again

In the gladness that light finds itself in.

And he, who is without speech, anonymous,

Prepares for the future, the spirit, the God,

In the human word, on the sweet day

Ahead, where each, as once, speaks each other.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Ermunterung

Echo des Himmels! heiliges Herz! warum,

Warum verstummst du unter den Lebenden,

Schläfst, freies! von den Götterlosen

Ewig hinab in die Nacht verwiesen?

Wacht denn, wie vormals, nimmer des Aethers Licht?

Und blüht die alte Mutter, die Erde nicht?

Und übt der Geist nicht da und dort, nicht

Lächelnd die Liebe das Recht noch immer?

Nur du nicht mehr! doch mahnen die Himmlischen,

Und stillebildend weht, wie ein kahl Gefild,

Der Othem der Natur dich an, der

Alleserheiternde, seelenvolle.

O Hoffnung! bald, bald singen die Haine nicht

Des Lebens Lob allein, denn es ist die Zeit,

Daß aus der Menschen Munde sie, die

Schönere Seele, sich neuverkündet,

Dann liebender im Bunde mit Sterblichen

Das Element sich bildet, und dann erst reich,

Bei frommer Kinder Dank, der Erde

Brust, die unendliche, sich entfaltet

Und unsre Tage wieder, wie Blumen, sind,

Wo sie, des Himmels Sonne, sich ausgeteilt

Im stillen Wechsel sieht und wieder

Froh in den Frohen das Licht sich findet,

Und er, der sprachlos waltet und unbekannt

Zukünftiges bereitet, der Gott, der Geist

Im Menschenwort, am schönen Tage

Kommenden Jahren, wie einst, sich ausspricht.

Image and Idea

The tree leaves use the light to speak.

Is it of memories, or other dreams?

If all we say is what is not

How could anything be?

Maybe that’s the shine upon the green,

That we are impossible

Making ourselves real

On the barest flare of idea,

As if the echo will hold us

Just long enough to believe

In what is underneath,

The paper-thin reverberation

Where all this creation is dim,

And elements themselves are broken

In the service of wisdom –

It’s the light here, that isn’t there

In perfection, that is prized,

What is missing from our fiendish dreams

Of immortality, the way the wheat

Doesn’t need to be told to grow straight,

So gold parades gimcracks and says “this is me”

And wonders why no one believes them.

Beneath the paper-thin veil is only a

Faint beating, enough of a suggestion

That the sky is gold in our reflection,

So we have to bow down,

And though even the shiver we feel

Is our own only, so fiercely kept

Is the secret on either side,

Something – familiar – connects:

The urging of the completed

On the aimless incomplete,

How choices must be made

Without an understanding,

Just the vagaries of faith

And an inkling of home.

Backyard Salon

The dragon moves
Unlike the wind
That makes the basil wands
Teach the bees,
The cherry leaves
Rhapsodize in time,
The canna dance,
The parsley give
The somber sign of yes;

It doesn't seem to move,
Such poets never do,
Still it poses here
And poses there,
The dusty bricks,
The rusted jar,
With eyes that can't stop seeing,
Saying nothing
For in emptiness
There's the longing
For what these plants
Can't understand,
All that's shaken off
On the road to stillness.

If it weren't the thing
That gives them life,
Perhaps they wouldn't turn
Their nervous limbs for
Something true to mourn,
They'd be motionless too,
As if invisible,
As if the eye of all that saw
Doesn't only look at them.

Stevens Texplication #39: The Ordinary Women

100 years is a long time even in poetry. The manners and habits of ordinary life are so different now than in 1922, when “The Ordinary Women” was written, it’s hard for contemporary sensibilities to feel the frisson at the heart of the poem. But then again, in 1931, R.P. Blackmur, one of the most astute poetry critics of the 20^th century, said of it, “I am at a loss, and quite happy there, to know anything literally about this poem.” So maybe the incomprehensibility of poetry is something immortal after all!

Blackmur's praise alludes to the poem’s sonorous and unexpected language rich with archaisms, as well as the ease and panache with which Stevens pulls off another of his self-devised poetic forms. Here the stanzas consist of two iambic hexameter lines, the second one having an internal rhyme, followed by a three-beat line and an equally odd five-beat line. The overall effect (carried over in the diction as well) is a lush romantic set up that’s abruptly clipped into Asian-like cadences that echo anxiously in the air. Here’s the poem:

Then from their poverty they rose,
From dry catarrhs, and to guitars
They flitted
Through the palace walls.

They flung monotony behind,
Turned from their want, and, nonchalant,
They crowded
The nocturnal halls.

