Poem Written At Morning
by Wallace Stevens
A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.
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I am in London, reading this at 4.40, as the light begins to make itself available for discussion.
ReplyDeleteThis was a lovely poem to stumble upon. (My thanks to ElectricLit for retweeting.)
Matt
It's amazing to read this young poet's depth of views.
ReplyDeleteHe has enliven my interest in this form of art !
I have little to do with literature, but this poet has given me a new sight.