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!
From my first appreciation of rhetorical daline residue left by the Sea of Faith's withdrawal, I have favored this little poem by Housman, Xhosa, as Steven's worked in his Connecticut insurance office, haunted the dusty stacks and reading rooms Of dry libtaties:
From my first appreciation of the saline residue left by the Sea of Faith's withdrawal, I have favored this little poem by Housman, who, as Steven's worked in his Connecticut insurance office, haunted the dusty stacks and reading rooms of dry libtaties:...
I love “Easter Hymn” as well. It is my absolute favorite poem by Housman. Earlier in the year, I had actually decided to publish it on Easter. Unfortunately, I ended up forgetting all about this little plan until I happened upon Stevens’ poem a few days ago. I was then faced with a dilemma, which resulted in me making a last minute decision to publish Stevens’ poem instead. I will definitely publish Housman’s “Easter Hymn” next year, God willing.
What an interesting idea to post this challenging and reflective excerpt from "Sunday Morning" by the great Pennsylvanian poet, Wallace Stevens, as an Easter Special! This extract is no ordinary Easter poem, treating ideas of death, resurrection and the afterlife in the usual accepting and reverent manner. It is instead quite sceptical of all religious doctrines, and for that very reason alone, it is thought-provoking and well worth reading.
I will comment in detail on this excerpt (and the poem as a whole) in one of the comment boxes below. But, beforehand, let me say a big "Thank you" to Shannon Winestone for continuing to publish poetry of a very high calibre in this latest instalment of The New Stylus.
Thank you so much for the kind words, Martin! I’m so glad you like my choice for this year’s Easter Special. 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 Easter.
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!
Thank you so, so much for writing such a stellar analysis of this fine poem, especially on such short notice! You are a real gem, my friend. Your comments, as usual, are both compelling and profound. I especially love the following passage:
“…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.“
Amen to that! I agree that “Sunday Morning” is both intriguing and thought-provoking. I actually might publish the poem in its entirety at some point. Thank you so much again, my friend! You are a very skilled commenter.
I am greatly looking forward to seeing the whole poem in a future issue of The New Stylus. It would be a very suitable home for such an extraordinary piece of writing.
I agree, and I have you to thank for my decision to publish it. I never read this fine passage before until I read it in one of your more recent Substack post. I couldn’t resist the urge to publish it on Easter. Stevens’ diction is flawless in this piece. I will probably publish the entire poem someday.
I agree and I do it a lot myself, and have done for over 30 years. For instance, the Masters page at THT is a great resource for anyone looking for great poems by great poets. I use it a lot myself.
Thank you for posting this poem here, Tom! I find it very relatable, especially the part about, “jail and gallows and hell-fire.” Personally, I believe one ought to “live and let live.” The overall sentiment expressed here by Housman puts me in mind of your poem “Advice for Winston”.
I thank you immensely for posting this poem as well. In this fine poem, Stevens skillfully portrays the feeling of alienation from the world and perhaps even from life in general. He captures this disenchantment so well in his repetition of the following lines:
“The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.”
This poem taken together with “Sunday Morning” provide one with an interesting duality.
Good to hear from you Shannon. I'm fond of both poems, among so many others by both writers. Some have said Stevens's Gubbinal was written to parody a viewpoint he didn't share. But having read all his poetry several times I'm afraid I can't buy that. His dread of life comes through clearly in many of his poems. I can see how Housman's poem could remind you of my Winston ditty, both favor people minding their own affairs as opposed to wresting others to their will as Housman puts it. I identify with both poems and with both writers. Both knew what they were into here, and wished they'd been spared the experience. Again, was glad to hear you chime in. Hope all's well at your end.
Thank you, Tom! You’re very kind. It’s good to hear from you also, and I hope that all is well on your end too. It’s funny, because I was reading up on other’s interpretations of “Gubbinal” after you initially posted it here, and I learned that the most popular interpretation was that the poem is merely a parody of a perspective that was not Stevens’ own. I suppose the critics who hold that view could be right, but it seems like a bit of a stretch to me. I honestly think they’re reading too much into it and that the poem makes most sense if it is taken at face value. After all, the language Stevens employs in this particular piece is very straightforward.
Thank you, Tom, for posting some fine and intriguing poems here, which I have just read. In their own unique way, they have enhanced this little tribute to Stevens - one poetry's craftsmen.
That's some poem, Tom! Thanks for sharing it. It gives me great pleasure to know that I'll be able to find you and Stevens here together - two compatible souls, I might add!
In fact, thinking about it, Issue 1 of The New Stylus, as a whole, would make a really fine poetry anthology. There's so much to like in the poems that suit our own particular tastes, but ultimately it's all good stuff!