The lacquered loges huddled there
Mumbled zay-zay and a-zay, a-zay.
The moonlight
Fubbed the girandoles.

And the cold dresses that they wore,
In the vapid haze of the window-bays,
Were tranquil
As they leaned and looked

From the window-sills at the alphabets,
At beta b and gamma g,
To study
The canting curlicues

Of heaven and of the heavenly script.
And there they read of marriage-bed.
Ti-lill-o!
And they read right long.

The gaunt guitarists on the strings
Rumbled a-day and a-day, a-day.
The moonlight
Rose on the beachy floors.

How explicit the coiffures became,
The diamond point, the sapphire point,
The sequins
Of the civil fans!

Insinuations of desire,
Puissant speech, alike in each,
Cried quittance
To the wickless halls.

Then from their poverty they rose,
From dry guitars, and to catarrhs
They flitted
Through the palace walls.

Stevens is always obsessed with how imagination makes reality seem meaningless, as reality makes imagination seem illusory. What better way to explore the ever-shifting interplay between these two poles than by examining an evening at a movie theatre? This gives the poet a chance to reflect on how celluloid illusions shape and transform us, just as it allows a spotlight on the not-so-pretty mechanics of how those illusions are created.

The poem begins with the word “then,” which suggests the poem takes place in the middle of the incoherent stream of modern life, where the pace created by mobility and convenience causes events to arise and shift rapidly, without resolution, the only constant being the time as “this happened then that happened.” The women who rose from poverty weren’t permanently emancipating themselves from economic bondage, they were just temporarily escaping into the opulence of a movie theatre.

The opening (and awe-inspiring) rhyme of catarrhs with guitars (bearing in mind catarrhs means “copious discharge of mucus”) serves as a typical Stevensian trope about art and the receiver (for which he often employed guitars, then nowhere near the dominant instrument of American musical culture it would one day become, to signify, as if he had a vision of Leo Fender somewhere inside his head). Thus, the women brought their weeping /emotion (and coughing/wheezing) into the movie theatre, where they were met (in those days) by guitar players accompanying the (silent) picture.

“They flitted” (moved swiftly and lightly, almost secretively) “through the palace walls,” suggesting the glee of transport and escape into a fantasy paradise, the super-extravagant movie “palace” of the day. “They flung monotony behind” to crowd these “nocturnal halls,” where they huddled in “lacquered loges” and “mumbled zay-zay and a-zay, a-zay.” The passages are both journalistically sound as physical description and poetically redolent of the feelings evoked from what must have been a new and thoroughly exciting affair. The rich brown of the loges (the first section of a balcony in a theatre) is richly depicted, while the sound of excited talking is perfectly rendered as “zay-zay and a-zay, a-zay,” with its echoes of “say” and “I say.”

The crowd quieted when “the moonlight fubbed the girandoles.” This is an exquisite yet evocative way of saying “moonlight did some sleight of hand trickery on the candelabras in the theatre.” It makes perfect sense if the moonlight is the strange sudden beam of light coming from above, also known as a movie projector light. The flickering of movies is well known for its effect on objects it touches, and Stevens makes full use of this throughout.

Said movie light – like the moon – made the dresses cold, just as it stilled (made “tranquil”) the spectators, and created a “vapid haze” in the “window-bays,” a wonderful description of the ornate boxes found in old movie houses, where they could look through the “window” to another reality.

After playing with multiple meanings in the word window, Stevens goes practically pun-crazy in stanza five. From their window-sills they could see “the alphabets,” which refers not only to the intertitles in silent movies that capture for viewers much of the dialogue, but the stars, which are categorized by the letters of the Greek alphabet. The alpha stars are major, the beta secondary and the gamma even less bright. In the days of the Greeks, the people looked to the stars for answers. In the days of moving pictures, they look, of course, on Hollywood stars, where there are similar levels – the term “A-lister” derives from this use. It appears these ladies were watching what was referred to as a B movie. But they did see in the “canting curlicues” of all the movies of that time (the slanting designs around the words on the title cards ((as well as the sanctimonious rhetoric and circular plots of early movies))), that this film was about heaven and it was written in a heavenly script (note again the double meaning). Put another way, the movie and its cathedral were like preacher and church had earlier been, with powerful words and miraculous effects and impossible transportations to unfamiliar places.

“And there they read [on the cards] of marriage-bed. / Ti-lill-o!” Just as the churches know how to use our daily concerns to gain our sympathetic alignment, the movie here presents what is presumably an adulterous situation for the ladies to be titillated by. “And they read right long,” gaining moral strength in others’ moral downfall, with a Southern accent to boot (“right long”), which comports to Stevens’ sense (expressed in a letter to his wife) that the churches of the South were still real, in contrast to the “moribund” North.  

