Wallace Stevens wrote after all, then after all again. It was spots on the wall that made the most. A few partitioners relayed their facts, gifted in a place where marshes collect the dew and mist. Rains became the same expected, from southern winds across the bold and heartfelt ocean. Which is to say, a poetry, guided fondly, ran into being. Being here, telling something posed and remaining, the poet, this one, tried some lurches. We who read, or thought we did, popped into the bounty, for seconds on end. The poem really urged a more pliant remorse. This remorse is dandy today, with marks drawn across the state of Connecticut to indicate that the economy sucks. It has always sucked, deeply, imperiously, with goods and margin. Now, friends, it sucks with wolfish chuckle. Stevens did not exactly mean this, but he must have meant something with all those words aligned just so. Meaning is a force of nature, like a hurricane named Kyle. Yes, such a statement is ludicrous, Kyle is too odd a name to place on weight, but Stevens worked out his messages with a deliberation that seems easy to respond to. We should vote him some award, for being so perfectly acceptable. He numbers one of many, but still resumes his clauses. He could have lived in Worcester, had he only tried.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments