A Postcard from the Volcano
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
The Idea of Order at Key West
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
I would like to believe that Wallece Stevens knew something that we still try to grasp in regards to poerty and literary critisism. he seemed to know there is so much more than reading the piece of literature. One must hear it and see it with poery seeing eyes and poetry hearing ears. and in that i would like to think poetry takes on another form, maybe even a form removed from critisism. maybe...
The Idea of Order at Key West
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
I would like to believe that Wallece Stevens knew something that we still try to grasp in regards to poerty and literary critisism. he seemed to know there is so much more than reading the piece of literature. One must hear it and see it with poery seeing eyes and poetry hearing ears. and in that i would like to think poetry takes on another form, maybe even a form removed from critisism. maybe...