Collected Poems

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Even though it's not really talked about, I would say my favorite poem of his is "Another Weeping Woman". It is so quick and beautiful and earnest and a good poem to read when you lose one of your loved ones. Over the past couple of years I have really warmed up to poetry. I'm not a huge American lit person in general but I always tell people that Stevens is one of my favorites, if not my favorite American poet. Everything about his work seems so personal, like when you're reading it, it feels like he is speaking directly to you.

It feels so natural but honestly nothing about reading his poetry is easy. It is tough to figure out. But I enjoyed taking the time to sit down and try to hypothesize all that is going on in his works. He is dark, so dark and yet manages to feel so light, so beautiful. He delivers the best of both worlds in my eyes and that's why I will revisit this collection again and again and again.

It never stops being so hideous and so beautiful at the same time. Jun 26, Sarah rated it it was amazing. This book of poetry combines an earthy sensibility coupled with a philosophical speculation that appeals to me. My favorite book of poetry.

George Oppen compilation of readings (from New Collected Poems)

May 01, Joseph Shuffield rated it it was amazing Shelves: poetry. Stevens wrote poetry like a jeweler cuts diamonds; his language is musical to the ear and prismatic in the mind's eye. He often writes about the power of art--specifically poetry--to transform Reality. She sang beyond the genius of the sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang.

And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker.

March 12222

Then we, As we beheld he Stevens wrote poetry like a jeweler cuts diamonds; his language is musical to the ear and prismatic in the mind's eye. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Nov 15, eliza rated it really liked it Shelves: for-school. View all 5 comments. From pt. V of his poem "Things of August" - 'The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being, A crown within him of crispest diamonds. A reddened garment falling to his feet, A hand of light to turn the page, A finger with a ring to guide his eye From line to line, as we lie on the grass and listen To that which has no speech, The voluble intentions of the symbols, The ghostly celebrations of the picnic, The secretions of insight.

Collected Poems: Fleur Adcock - Victoria University Press

Jan 04, Chris rated it liked it. Another wonderful, mostly opaque, poet. But I thoroughly enjoyed what I could understand. Stevens has a very strong philosophical bent, and his overtly humanistic stance celebrates in such bold and beautiful language the gift that every moment of life is with or without an eternal assurance. This is a fair question, because it is really a question of how another person thinks and feels, which we should all be curious about. Poetry is the perfect medium with which to answer, and Stevens is a great poet for it.

His poem Sunday Morning is a great start. The subject is a woman who chooses to skip a Sunday morning church service: …Why should she give her bounty to the dead? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun… …Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? So, one gets a poet to translate. There is an undercurrent of heavy-sighed romanticism in many of the poems, which to me comes across as far too maudlin and melodramatic; but the way he wrestles with philosophical ideas like the tension between appearance and reality, and description versus impression, piqued my interest the most.

He looks a matter in the eyeballs, and calls back to the rest of us convention-lubbers what we might see if we were brave enough to look directly at death, suffering, boredom, danger, beauty, and existence as it is.

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Sometimes a line would emerge like a piece of clear sky from out a hole in a complex and clouded poem, and a message would be delivered. There are secrets there. For more reviews, visit my blog, www. Aug 29, Jeff Crompton rated it it was amazing. I'm marking this book as "read," although I'm not sure I've read every poem.

This is certainly not a book which can be read cover-to-cover in a few sittings, at least not by someone of my intellect. I fell in love with Stevens' famous "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" during my freshman year in college. The images were striking and beautiful, even though I didn't understand what the poem was about.

But the mystery was part of the appeal.

  1. The Corrected Edition.
  2. March 12222.
  3. Materials for Design.
  4. The Colossus and Other Poems.
  5. Principles of Functional Verification!