Again, we see precise description combined with rich suggestion, with a lot covered in a few lines. Stanza seven steps back from the relationship between the viewers and the viewed to the assistants who were helping with the reel illusion, the “gaunt guitarists on the strings” whose background music “rumbled [appropriately] a-day and a-day, a day” as if in response to their earlier commotion. “The moonlight / Rose on the beachy floors” cues the projection team with its apt metaphor for the graininess of film.

This movie light illuminated (made “explicit”) – as movies in theatres do – the hair-do’s (“coiffures”) of the viewers, rendering them as diamonds, sapphires and sequins … all the glitters in the Hollywood firmament. They become one with the movie, as movie-goers have been ever since. Even their “civil fans” gain the imprimatur of the glitterati.  

Stanza nine takes the comedy imbedded in the overripe descriptions into overt irony. “Insinuations of desire” reminds the reader that this story-telling is fake and manipulative, “puissant (extremely powerful) speech … Cried quittance” (a release or discharge from a debt or obligation) so the women who paid their two bits to get in would feel suitably entertained, and the halls were revealed to be “wickless” (yet another archaic word Stevens employs in this poem about the newest modern invention), which could be a nod to the physical fact that the light doesn’t come, as in churches and stages, from a candle, or it could be an observation that these people are not part of any real community, they are only together in being drawn in like moths by the magic movie light.

“Then,” just as rapidly as they came, they depart the theatre. The catarrh/guitar rhyme is reversed. They rose again from their poverty (which they didn’t really lose after all, or perhaps they gained a new kind), from the “dry” (sterile or no longer played) guitar accompanists and back to whatever afflictions they came with, leaving a la Cinderella the same “palace walls” they had gloriously entered before, as if suddenly banished from court.

It’s clear Stevens uses ironic detachment to depict how shocking movies must have been to sensibilities raised on books and candlelight storytelling. This sense of shock, unfortunately for us, is so familiar with each new displacing technology that this poem seems like a relic of that strange time when poetry and the other arts were awkwardly trying to adapt to a mechanized world where there was no longer any pretense of the old Gods. The clinging to the old dictionaries here – like holding on the bible as the demon attacks – seems somehow absurd, like a 1906 newspaper story appearing in today’s New York Times.

Still, the poem refuses to give up on Poetry itself, which is no less threatened by the rise of the picture house than any other art form. In giving up all the tricks he had to Poesy, Stevens shows us a commitment that can help us shine through the dark ages here and to come.

When the Strings become Visible

What does it mean
          to walk like
A human being?
          Is there some
Connection that
          must be broken?

To see the lights
          turn inward
The flame no more
          than a display
The reach no greater
          than that of a tree

I convince myself
          I'm watched for clues
To get keys to the puzzle
          from which I've sprung
Some unimpeachable proof
          that I'm not wrong

Instead the separate stories
          seem to blend
As one vast
          victimhood
Of what will not
          be listened to
    
But how could such indifferences
          exist?
There's only me
          and I walk past
The something that
          has happened

Could I try to catch up
          or just keep walking
Knowing no one's
           watching
When my shoes hit
            the horizon

Above the Fountain

It’s a sculpture

               one of thousands

                              most now melted down

He got ripped off

               is all he remembers

                              and the breasts a few mls thicker

A thousand pass in front each day

               few pay some respect

                              avert their gaze

Fewer mutter things, about Venus

               or is it Artemis?

                              or the clean lines of de stijle

(But that is only to impress

               those already bullied

                              by the aforementioned size of breast)

Yet something in it stirs

               some Mona Lisa smile

                              as if the real is there to taunt

For it symbolizes, despite its nakedness, some

               refuse of immortality

                              some glimpse of latent beauty

Something that exists so we don’t have to

             that we’re supposed to feel but not

                              allowed, despite it all, to see

Perturbations in the Grid

These strangers are too much inside me
With compassionate stares
And opening-night eyes, what form
I have is nothing before theirs.

They say it's only a mirror
Moving like a pool,
It's anything I want it to be,
These faces blurred like jewels.

There is no place outside myself;
I'm the alien one
Offering some half-gone crumbs
From half-forgotten homes,

With nothing I can offer in response.
It's what they call an answer, one hand
Clapping, the question asked
To its end,

The back I turned the only kind of yes,
The no of getting lost in oneness
Narrows to a point where we disappear
In what we have to share.