Thank you for sharing such a fine tribute to Stevens here. I feel that it enhances the overall discussion here. I always find it interesting to read poems that were inspired by another poet in one way or another. I feel that the following lines are especially noteworthy:
Perhaps a vision came of Heraclitus
A fireball packed with rabbits in his hand
Dispersing from his hot magician's hat
Menageries to fertilize the land,
While farther off he saw our father raze
His daughters, sons, the search, each novel phrase.
I think he was content laying the blame on the sun, on fire. I think the sun to him meant what Nature does to me, the source of all tribulation. Nature brings the cause closer to home. Too bad there's so little left of Heraclitus. "Bigotry is the sacred disease" is very telling. "Nature loves to hide" is equally so. But all his fragments are worth reading. Below are two stanzas from Stevens's The Man On The Dump. He had no shortage of wit. It also helps explain his choice of which road to travel in his poetic career--decidedly one less traveled by.
The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew
For buttons, how many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads
Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew.
One grows to hate these things except on the dump.
I should add that the Stevens Manifesto above can be read as referring more to style than to substance. Yet I think he wanted to convey--he indeed did convey--that themes needed changing. He was quite atypically endowed linguistically, and thus was singularly well equipped to penetrate to the heart of the matter. And there's no question but he did. His only shortcoming is that he never outrightly protested the crime. He might've thought of doing so, but if so, he elected against, possibly fearing to overalienate.
You are probably right regarding Stevens’ perception of the sun. It is telling that he began “Gubbinal” by referring to it as “that strange flower.”
Thank you for posting those two excellent stanzas from “The Man on the Dump”. They present readers with a fine example of his literary prowess as well as the overall uniqueness of his poetic voice, his insights, and his ability to express those insights in verse.
Regarding Heraclitus, I think it is deeply unfortunate that only fragments of his work remains. It angers me to think of all the ancient writings that have been lost to humanity, often thanks to religious zealots who see no value in anything that doesn’t spout their favored dogma.
Lastly, was your mention of the “Stevens Manifesto” in reference to the two stanzas from “The Man on the Dump” or your tribute poem “The Immortal Path”?
To address more of your comment, "religious zealots" are among the fiercest members of the parrot species, an unfortunately quite populous species. All parrots can do with words is regurgitate them--like all ideologues. Parrots are legion, and bound to prevail by sheer numbers.
That so little is left of Heraclitus is a big loss to me, because his fragments are so penetrating. Minds like his are extremely rare. His species is the opposite of "populous." True originals have always comprised a tiny minority of humanty. There's no room in such minds for any catechism.
I know; I had the exact same reaction to it when I read it for the first time a few days before Easter. When that happened, I just knew I had to publish it.
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!
From my first appreciation of rhetorical daline residue left by the Sea of Faith's withdrawal, I have favored this little poem by Housman, Xhosa, as Steven's worked in his Connecticut insurance office, haunted the dusty stacks and reading rooms Of dry libtaties:
EASTER HYMN
If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.
But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
Damn that auto correct:
From my first appreciation of the saline residue left by the Sea of Faith's withdrawal, I have favored this little poem by Housman, who, as Steven's worked in his Connecticut insurance office, haunted the dusty stacks and reading rooms of dry libtaties:...
I love “Easter Hymn” as well. It is my absolute favorite poem by Housman. Earlier in the year, I had actually decided to publish it on Easter. Unfortunately, I ended up forgetting all about this little plan until I happened upon Stevens’ poem a few days ago. I was then faced with a dilemma, which resulted in me making a last minute decision to publish Stevens’ poem instead. I will definitely publish Housman’s “Easter Hymn” next year, God willing.
What an interesting idea to post this challenging and reflective excerpt from "Sunday Morning" by the great Pennsylvanian poet, Wallace Stevens, as an Easter Special! This extract is no ordinary Easter poem, treating ideas of death, resurrection and the afterlife in the usual accepting and reverent manner. It is instead quite sceptical of all religious doctrines, and for that very reason alone, it is thought-provoking and well worth reading.
I will comment in detail on this excerpt (and the poem as a whole) in one of the comment boxes below. But, beforehand, let me say a big "Thank you" to Shannon Winestone for continuing to publish poetry of a very high calibre in this latest instalment of The New Stylus.
Thank you so much for the kind words, Martin! I’m so glad you like my choice for this year’s Easter Special. 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 Easter.
It's a real pleasure to read and write about Stevens. He is one of the truly great poetic craftsmen and should be read by all aspiring poets.
I agree. As I was just telling Mike, his use of language in this poem is flawless.