I "understand" the poem more now, but there will a I'm marking this book as "read," although I'm not sure I've read every poem. I "understand" the poem more now, but there will always be an element of mystery to it, and to all of Stevens' poetry. Stevens' poetry is difficult; I don't see any other way to put it. Even when he uses simple language, his word choices and sentence construction can be strange and puzzling. Here's a fairly short poem which I mostly "get," "Anecdote of the Jar": I placed a jar in Tennessee, And round it was, upon a hill. It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it, And sprawled around, no longer wild. The jar was round upon the ground And tall and of a port in air. It took dominion everywhere. The jar was gray and bare. It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee. I've turned to some of these poems, like "The Emperor of Ice-Cream" and those I've mentioned above, many times over the years, and derived great pleasure from them. But even the ones I don't understand fascinate me. All pleasures in life are not easy ones; some things are worth working for.

Yes, Stevens' poetry needs savoring Jul 14, CandyStripedBlue rated it it was amazing. I've rarely encountered the first-person voice in his work. It's as though he has devised these poems from a place of deepest and most personal significance, and they are completed now for none other than you.

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  • His poetic voice declares and justifies its own authority -- the language is crafted beautifully and inventively in such masterful "He wanted his heart to stop beating And his mind to rest in a permanent realization" I feel that as a poet Stevens always seems to be speaking directly to you. His poetic voice declares and justifies its own authority -- the language is crafted beautifully and inventively in such masterful arrangement that it somehow manages to read as though it were composed effortlessly.

    He is both intellectually penetrating and aesthetically captivating. He synthesizes the literary voice of classic high-literature -- too often alienating in its academic and institutional role -- with the universal layman dialectic, and convincingly persuades the subject of the modern world to strive toward achieving his highest potential, and so be "A man at the centre of men," and a "final dreamer of the total dream.

    Does Stevens, who as an artist, and as a poet who treads tirelessly the line between matter and form while defying any definitive placement on either side to the point of paradox, imagine himself fulfilling the role of daemon, described by Diotimus as an interlocutor between the living and the dead, thus serving as the point of tension between mortals and gods and communicating the infinite in a mediated form through the artist's self-generative process of creative production. It would appear Stevens is not altogether different from the figure named 'Berserk' whom the speaker in "Anecdote of the Prince of Peacocks" recalls.

    As Berserk says to the speaker, "I set my traps in the midst of dreams," Stevens too builds his poetic craft amid the dreamscape of his unconscious, in which a meeting ground is fixed between the finite and the infinite, as the ego is both lost and recovered again, leaving the artist to attempt at transmitting the dream into his work. The dreamscape then is not a place of matter of form, of poetic form or content matter, but instead a conjunction between the two, which in their relation create something new.

    Lacan says that the desire for recognition always dominates the content of what is recognized; the poetic process incorporates the desire to recognize what is beyond the apparent world with whatever we may apprehend there. Whereas bad poetry attempts to recreate its subject matter by imitating its content in a recreation of form, good poetry overlooks this binary in which the mundane image is boorishly imitated and instead cultivates a third way, a synthesis of subject matter and the idea of beauty, that does not represent anything but insists on itself as something singular and novel.

    In such a way, Stevens undertakes his responsibility as a poet by positioning himself repeatedly in-betwixt the dreaming world he seeks to reveal and the waking world to which he wants to reveal it. Thus he posits himself within a ternary structure compatible with the Platonic conception of beauty and the attainment of virtue through the pure embodiment of virtue as such, giving form to itself rather than mere copies, just as the poet composes his work as a testament to itself, since it already is what it aims to represent.

    Like Berserk, Stevens derives from the ancient source of spiritual energy said to have taken hold of shamans, prophets, warriors, and artists. The term Berserk draws the obvious parallels to Norse Berserkrgang and the word seidr which refers to an Old Norse shaman sorcery characterized by fits of uncontrollable energy that unleashed powerful frenzies of activity and creative expression. By connecting the primal source of his poetic creation with that of the Berserkr warrior, Stevens reaffirms that poetry is a destructive and compelling force that holds an authoritative and binding influence on the world, not only in the destructive interplay of masculine hegemony, but in the primal Dionysian rapture that nourishes this self-inflicted structural violence, as an electrifying friction pulsing among contesting signifiers, form and essence exerting upon and subsisting by means of each other.

