Wallace Stevens reads The Idea of Order at Key West from Wallace Stevens Reads Caedmon From Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens by Wallace Stevens. estraden.org
His poems grow dense with each keen line, until the density seems to stand up and cry for it's own self; a cry of frailty for the meaning, for the thing which it strived so arduously to elucidate. In this cry we know the struggle for meaning which every poet, every person even, seeks.
"Life consists of propositions about life." This thread runs through all of Stevens's poems, including this, on his his greatest. There is no world outside the word.
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. 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? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. 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. 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. 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. Oh! 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. Wallace Stevens, “The Idea of Order at Key West” from Collected Poems. Copyright 1923, 1951, 1954 by Wallace Stevens. Reprinted with the permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
"Stevens is devastating. His words glue together like stone before you even know what they mean. The staggering part is they make sense, and make sense beautifully, but in such an elusive way, that the language itself enchants you, until the meaning finally reveals itself. I know of no other English language poet so masterful as to know you are reading greatness, before you even know why."- Harold Bloom
"O blessèd rage for order, pale Ramon ..." - my favorite line, and for me signalling Stevens letting slip the dogs he's kept at bay with his studied diction. Now the climax is loosed and the built up tension is spent as the speaker switches from constructing the world with speculative hints to revealing it with full gnosis, register changing from formal to intimate. It's wonderful.
jay parini no less ranks this second only to ‘Song of Myself’ as among the greatest American poems ever written. no examination will release it’s 🧞♀️ genie but I’m satisfied experiencing it as a Love poem to a particular woman, probably his wife. (In mythology Chaos is considered Feminine and Order Masculine, make of that what you will - we need a vocabulary to discuss these things!) For the writer praises the woman for bringing Order out of the Chaos of the Sea. The Woman, chaos to any man who knows one is the one who conceives and bears children - no women, no babies. If that isn’t bringing Order to the World !!! The mystery of any mother is awe inspiring. This is a celebration of Mother’s Day at its essence. Of course the academy will read it as ‘the interdependence of imagination and reality” and “a struggle to blah blah”. its a love poem and it’s mesmerizing “She was the maker...and the maker’s rage to order ...” we can take it up a notch and decide she’s Mother Nature or A Goddess but she’s giving birth ... It can be more of course but it doesn’t have to more to satisfy me.
His poems grow dense with each keen line, until the density seems to stand up and cry for it's own self; a cry of frailty for the meaning, for the thing which it strived so arduously to elucidate. In this cry we know the struggle for meaning which every poet, every person even, seeks.
"Life consists of propositions about life." This thread runs through all of Stevens's poems, including this, on his his greatest. There is no world outside the word.
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.
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? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
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.
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. 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.
Oh! 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.
Wallace Stevens, “The Idea of Order at Key West” from Collected Poems. Copyright 1923, 1951, 1954 by Wallace Stevens. Reprinted with the permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.
"Stevens is devastating. His words glue together like stone before you even know what they mean. The staggering part is they make sense, and make sense beautifully, but in such an elusive way, that the language itself enchants you, until the meaning finally reveals itself. I know of no other English language poet so masterful as to know you are reading greatness, before you even know why."- Harold Bloom
Where did Bloom say that?
Holy shit this man is a genius.
I can never forget this poem since I first read it. I find it haunting, though I'm not sure I can say why.
"O blessèd rage for order, pale Ramon ..." - my favorite line, and for me signalling Stevens letting slip the dogs he's kept at bay with his studied diction. Now the climax is loosed and the built up tension is spent as the speaker switches from constructing the world with speculative hints to revealing it with full gnosis, register changing from formal to intimate. It's wonderful.
Thank you Wallace, added to a playlist...
jay parini no less ranks this second only to ‘Song of Myself’ as among the greatest American poems ever written. no examination will release it’s 🧞♀️ genie but I’m satisfied experiencing it as a Love poem to a particular woman, probably his wife. (In mythology Chaos is considered Feminine and Order Masculine, make of that what you will - we need a vocabulary to discuss these things!) For the writer praises the woman for bringing Order out of the Chaos of the Sea. The Woman, chaos to any man who knows one is the one who conceives and bears children - no women, no babies. If that isn’t bringing Order to the World !!! The mystery of any mother is awe inspiring. This is a celebration of Mother’s Day at its essence. Of course the academy will read it as ‘the interdependence of imagination and reality” and “a struggle to blah blah”. its a love poem and it’s mesmerizing “She was the maker...and the maker’s rage to order ...”
we can take it up a notch and decide she’s Mother Nature or A Goddess but she’s giving birth ...
It can be more of course but it doesn’t have to more to satisfy me.
Very nice presentation.
Best Wishes,
David Hart
good work....
How can one single poem say everything about everything?
Poem = gibberish, huh, I never knew.
You poor, illiterate s.o.b...
bmetzy : then go away.
read rod mckeun buddy. he’ll rock your world
bmetzy = moron, huh, now we all know.
Not one of his best poems. (Don't get mad, the man is one of the best of all time.)
The poem doesn't yield its meaning easily, but it's worth the effort of repeated listening.
...profoundly meaningless
as is all of Stevens
mysterium dei