Is this a good poem? Yes. It keeps deepening to me, and I suspect it will for a while.
Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour
Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.
This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:
Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.
Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.
In which we rest and, for small reason, thinkThe world imagined is the ultimate good.
This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:
Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.
Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.
Wallace Stevens
***
***
In this poem the form strikes me more than in most poems. Triplets, two times three. In a poem with a content which could be described by the word 'holy' this does not seem like a coincidence; the power/magic of three being a recurrent theme of many religions and mystic traditions.
However, this is more about the meaning of the words written than the mere set-up. Although, as we know, those things are connected — especially in poetry.
However, this is more about the meaning of the words written than the mere set-up. Although, as we know, those things are connected — especially in poetry.
I love the title. So .... unpoetic. It's a mouthful. And yet it is inviting, in a mind-tickling way.
Some images highlight what seems to be an underlying theme: "Out of this same light, out of the central mind" (from closing triplet); We say God and the imagination are one... / How high that highest candle lights the dark". Not to mention the opening line, so inviting and soothing: "Light the first light of evening". Light, from the central mind, a central place that shines forth. This awakens warmness and softheartedness in me; as well as a clearheadedness. This clear head seems to have light as its origin. Heart and head springing from the common ground of light -- ah, the lightness it brings!
In the same vein, this poem brings a translucence to me, the reader. The sentences and words seem to light up from within, or from an underlying source — like LED wired up deep down underneath the letters on the screen, on the paper or in your mind.
Also the mention of "the ultimate good" has a light and warm feeling to it. As well as clear, sharp and airy; domains often connected to the mind. There is an intellectual vein running through the whole of this poem, like so much of Wallace Stevens's poetry.
And underlying all of this again is the nonduality of light—dark, inside—outside and indeed every other string of words and concepts struck by Stevens' words in this moment of space. How do you mention one without sounding the strings of the other concept, the counterconcept, so to speak?
Stepping forward is also the twosome "It is in that thought that we collect ourselves, / Out of all the indifferences, into one thing". See, there's like an underlying (again) source for everything that he is tapping these words from. This poem in many ways seems like an emanation of a certain point of light that he seems to have been in contact with.
Again with the wholeness, oneness:
So to repeat the opening question: Is this a complicated poem? No. See through to the point it springs from, and complicated isn't a word that arises with this poem. Translucent, maybe. Or light. Or even simple.
Or what do you think?
Some images highlight what seems to be an underlying theme: "Out of this same light, out of the central mind" (from closing triplet); We say God and the imagination are one... / How high that highest candle lights the dark". Not to mention the opening line, so inviting and soothing: "Light the first light of evening". Light, from the central mind, a central place that shines forth. This awakens warmness and softheartedness in me; as well as a clearheadedness. This clear head seems to have light as its origin. Heart and head springing from the common ground of light -- ah, the lightness it brings!
In the same vein, this poem brings a translucence to me, the reader. The sentences and words seem to light up from within, or from an underlying source — like LED wired up deep down underneath the letters on the screen, on the paper or in your mind.
Also the mention of "the ultimate good" has a light and warm feeling to it. As well as clear, sharp and airy; domains often connected to the mind. There is an intellectual vein running through the whole of this poem, like so much of Wallace Stevens's poetry.
And underlying all of this again is the nonduality of light—dark, inside—outside and indeed every other string of words and concepts struck by Stevens' words in this moment of space. How do you mention one without sounding the strings of the other concept, the counterconcept, so to speak?
Stepping forward is also the twosome "It is in that thought that we collect ourselves, / Out of all the indifferences, into one thing". See, there's like an underlying (again) source for everything that he is tapping these words from. This poem in many ways seems like an emanation of a certain point of light that he seems to have been in contact with.
Again with the wholeness, oneness:
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,This is so heart-, mind- and being-tickling! I love those words and the place they come from. "An order, a whole, a knowledge". Oneness, in a few of its facets.
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
So to repeat the opening question: Is this a complicated poem? No. See through to the point it springs from, and complicated isn't a word that arises with this poem. Translucent, maybe. Or light. Or even simple.
Or what do you think?
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2 comments:
I do find many of Stevens's poems complicated, or strange, or some of each. I can recall one or two comments I've read by other poets, mentioning the oddness of his diction, his choice of words. This is a quality that moves through much of his work.
I do find something of the quality you talk about here, of the translucence (or, perhaps, luminosity) in his sentences and words. He mentions light, or qualities of light -- sometimes implied rather than explicit -- in many of his poems.
I might describe the poem as a philosophical meditation or speculation. I'm not sure if the word "holy" would have occurred to me, even with the mention of God in one of the lines. This perhaps has as much to do with my perspective as with anything in the poem itself.
I do find in much of Stevens's work a searching for order in the observed world. (I think immediately of the title of another of his poems, "The Idea of Order at Key West." Key West, the town in the string of islands that reaches out from the southern end of Florida, a place saturated with oceanic light.)
One of the features of the English language that many writers have commented on is the hybrid quality of the language -- it's fundamentally a Germanic language, which has assimilated a large amount of Latin vocabulary (along with elements from many other languages). Since the early 20th century, many poets and writers in English have tended to favor the Germanic, Anglo-Saxon core of the language, more than the French and Latin elements -- not as an absolute choice, but as a relative tendency.
Not all poets writing in English, certainly -- Wallace Stevens is one exception. Immediately with the title of this poem, I hear music in the Latin-derived words: the dancing L sounds in "Final Soliloquy," the rounded R sounds in "Interior Paramour."
I should perhaps say that Wallace Stevens has never been a poet with whose work I've felt any great affinity. But I do read him now and again. I find all of this fascinating.
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