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Articles by Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens | životopis, informace | ČBDB.cz
Životopis - Wallace Stevens: Wallace Stevens byl americký básník, zařazovaný k modernismu. Za knihu Collected Poems získal roku 1955 americkou Pulitzerovu cenu. Literární teorie v jeho díle nalézala souvislosti s Husserlovou a Heideggerovou fenomenologií, Friedrichem Nietzschem či hermetismem. Politicky patřil k pravici, podporoval Republikánskou stranu. (Zdroj: Wikipedie) (Založil/a: jakub.s )
The Sorrows of the Sun
Autumn is my favorite season—perhaps for the same reason I prefer music in a minor key. The trees’ colorful display seems especially fleeting in contrast to the upcoming winter death and darkness. Wallace Stevens deftly captures this melancholy in his 1932 poem, “Autumn Refrain.” I have loved this meditative but enigmatic poem all my life, though I never really understood it. To me, it beautifully captures the emptying out of color, warmth, light, and birdsong presaged by autumn.
Living Drunkenly, Staying Sober
In this week’s reboot, A.J. considers the possibility of living “drunkenly” in only the best sense of the word — being spontaneous, present, open to the delights of the moment — without, well, getting drunk. The occasion for the original essay was the publication of A.J.’s profile of the actor Josh Brolin in GQ. Brolin, who is sober, told an interviewer in 2018 that he wanted to “live more drunkenly.
Living Drunkenly, Staying Sober
In this week’s reboot, A.J. considers the possibility of living “drunkenly” in only the best sense of the word — being spontaneous, present, open to the delights of the moment — without, well, getting drunk. The occasion for the original essay was the publication of A.J.’s profile of the actor Josh Brolin in GQ. Brolin, who is sober, told an interviewer in 2018 that he wanted to “live more drunkenly.
Wallace Stevens: July Mountain
WE LIVE in a constellation Of patches and of pitches, Not in a single world, In things said well in music, On the piano, and in speech, As in a page of poetry — Thinkers without final thoughts In an always incipient cosmos, The way, when we climb a mountain, Vermont throws itself together.
Wallace Stevens: Banjo Boomer
THE mulberry is a double tree. Mulberry, shade me, shade me awhile. A white, pink, purple berry tree, A very dark-leaved berry tree. Mulberry, shade me, shade me awhile. A churchyard kind of bush as well, A silent sort of bush, as well. Mulberry, shade me, shade me awhile. It is a shape of life described By another shape without a word. Mulberry, shade me, shade me awhile — With nothing fixed by a single word. Mulberry, shade me, shade me awhile.
Freedom’s Not Free
It banks upon a contract that’s observed by everyone deemed members of the club. And all of them are hopefully well-served a healthy, legally propitious grub. For after all we’ve paid our union dues with more than paper money that’s been spent for comforting amenities like shoes, the bedding that enhances sleep and rent.
Equal Application of the Maw
(for our social hypocrites) Let everybody’s foe be jury, judge and executioner. Forget the facts which we assume indicted felons fudge. Your prosecutor’s countervailing tacks will tell the biased jury what the truth is. Since he’s all of what amounts to twelve, and appears to be a keen social sleuth of made-up crimes, it doesn’t pay to delve into specifics that could jeopardize his case. Let’s zero in on punishing the culprit so his crimes can be reprised.
Be Careful What You Wish For
“Oh, give me back my youth again,” he cried like Faust. For hordes of winsome girls appeared to stir the passion bottled up inside him – from his glowing skin tone to a beard like snow. In youth he was a connoisseur of music, foreign movies and ballet, but sorely wanting in affaires de Coeur whose sweet encounters might have paved the way for happiness. Thus old, he was prepared to abdicate the self that he had reared for sixty years, for most of which he chaired a seat in academia.
One Moment in Time
Most older people jump ship as it reaches shore. I find the shore receding as I look for more of what were crowded social groups of yore; or even what was formerly a music store. Cherise who once perceived it as a privilege to explore the opera repertoire now sees it as a bore whose auditory retort is a strident snore. Embarked in restaurants that once moved me to the core, coarse sailors have replaced my female stevedore, unbundling memories while thundering like Thor.
To Our Tone-Deaf Electorate
No! Goons ain’t rasping blue notes, anymore than the rapist will be fighting you soon, no matter how you heckle, snarl and roar. Democracy can sing only one tune, though morons end up on a sour note, creating a melodic dissonance. better suited to what the Nazis wrote than to our contractual vigilance that keeps us all on rough rivers afloat.