Odes by Hölderlin: Return to the Homeland

Your mild air lifting! Heralds of Italy!

   Replete with your poplar trees, beloved stream!

      Your swaying mountain! All of your one

         Sunlit summit, so have you come again?

You silent place! If in dreams you seemed distant

   After the day grew more hopeless with longing,

      You are my mansion, and companion,

         Trees of the hilltop, you the familiar!

How long it has been, how long! The dormant child

   Is gone, and gone is youth and love and desire;

      But you, my fatherland, are holy -

         Long suffering one! See, you have remained.

And therefore they suffer alongside of you,

   Your friends, their costly teacher! Your servants too,

      Who wander and stray, when far away

         And reminded in dreams they’re unfaithful.

And when in the feverish breast of the young

   The capricious wishes are mollified and

      Stilled before destiny, thus they are

         Made dearer to you because purified.

Goodbye then, days of youth, your path of the rose

   That loves, and all of your wayfarer pathways,

      Farewell! And capture my life again,

         O heaven of the homeland, in blessing!

----------------------------------------------------------------

Rückkehr in die Heimat

Ihr milden Lüfte! Boten Italiens!

   Und du mit deinen Pappeln, geliebter Strom!

      Ihr wogenden Gebirg! o all ihr

         Sonnigen Gipfel, so seid ihrs wieder?

Du stiller Ort! in Träumen erschienst du fern

   Nach hoffnungslosem Tage dem Sehnenden,

      Und du mein Haus, und ihr Gespielen,

         Bäume des Hügels, ihr wohlbekannten!

Wie lang ists, o wie lange! des Kindes Ruh

   Ist hin, und hin ist Jugend und Lieb und Lust;

      Doch du, mein Vaterland! du heilig –

         Duldendes! siehe, du bist geblieben.

Und darum, daß sie dulden mit dir, mit dir

   Sich freun, erziehst du, teures! die Deinen auch

      Und mahnst in Träumen, wenn sie ferne

         Schweifen und irren, die Ungetreuen.

Und wenn im heißen Busen dem Jünglinge

   Die eigenmächtgen Wünsche besänftiget

      Und stille vor dem Schicksal sind, dann

         Gibt der Geläuterte dir sich lieber.

Lebt wohl dann, Jugendtage, du Rosenpfad

   Der Lieb, und all ihr Pfade des Wanderers,

      Lebt wohl! und nimm und segne du mein

         Leben, o Himmel der Heimat, wieder!

The Wind of Distant Sirens

The crack of palms in crisp gusts
The kind of day where you move
Without question

And all the directions
Merge into one
Triumphal chaos

As if all the micro
Discernments adjustments
And judgments were wrong

No longer a thought for what is
And what is not
In the powder blue sky

Even the slightest hesitation
Against the inexplicable
Seems to defy the will of God

At the Eurythmy Recital

On the ground of wonder,
Where we train our souls to art,
The music talks in circles,
It cannot offer anything
Except what we want to hear:
The town square with all its lamps,
But not what's inside the windows,

The conjuring bow
Like a second sun
Focused on heroics, noble
Dreams, faces that glow,
What disappears in the flicker
Of its feather whiskers
In vaporous shadow

One wants so much more:
To fill in the echoes
But all we can fill in is the sound
With imagined notes from
Remembered instruments,
Maybe to see the music's dissonance,
As if it was invisible.

Stevens Textplication #38: Bantams in Pine-Woods

“But I am, in any case, / A most inappropriate man / In a most unpropitious place,” reported Stevens in “Sailing After Lunch,” a rare glimpse inside the personal life of the great poet. The same feeling is evoked in “Bantams in Pine-Woods” from 1922. It’s not exactly a confessional poem, but the amount of self-disclosure in these ten mad-cap lines opens up a fresh view of Stevens that is often lost when a writer is safely feted and dead. Put your seat belts on, here’s the poem:

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan

Of tan with henna hackles, halt!

Damned universal cock, as if the sun

Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.

Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal.

Your world is you. I am my world.

You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!

Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,

Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,

And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos.