    What Stevens does is make use of this binary by which our species as sexed beings and our reality as the locus of the signifier, and connive some work of unity in which we may for a moment annul the bridge that situates us as alienated subjects defined by what they lack, and together experience something that transcends the gap between me and you, and instead emerges as something created from out of that gap itself, where the unconscious world became conscious and the conscious world became unconscious.

    This is something like what I believe is an experience of the sublime.

    The Collected Poems Of Denise Levertov

    In these unhappy he meditates a whole, The full of fortune and the full of fate, As if he lived all lives, that he might know, In hall harridan, not hushful paradise, To a haggling of wind and weather, by these lights Like a blaze of summer straw, in winter's nick.

    Oct 17, Kelly marked it as to-read. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cr i have a couple of his poems on my wall in my art studio. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

    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. For she was the maker of the song she sang.

    The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone.

    But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker's rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds. Dec 15, Yasiru reviews will soon be removed and linked to blog marked it as to-read. Wallace Stevens is a fascinating poet, an aesthete whose concern is the complex, ever unravelling relation between the world and consciousness.

    His work evokes something of Lucretius, as well as the Romantics, but it's framed in terms of the Modernist quest, part response, part direction. For Stevens, experiences are not encapsulated by snapshot instances, or at least, such instances are not in any form-perfect way reducible to language, whether in the moment or through later reminiscence. Langua Wallace Stevens is a fascinating poet, an aesthete whose concern is the complex, ever unravelling relation between the world and consciousness.

    Language offers instead facets of meaning, ever unfolding and gaining richness through our mind's engagement with experience in a keenly phenomenological sense. There is somewhat of a scientific direction in which to extend this chain of ideas: what is the relation between sensory information that reaches our brain and the linguistic output it offers in turn whether to communicate with others or in with ourselves in our minds.

    Books Included

    In the Crimea, on the periphery of the Russian Civil War, he underwent an intense education in Russian poetry and prosody, immersing himself in Pushkin and the Symbolists. Reading the Georgian poets as a Cambridge undergraduate, he continued to compose in Russian. Butterfly experts hail Nabokov. The Original of Laura by Vladimir Nabokov: review. It was also the year in which his father was killed when trying to protect a political rival from assassination.

    With the death of his father, his exile attained a sense of permanence and his poetry was infused with nostalgia and loss. While his output fell off sharply once he began writing novels in the late Twenties, Nabokov would continue to compose poems in his various seats of exile: Berlin, Paris, Boston, Ithaca New York , Montreux.

    This book sweeps from the derivative poems of his youth to the light verse he composed in English for The New Yorker. Thanks to the scrupulous editing of Thomas Karshan, who also writes an elegant introductory essay, this collection does not simply present the poems in chronological order but divides the Russian poems between those translated by Nabokov and those by his son.

    There are, however, occasions when his versions prove intrusive. Poetic translation, and its impossibility, is one of the themes Nabokov himself develops. After his father, and his land, it is this third loss, of his language, that is the subject of his best poetry. In these poems, Nabokov permits himself to doubt himself in a way his controlled and ironic fictions forbid. In comparison to those two long works, his other poems can appear slight. Faulkner said that every novelist is a failed poet.

    Now, with this two-volume edition, Merwin becomes only the second living poet to have his work collected by The Library of America. McClatchy — was the author of many books of poetry and essays, including Plundered Hearts: New and Selected Poems , and the editor of nine Library of America publications. Each Library of America series edition is printed on acid-free paper and features Smyth-sewn binding, a full cloth cover, and a ribbon marker. Discount offer available for first-time customers only.

    With contributions from donors, Library of America preserves and celebrates a vital part of our cultural heritage for generations to come.