Thursday Poem-Wallace Stevens

A Postcard From The Volcano

Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;

And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost;

And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion-house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion’s look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is . . . Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,

A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

4 thoughts on “Thursday Poem-Wallace Stevens

  1. There is an awful lot of poetry thrown around on blogs. It is always nice to come across poetry that is genuinely worth taking the time to read. I, too, will be clicking on the above link and reading some more Wallace Stevens (a poet little anthologised in England). Thank you.

  2. Simon,

    Thanks for commenting.

    Fair warning: Not always an easy nor accessible poet. Sometime romantic but much more a modernist, self referential and deeply musical at times, large vocabulary, curiously abstract and philosophical at times, with lots of ideas.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s