prelude to an appreciation of Wallace Stevens


1879 – 1955


A lot of people write poems. A lot of people who write poems don’t write about poetry. Some people who write poems think that writing about poetry is superfluous — a prolix gilding of the lily. All that matters to them is writing new poems.

Wallace Stevens wrote poems, and he wrote about poetry.

I have decided, on this day, to plunge deeper into the head of Wallace Stevens. I’m fixing to think, in a disciplined manner, about some things Stevens said about poetry. Then, I’m going to think into how those things might mesh with my own thoughts about poetry. I’m quite jazzed about what texture might be woven from older threads with newer threads. I already sense the atmospheric fabric above an imagined horizon turning dark and weird with abstract shapes. I have a fair hunch that my thinking about Stevens will result in a deep and serious appreciation.

Of course, it might be the case that injecting my thoughts into Stevens’s thoughts will create a monster — a thing that would frighten small children, Bingo ladies, and important intellectuals. In other words, an amateurish enormity.

Stay tuned to the outer limits of this Spectral Lyre channel.


This music captures a quality of my anticipation:



Posted by Tim Buck



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