Wallace Stevens: "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

I have always admired poet and Pulitzer Prize winner Wallace Stevens way with imagery.  One of my favorite of his poems is "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird."

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

In this poem, Stevens demonstrates the importance and the variance of perspective.  His poem inspired my own "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Chair."

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Chair

I.

Strapped above the ground and fed.

Swaddled in a blanket red.

II.

In the homemade dirt

I kneel.

A buzzing saw,

My granddaddy’s hands,

A polished throne is born.

III.

The chair across from me is

empty.

The space you used to occupy

devoid.

IV.

Splintered and lopsided,

Destined for firewood –

Another lover’s quarrel.

V.

Skating over linoleum floors,

Racing towards the finish line.

VI.

Carry me,

I can’t go alone.

VII.

Contemplating the lightning bugs and fireflies,

A swift breeze announces a summer storm.

I slip inside,

Carrying an imprint of wooden slats on my skin.

VIII.

A place of judgment,

questioning,

condemnation.

 

IX.

The backroom of a secondhand shop –

a coat of dust obscures

golden thread and delicate carvings.

X.

The chair sits,

Bald spot polished,

Reflecting light from the table.

XI.

Heavenly seat

From which the All Mighty presides

Giving righteous induction

Into his kingdom.

XII.

Tyra Banks whispering in my ear

“Do you want to be on top?”

I doze.

XIII.

row upon row

we wait

for a final

Electrifying

experience.

What item would you look at thirteen ways?

W. H. Auden: "Stop All the Clocks"

Pulitzer Prize winner W. H. Auden's poem "Stop All the Clocks" is a masterpiece on grief.

Stop All the Clocks

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The imagery to me is so realistic.  When experiencing the death of someone so beloved, you can't imagine even your dog being happy.

What poem do you think best describes grief?

Anne Sexton: "Her Kind"

Another one of my favorite poets and Pulitzer Prize winners is Anne Sexton.  I especially like her fairytale collection, but the one poem of hers that always sticks with me is "Her Kind."  To me, this piece really captures the struggle of being a woman with many responsibilities and roles to take on.

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,   

haunting the black air, braver at night;   

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch   

over the plain houses, light by light:   

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.   

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.   

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,   

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,   

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:   

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,   

learning the last bright routes, survivor   

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.   

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.   

I have been her kind.

In fact, I once wrote a sort of homage to Anne Sexton that was inspired by Frost's "Acquainted with the Night" and Sexton's "Her Kind." 

Channeling Anne Sexton’s Spirit                                                      

I have been one acquainted with the night.

A witch myself,

I sailed across the dark sky

Shrouded in fog –

A thin, comfortless blanket.

There are others

Like me –

Daughters of a different sort.

Twelve fingers and twelve toes,

And no place to go.

What poets have inspired you?

Some Poetic Advice

I'm at the beach this morning, so this will be quick, but I had to share this post from Regular Rumination about how to love a poem.  She perfectly captured my attitude towards poetry and why the study of it when I was in school sometimes grated on my nerves. Yes, sometimes really digging into a poem, getting under its skin, unearths something new and deep to love in that poem, but sometimes I love a poem just because. Just because it's beautiful, because the words or the images come together just so. If you feel the same, read Lu's post below. She said it better than I ever could have.

Regular Rumination, How to Love a Poem

Recommendation: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

Sometimes there are books whose hype is so huge that I can't help but think "I am not going to read that - it can only be crap."  Then, impossibly, the hype gets even bigger, and I think, "Hmmm...maybe I should read this just so I can join in on the conversation."  And then I do, and it sucks (I'm looking at you Twilight!).  But sometimes...sometimes I read it and think, "Why did I wait this long?!"

Audrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife is one of the latter.  It surpassed the hype.  The Time Traveler's Wife details the life of Clare and Henry.  Henry is a time-traveler.  Clare is not.  Nevertheless, from the moment Clare meets Henry at age six, her life is consumed by him, and she is always waiting for the next time she gets to see him.  When they are finally in the same time and the same place, they are in their twenties, and their relationship quickly becomes serious.

Although this novel is about time-travel, it is not science fiction.  In fact, it is Niffenegger's quiet style that appealed to me the most.  The story of Clare and Henry unfolds in dated entries, and the reader is often witnessing the most mundane, daily occurrences in a couple's life - cooking dinner, riding in a car, eating breakfast, going to work, house shopping.  In spite of Henry's abnormal ability, this novel is a very realistic portrayal of contemporary adult life, which makes it all the more poignant.  Clare and Henry face triumphs and tragedies the same as any couple, but the biggest obstacle in their relationship - Henry's tendency to disappear and leave Clare alone for days - sometimes weeks - on end - is also one that any wife with a husband who travels frequently or is in the military can relate to.  

The biggest praise I can give Niffenegger's novel is that it is unimposing.  It is a beautiful story about how much the everyday moments in life matter and how when you add them all together you end up with an exquisite tapestry of a life loved and lived to the fullest.  There are those who may say the message of The Time Traveler's Wife is "true love is worth waiting for" or "true love is forever," and although these themes are certainly apparent in the novel, I think Niffenegger's true message is an exhortation to experience and savor the little moments in life.

I recently watched the movie adaptation of The Time Traveler's Wife with Rachel McAdams and Eric Bana as Clare and Henry.  After a stilted start, the result of missing plot details, an inconsistent timeline, and off-kilter acting, the movie really demonstrated the intimacy between the characters.  As with all movies, it took some liberties with the plot that I was not happy with, and it focused more on the strain Henry's time traveling put on his and Clare's relationship than the many moments of happiness they share in the book.  Overall, it was a touching portrayal of the novel, but to really grasp the subtle complexities of the plot and characters Niffenegger created, I suggest you read the book.

Robert Frost: "Acquainted with the Night"

Robert Frost won the Pulitzer Prize four times.  He is most well-known for his poems lauding the beauties of nature, but my favorite Frost poem has always been "Acquainted with the Night," which shows a darker side of Frost. 

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

I love the repetition of the first and last lines - book-ending the poem.  One of my other favorite poems is also about walking.  Thomas Hardy's "The Walk" is about how his daily walk is changed after the death of his wife because she is no longer waiting for him when he returns.

The Walk

You did not walk with me

Of late to the hill-top tree

By the gated ways,

As in earlier days;

You were weak and lame,

So you never came,

And I went alone, and I did not mind,

Not thinking of you as left behind.

I walked up there to-day

Just in the former way;

Surveyed around

The familiar ground

By myself again:

What difference, then?

Only that underlying sense

Of the look of a room on returning thence.

How sad...what are your favorite themes in poetry?