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!
Thank you so, so much for writing such a stellar analysis of this fine poem, especially on such short notice! You are a real gem, my friend. Your comments, as usual, are both compelling and profound. I especially love the following passage:
“…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.“
Amen to that! I agree that “Sunday Morning” is both intriguing and thought-provoking. I actually might publish the poem in its entirety at some point. Thank you so much again, my friend! You are a very skilled commenter.
I am greatly looking forward to seeing the whole poem in a future issue of The New Stylus. It would be a very suitable home for such an extraordinary piece of writing.
Thank you! I am very glad you think so.
This is my favorite passage from a masterpiece.
I agree, and I have you to thank for my decision to publish it. I never read this fine passage before until I read it in one of your more recent Substack post. I couldn’t resist the urge to publish it on Easter. Stevens’ diction is flawless in this piece. I will probably publish the entire poem someday.
You are always welcome to republish anything you like.
The more the merrier!
Thank you! I personally think great poems ought to be republished as often as possible.
I agree and I do it a lot myself, and have done for over 30 years. For instance, the Masters page at THT is a great resource for anyone looking for great poems by great poets. I use it a lot myself.
Please do and I will comment again on the whole poem. It is, in my opinion, an extraordinary poem.
I agree! At least when I do so, you will have the comment you have already written for part VIII to work from.
The laws of God, the laws of man,
He may keep that will and can;
Not I: let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
And if my ways are not as theirs
Let them mind their own affairs.
Their deeds I judge and much condemn,
Yet when did I make laws for them?
Please yourselves, say I, and they
Need only look the other way.
But no, they will not; they must still
Wrest their neighbour to their will,
And make me dance as they desire
With jail and gallows and hell-fire.
And how am I to face the odds
Of man's bedevilment and God's?
I, a stranger and afraid
In a world I never made.
They will be master, right or wrong;
Though both are foolish, both are strong.
And since, my soul, we cannot fly
To Saturn nor to Mercury,
Keep we must, if keep we can,
These foreign laws of God and man.----AEH
Thank you for posting this poem here, Tom! I find it very relatable, especially the part about, “jail and gallows and hell-fire.” Personally, I believe one ought to “live and let live.” The overall sentiment expressed here by Housman puts me in mind of your poem “Advice for Winston”.
Gubbinal
That strange flower, the sun,
Is just what you say.
Have it your way.
The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.
That tuft of jungle feathers,
That animal eye,
Is just what you say.
That savage of fire,
That seed,
Have it your way.
The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.---WS
I thank you immensely for posting this poem as well. In this fine poem, Stevens skillfully portrays the feeling of alienation from the world and perhaps even from life in general. He captures this disenchantment so well in his repetition of the following lines:
“The world is ugly,
And the people are sad.”
This poem taken together with “Sunday Morning” provide one with an interesting duality.
Good to hear from you Shannon. I'm fond of both poems, among so many others by both writers. Some have said Stevens's Gubbinal was written to parody a viewpoint he didn't share. But having read all his poetry several times I'm afraid I can't buy that. His dread of life comes through clearly in many of his poems. I can see how Housman's poem could remind you of my Winston ditty, both favor people minding their own affairs as opposed to wresting others to their will as Housman puts it. I identify with both poems and with both writers. Both knew what they were into here, and wished they'd been spared the experience. Again, was glad to hear you chime in. Hope all's well at your end.
Thank you, Tom! You’re very kind. It’s good to hear from you also, and I hope that all is well on your end too. It’s funny, because I was reading up on other’s interpretations of “Gubbinal” after you initially posted it here, and I learned that the most popular interpretation was that the poem is merely a parody of a perspective that was not Stevens’ own. I suppose the critics who hold that view could be right, but it seems like a bit of a stretch to me. I honestly think they’re reading too much into it and that the poem makes most sense if it is taken at face value. After all, the language Stevens employs in this particular piece is very straightforward.
Thought I'd tack on one of my tributes to Stevens, mainly for the Stevens epigraph from Esthetique du Mal:
The Immortal Path
"The assassin discloses himself,
The force that destroys us is disclosed….
an adventure to be endured
With the politest helplessness…."—WS from EDM
While Pater Noster blazed away above
Cell blocks in Hartford, he would turn the dial
And scan eclectic spaces of his mind
For airings of a more dissenting style.
Deaf-eared to channels wooing from the past
He'd sound electric pipelines like the blind
Until seditions took the place at last
Of all illusions crooned to toys of time.
Perhaps a vision came of Heraclitus
A fireball packed with rabbits in his hand
Dispersing from his hot magician's hat
Menageries to fertilize the land,
While farther off he saw our father raze
His daughters, sons, the search, each novel phrase.