On This Day In Literature - Oct. 2nd, 1879 - Poet Wallace Stevens Is Born
Leslie Soule The Man With The Blue Guitar by Wallace Stevens I cannot bring a world quite round, Although I patch it as I can. I sing a hero’s head, large eye And bearded bronze, but not a man, Although I patch him as I can And reach through him almost to man. If to serenade almost to man Is to miss, by that, things as they are, Say that it is the serenade Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
Echo and Break by Noah Warren
At the heart of Megan Fernandes’s third collection, I Do Everything I’m Told (Tin House, 2023), lies a diasporic network of “beloveds” scattered across the globe: Dar es Salaam, Venice, Shanghai, Brooklyn, Zurich. Readers enter this network through a wry, vulnerable speaker who renders the many textures of love in villanelles, couplets, prose, fragments, and, at the book’s center, a decomposing crown of sonnets.
Ostateczne Solilokwium Mojego Oblubieńca
Wallace Stevens Zapal pierwsze światełko wieczoru, w tym pokoju Gdzie odpoczywamy, i z jakiegoś błahego powodu, pomyśl: Świat wyobrażony to najwyższe dobro. Jest to twoje najszaleńsze rendez-vous. Wtedy gdy myśl zbiera siebie Z tych wszystkich różności, w jedną rzecz: W pojedyncze coś, jednym szalikiem Ciasno owijając wokół nas(skoro jesteśmy tacy biedni) ciepło, Światło, moc, cudowną siłę. Tutaj, teraz, zapominamy się nawzajem i razem.
W drodze do domu
Wallace Stevens To było wtedy gdy powiedziałem, „nie ma czegoś takiego jak prawda”, Winogrona stały się obfitsze, A lis wybiegł z swojej nory. Ty…Ty powiedziałaś, „Jest wiele prawd, Ale nie są one częścią prawdy”. Wtedy drzewo, w nocy, zaczęło się zmieniać, Dymić zielenią i dymić błękitem. Byliśmy dwiema postaciami między drzewami. Mówiliśmy, że jesteśmy sami. To było wtedy, gdy powiedziałem, „Słowa nie są formami jednego słowa. Z sumy części, istnieją tylko części.
Strange Daze: From Russia with Love
Fresh from the Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg: Russia won’t export food. Zakharova tells Kuleba to ‘Swallow’ and other stories from SpB Ancient Active Shooter These historical mug shots reveal intriguing criminal stories, 1880-1930 I n February 1926, Frank Carter, dubbed the “Omaha Sniper,” terrorized the city of Omaha. He shot people at random, sometimes using a silencer on his pistol. I suggest a disguise if you want to attend and film….
The Snow Man
A Juniper in Winter - photo credit: Markku Ylisirnio For our Smile for a Saturday today, we turn to poetry, and a work inspired by our current season. There is no shortage of wonderful poems about winter. This is a time when much of our world is engulfed in a frigid, snow-covered barrenness, with howling winds and the absence of the natural bounties that will blossom, ripen, and be harvested in the seasons to follow. Winter inspires metaphors of death, isolation, and sadness.
Book Review: Ecological Poetics, or, Wallace Stevens’s Birds
1 September 2021 Sean Seeger, University of Essex Cary Wolfe, Ecological Poetics, or, Wallace Stevens’s Birds (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2020) Cary Wolfe’s Ecological Poetics, or, Wallace Stevens’s Birds (2020) may be read as a continuation of the critical project he began in What is Posthumanism? (2010), one of the most widely cited texts on posthumanism to date.
Hey look kids, yet MORE totally non-political and non-partisan rule of law lawyering from totally NOT a right wing Catholic dominionist William Barr
This was just unsealed. In the last weeks of the Trump administration, William Barr's Justice Department tried to use a secret grand jury subpoena to unmask @NunesAlt, a Devin Nunes parody account. https://t.co/ENc4oiUV0f— kpoulsen (@kpoulsen) May 17, 2021 Twitter fought the order.
Snow In Literature: The Snow Man
By Wallace Stevens One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing...
Order, order, unlock!
Last autumn, those who follow English politics were galvanised by the nightly performance, in the House of Commons, of the former Speaker John Bercow, barking, with undiminished relish, the above words. They held overtones of high Victorian drama. None could have imagined the anguish of the lockdown that followed for us all. Let us now find a poem that celebrates “unlocking” and what better place to do it than on the golden beaches of the Algarve. Wallace Stevens’ poem was written as an enigma.