This is a difficult poem to explicate, because it makes, despite the large proportion of nonsense words, such complete sense explanations seem counter-productive. But I only have to go as far as the Wikipedia entry on this poem to be reminded that the gulf between poet and reader in Stevens is always vast. In fact, the reading of the poem from Stevens’ most esteemed readers is so much opposed by the actual poem, it’s instructive to paste the entire interpretation (as of 6/1/18 at least) here:

This poem can be read as a declaration of independence for American poetry. The new world's "inchling" poets are defiant towards the traditional literary canon, and particularly defiant against the unnamed, arrogant, self-appointed gatekeeper of literary tradition; they are confident instead in their own free powers of innovation in the New World. The poem can be compared to "The Paltry Nude Starts on a Spring Voyage" on Helen Vendler's interpretation of it as an expression of confidence in new American art. On this reading Chieftain Iffucan represents the canon, making a claim to universality and a privileged access to inspiration that is challenged by the Appalachian inchlings. The richness of tradition is conceded ("Fat!...."), but it is relativized ("Your world is you"). Nevertheless, a single poet is addressed but not identified in the poem; the possibility that that poet is T. S. Eliot, who emigrated from the New World to the Old World, problematizes whether the "canon" is or is not un-American.

Somehow, I don’t think the critics are just being polite about the ridiculous way the poet presents himself here. The first stanza conjures the spectacle of a grossly obese man wearing a caftan and parading like a ceremonial cock’s comb his red dyed hair (henna was traditionally used to dye hair red, for example by the Pre-Raphaelites). It’s impossible not to point out in this context that Stevens himself had red hair and – shall we say – ample girth. The cheesy play on words of “if you can” and “as can” only heightens the silliness, as if a Boumi hat has been placed on the Chieftain’s head.

The self-deprecation expands in the second stanza, as the sun is compared to a “blackamoor” – a stereotyped depiction of African and Asia servants/slaves by Europeans – to serve this rooster tail of spectacle that is derived from the delusions of the male ego (“damned universal cock”).

The strutting referred to here is obviously of the poetic variety, as our would-be chief, like a crowing cock, displays the ornate images and incessant rhymes that would feed his desire for authority and/or recognition.

But the third stanza wrecks this pretense faster than an ignored diet plan: “Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat!” The seemingly incongruous comeback to this, “I am the personal. / Your world is you. I am my world” suggests that the main character is responding to an attack. What does a poet do when he is accused, as Stevens often was, of being too lush, too stylish, too obscure, too detached from reality? He points out coldly, as here, that all of this makes perfect sense to him, in his world. That it doesn’t register in another world is not, in fact, his concern.

The poem then darkens – and deepens – by making an abrupt shift from self-examination toward outward hostility to him. The ten-foot poet (our Chieftain) is now addressed by someone or something else, an inchling (clear enough in context but, as far as I can tell, a made up word). The twist here is that the inchling, or bantam if you prefer (smaller roosters in contrast to the giant cock), has the power over the giant instead of vice-versa. He is the one who bids him “begone” and dismisses him by not fearing/hearing his owl-like hoos.

Instead, he “bristles” (reacts angrily and defensively as if to a grave offense, with hair stood on end) and the associated they “point their Appalachian tangs,” the latter word not only connoting the sound of a strong accent but also a literal knife that vows to cut up his work to ribbons. Indeed, if everyone inhabits different worlds, as suggested in the earlier stanza, the lack of commerce between the giant and the inchling gives the power to the inchling.

It is that sense of just how much power ignorance wields that lifts this up from what would be a standard – albeit strangely worded – retort to one’s critics. We are taught – generally – that there are “great” writers who “rise to the top” by subjecting their “genius” to the “tempering” of multiple, critical readings. This poem shows an altogether contradictory experience, where illiterate and venomous mediocrities routinely destroy poetic geniuses and their work, as if that is the natural order of things.

Comically, such an end is fitting for our Azcan, who finds he has far less power and influence that he had egoistically led himself to believe. More seriously, it should also prompt a sense of cognitive dissonance in the reader, who would likely hold on to the belief despite the evidence that his/her reading list has been pre-screened by reputable readers. Ah, but that’s the beauty of separate worlds! They have such rich, open possibilities.

Chronologies with Stevens are often speculative, but this poem appears to have been composed around the same time as “The Comedian as Letter C,” an epic foray into romantic illusion that was itself a rewrite of an equally epic “From the Journals of Crispin.” This earlier piece had been composed for and submitted to some literary contest hand-picked by Stevens’ friends. Unfortunately, the poem did not win, or even place. This apparently hit Stevens hard, as he threw the entire manuscript in the trash when it was returned. Some enterprising neighbor rescued it, held onto it for decades without Stevens’ knowledge, and finally released it to the scholarly circuit, where it eventually appeared in Opus Posthumous.

That background suggests a possible real-life inspiration for “Bantams in Pine-Woods.” Poets dependent on publication to be read (or not read, as the case often is) feel perhaps more keenly than other artists the hegemony that critics and literary gatekeepers have over their work. It’s some comfort that someone as great as Stevens experienced it and kept his humor intact.