VIII — FROM “SUNDAY MORNING” by Wallace Stevens
An Easter Special
VIII —from "Sunday Morning" She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old despondency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
I am well aware that this may have been a controversial poem to publish on Easter Sunday, but I thought what Stevens wrote might spark a more interesting and meaningful discussion about religion than the average poem that one might deem appropriate for this occasion. I did not publish it with the goal of knocking religion in and of itself, as I believe it has its place in human civilization. Religious beliefs can inspire people to do much good in the world and offer a necessary balance to the vapidity and consumerism that pervades Western society. Happy (belated) Easter, everyone!
In this particular excerpt from "Sunday Morning", a woman - who is possibly asleep and dreaming of the Holy Land - hears a voice "without sound" telling her that "That tomb in Palestine / Is not the porch of spirits lingering" - that it is, in fact, no more than the grave of Jesus, a very real man, who was crucified and lay there for a time.
The extract then continues to emphasise the very real world around her, rather than religious fantasies. It tells us quite starkly that "We live in an old chaos of the sun" - that there is day and night, solitude and things we can't escape from. It tells us also that there is great beauty in this world - that "Deer walk upon the mountains" and "Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness", even though this beauty is temporary and real and ultimately doomed to darkness.
This, however, is just an excerpt from "Sunday Morning", and the poem as a whole argues that the temporary nature of earthly things and earthly experiences is precisely what makes them beautiful, and thus that true beauty could never exist in an everlasting, deathless paradise. So rather than some miraculous other world, it's death that gives this fleeting life its meaning and moments of divinity.
What an intriguing, thought-provoking poem - written (I think) as far back as 1915 - and still powerful!