Category Archives: Wallace Stevens

April is here and this man in the suit is a poet…


Not Ideas About the Thing
But the Thing Itself

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,
A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow . . .
It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep’s faded papier-mache . . .
The sun was coming from outside.

That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.

–Wallace Stevens, American poet (1879 – 1955) from “The Collected Poems” (published 1954)


Wallace Stevens

     “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”  Matthew 20:16

One of the first poets who fascinated me was Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).  His day job was working as a lawyer in a large insurance company.  Yet his interest in writing made him a poet in his spare time, and he equally excelled in this as he did in his day career.  Abstract and philosophical, his poems are complex, and yet accessible in strange and mysterious ways.  Something I read about Mr. Stevens’ poetry recently is that he also was proficient at creating memorable phrases in his poems.

Wallace Stevens was born in Reading, Pennsylvania and was able to attend Harvard University where his writing ability was manifested in both articles and poems published in this university’s newspapers.  Unfortunately he was unable to graduate due to family financial problems.  After Harvard, Stevens wrote for newspapers in New York yet yearned for something more fulfilling.  He eventually finished college and entered law school.  During this time he wrote some poetry, however concentrated more on getting his law degree and acquiring work as a lawyer.  It was after he married, had a child and began to work full time for an insurance company in Hartford, CT that Stevens’ poetry began to flourish.

There are several poems of Mr. Stevens that I like.  It was hard to choose a selection for this blog.  One of these I’ve chosen I actually thought was written by another poet (!) so I decided to include it.  It’s an example of a renown modern poem.

Of Mere Being

The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze distance.

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

(published 1954)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird


Among twenty snowy mountains,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the blackbird.


I was of three minds,

Like a tree

In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.

It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and a blackbird

Are one.


I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.


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.


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?


I know noble accents

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blackbird is involved

In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles.


At the sight of blackbirds

Flying in a green light,

Even the bawds of euphony

Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut

In a glass coach.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his equipage

For blackbirds.


The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat

In the cedar-limbs.

(published 1917)

***Here is a link to Peter Y. Chou’s piece on that gives some brief additional background on Wallace Stevens and his poem “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird:”