Grid Logic by John Vincler
There was a time, now more than a decade ago, when I found Susan Howe’s poetry too opaque. The fractured and clipped syntax, and the stuttered sounds, left me searching for a point of entry. Her use of typography, symbols (arrows, brackets, etc.), and idiosyncratic punctuation halted my attempted reading. But then I read My Emily Dickinson (1985), her unclassifiable prose work that created a dialogue between the namesake Amherst poet and the Brontë sisters.
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.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Groupies come in all shapes and sizes. Some follow bands around a festival circuit. Others hit the streets of LA, trying to get a glimpse of a favorite movie star. My friends and I are groupies too, only we choose to follow our literary heroes. It started at a writing retreat two years ago. When the week concluded, we agreed to keep our bond active by meeting at least once every year.
The Man on the Dump
Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up. The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho ... The dump is full Of images. Days pass like papers from a press. The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun, And so the moon, both come, and the janitor’s poems Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears, The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea. The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The Writer's Almanac for Wednesday, October 2, 2019 - Garrison Keillor
A Prairie Home Companion An Evening of Story and Song Love & Comedy Tour Old Friends Prairie Home Christmas Show Solo The Gratitude Tour December 21, 2019 Saturday 2:00 p.m. Atlanta, GA Atlanta, GA December 21, 2019 2:00 p.m. Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Christmas with the actors, Fred Newman, the house band, and Heather Masse at Center Stage. 1st of 2 shows.
Anecdote of the Prince of Peacocks by Wallace Stevens
In the moonlight I met Berserk, In the moonlight On the bushy plain. Oh, sharp he was As the sleepless! And, “Why are you red In this milky blue?” I said. “Why sun-colored, As if awake In the midst of sleep?” “You that wander,” So he said, “On the bushy plain, Forget so soon. But I set my traps In the midst of dreams.” I knew from this That the blue ground Was full of blocks And blocking steel.
The Favorite Poem Project Comes Home to BU—20 Years Later
Mary Jane Doherty College of Communication associate professor of film and television Filmmaker Mary Jane Doherty came to poetry rather late. “About 10 years ago I realized—it’s like leaving your wallet somewhere—I forgot to learn poetry. So it was a radical catching up,” she says. Doherty thinks many people—like her—shy away from poetry because they believe you have to know so much to understand it. What she’s discovered is that “it’s not for arcane academics, it’s for all of us.
ACE: Bell of Peace
Below you will find answers to the questions our participants have asked about the bell tolling. If you have a question that is not addressed here Contact Us and we will be happy to answer it! What is the National Bell Tolling? Bells of Peace: A National World War I Remembrance is a national tolling of bells to honor those who served in the Great War. The United States participated from April 6, 1917 to November 11, 1918. Why should we toll the bells?
The Idea of Order at Key West
Wallace Stevens was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, on October 2, 1879. He attended Harvard University as an undergraduate from 1897 to 1900. He planned to travel to Paris as a writer, but after a working briefly as a reporter for the New York Herald Times, he decided to study law. He graduated with a degree from New York Law School in 1903 and was admitted to the U.S. Bar in 1904. He practiced law in New York City until 1916.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, on October 2, 1879. He attended Harvard University as an undergraduate from 1897 to 1900. He planned to travel to Paris as a writer, but after a working briefly as a reporter for the New York Herald Times, he decided to study law. He graduated with a degree from New York Law School in 1903 and was admitted to the U.S. Bar in 1904. He practiced law in New York City until 1916.
World War I Centennial
Below you will find answers to the questions our participants have asked about the bell tolling. If you have a question that is not addressed here Contact Us and we will be happy to answer it! What is the National Bell Tolling? Bells of Peace: A National World War I Remembrance is a national tolling of bells to honor those who served in the Great War. The United States participated from April 6, 1917 to November 11, 1918. Why should we toll the bells?
Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself by Wallace Stevens
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-mâché . . . The sun was coming from outside. That scrawny cry—it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
Farewell To Florida Poem by Wallace Stevens - Poem Hunter
I Go on, high ship, since now, upon the shore, The snake has left its skin upon the floor. Key West sank downward under massive clouds And silvers and greens spread over the sea. The moon Is at the mast-head and the past is dead. Her mind will never speak to me again. I am free. High above the mast the moon Rides clear of her mind and the waves make a refrain Of this: that the snake has shed its skin upon The floor. Go on through the darkness. The waves fly back II Her mind had bound me round.
Craft of Writing: If Wallace Stevens could talk to Toll Brothers
Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock by Wallace Stevens The houses are haunted By white night-gowns. None are green, Or purple with green rings, Or green with yellow rings, Or yellow with blue rings. None of them are strange, With socks of lace And beaded ceintures. People are not going To dream of baboons and periwinkles. Only, here and there, an old sailor, Drunk and asleep in his boots, Catches tigers In red weather.
The Idea of Order at Key West
She sang beyond the genius of the sea. 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.
Gubbinal by Wallace Stevens | The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens
JSTOR and the Poetry Foundation are collaborating to digitize, preserve, and extend access to Poetry.
Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens
I Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound.
The Candle a Saint by Wallace Stevens | A Dish of Peaches in Russia by Wallace Stevens
JSTOR and the Poetry Foundation are collaborating to digitize, preserve, and extend access to Poetry.
The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought. The house was quiet because it had to be.
Snow Days by Steph (also Stephen and Stephanie) Burt
Snow got you down? Maybe poetry can help—or, at the least, if you live in the part of the United States pummeled by snowstorms over the past few weeks, maybe the poets can bring you back to aspects of snow that aren’t about plows or school closings. “Snow is to water what poetry is to prose,” writes the historian Bernard Mergen in Snow in America.
No Doctrines by Don Share
In a recent interview with 2015 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize recipient Alice Notley, Adam Plunkett remarked that: It feels impossible to introduce Notley by this account, which is underscored by the poet’s having published some thirty books over forty-five years. Impossible, that is, until you think about that word, “disobedience,” which illuminates her work, as well as the role of a poet generally. It’s a long word, as English goes, and has a long history.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought. The house was quiet because it had to be.
Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens’s “Sunday Morning” (1915) is a lofty poetic meditation—almost a philosophical discourse—rooted in a few basic questions: what happens to us when we die? Can we believe seriously in an afterlife? If we can’t, what comfort can we take in the only life we get? As World War I intensified and Stevens neared middle age, he broached these subjects with quiet urgency in a poem as beautiful as it is difficult.
"Earthy Anecdotes"
Earthy AnecdotesEvery time the bucks went clatteringA firecat bristled in the way.In a swift, circular line,In a swift, circular line,The firecat went leaping,To the right, to the left,Later, the firecat closed his bright eyesAbout this poem: ”Earthy Anecdotes” was published in Vol. 5, No. 6 of the magazine Others, in July of 1919.About the poet: Wallace Stevens was born in Reading, Pa., on Oct. 2, 1879.
Wallace Stevens - Poetry Foundation
Wallace Stevens is one of America's most respected poets. He was a master stylist, employing an extraordinary vocabulary and a rigorous precision in crafting his poems. But he was also a philosopher of aesthetics, vigorously exploring the notion of poetry as the supreme fusion of the creative imagination and objective reality. Because of the extreme technical and thematic complexity of his work, Stevens was sometimes considered a willfully difficult poet.
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
No soldiers in the scenery, No thoughts of people now dead, As they were fifty years ago, Young and living in a live air, Young and walking in the sunshine, Bending in blue dresses to touch something, Today the mind is not part of the weather. Today the air is clear of everything. It has no knowledge except of nothingness And it flows over us without meanings, As if none of us had ever been here before And are not now: in this shallow spectacle, This invisible activity, this sense.
Poem-A-Day - 'Sonnet' by Wallace Stevens
Here is the Poem-A-Day for Saturday, July 16, 2016. Sonnet By Wallace Stevens Lo, even as I passed beside the booth Of roses, and beheld them brightly twine To damask heights, taking them as a sign Of my own self still unconcerned with truth; Even as I held up in hands uncouth And drained with joy the golden-bodied wine, Deeming it half-unworthy, half divine, From out the sweet-rimmed goblet of my youth.
How to Write Dark Poems: 11 Steps
Dark poetry can be a good way to express any deep, dark emotions you are experiencing. To write dark poems, you should first get a better sense of the common themes of many popular dark poems, brainstorm your ideas for the poem and then create . Dark poetry can be a good way to express any deep, dark emotions you are experiencing. To write dark poems, you should first get a better sense of the common themes of many popular dark poems, brainstorm your ideas for the poem and then create .
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