Thank you, Tom, for posting some fine and intriguing poems here, which I have just read. In their own unique way, they have enhanced this little tribute to Stevens - one poetry's craftsmen.
Too many worth sharing, Martin, but here's another of WS's poems:
Madame La Fleurie
Weight him down, O side-stars, with the great weightings of the end.
Seal him there. He looked in a glass of the earth and thought he lived in it.
Now, he brings all that he saw into the earth, to the waiting parent.
His crisp knowledge is devoured by her, beneath a dew.
Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the moon.
It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing he could be told.
It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know.
It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak.
The black fugatos are strumming the blackness of black...
The thick strings stutter the finial gutturals.
He does not lie there remembering the blue-jay, say the jay.
His grief is that his mother should feed on him, himself and what he saw,
In that distant chamber, a bearded queen, wicked in her dead light.
Another one I wrote for him:
Thanking Seashells
for WS
He lives, beyond his life, in many
projections,
in many imagined things,
though only as speaker,
as one to whom it is possible only
to listen … and listen.
He never listens himself anymore,
his hearing having grown impaired;
never hears ceilings or floors
channeling rare selections
through a medium uniquely attuned
to whatever-the-matter's tongue;
no, he only broadcasts now,
a distant turbulence funneled
like wind through a conch—like ocean's
ferment echoed afar,
like some deeply inconsolable sound
from fathomable depths offshore.
That's some poem, Tom! Thanks for sharing it. It gives me great pleasure to know that I'll be able to find you and Stevens here together - two compatible souls, I might add!
In fact, thinking about it, Issue 1 of The New Stylus, as a whole, would make a really fine poetry anthology. There's so much to like in the poems that suit our own particular tastes, but ultimately it's all good stuff!
Thank you for sharing such a fine tribute to Stevens here. I feel that it enhances the overall discussion here. I always find it interesting to read poems that were inspired by another poet in one way or another. I feel that the following lines are especially noteworthy:
Perhaps a vision came of Heraclitus
A fireball packed with rabbits in his hand
Dispersing from his hot magician's hat
Menageries to fertilize the land,
While farther off he saw our father raze
His daughters, sons, the search, each novel phrase.
I think he was content laying the blame on the sun, on fire. I think the sun to him meant what Nature does to me, the source of all tribulation. Nature brings the cause closer to home. Too bad there's so little left of Heraclitus. "Bigotry is the sacred disease" is very telling. "Nature loves to hide" is equally so. But all his fragments are worth reading. Below are two stanzas from Stevens's The Man On The Dump. He had no shortage of wit. It also helps explain his choice of which road to travel in his poetic career--decidedly one less traveled by.
The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew
For buttons, how many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads
Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew.
One grows to hate these things except on the dump.
Now, in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,
Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox),
Between that disgust and this, between the things
That are on the dump (azaleas and so on)
And those that will be (azaleas and so on),
One feels the purifying change. One rejects
The trash.
I should add that the Stevens Manifesto above can be read as referring more to style than to substance. Yet I think he wanted to convey--he indeed did convey--that themes needed changing. He was quite atypically endowed linguistically, and thus was singularly well equipped to penetrate to the heart of the matter. And there's no question but he did. His only shortcoming is that he never outrightly protested the crime. He might've thought of doing so, but if so, he elected against, possibly fearing to overalienate.
You are probably right regarding Stevens’ perception of the sun. It is telling that he began “Gubbinal” by referring to it as “that strange flower.”
Thank you for posting those two excellent stanzas from “The Man on the Dump”. They present readers with a fine example of his literary prowess as well as the overall uniqueness of his poetic voice, his insights, and his ability to express those insights in verse.
Regarding Heraclitus, I think it is deeply unfortunate that only fragments of his work remains. It angers me to think of all the ancient writings that have been lost to humanity, often thanks to religious zealots who see no value in anything that doesn’t spout their favored dogma.
Lastly, was your mention of the “Stevens Manifesto” in reference to the two stanzas from “The Man on the Dump” or your tribute poem “The Immortal Path”?
To address more of your comment, "religious zealots" are among the fiercest members of the parrot species, an unfortunately quite populous species. All parrots can do with words is regurgitate them--like all ideologues. Parrots are legion, and bound to prevail by sheer numbers.
That so little is left of Heraclitus is a big loss to me, because his fragments are so penetrating. Minds like his are extremely rare. His species is the opposite of "populous." True originals have always comprised a tiny minority of humanty. There's no room in such minds for any catechism.
Oh this gave me chills all over it’s so beautiful, so beautiful.
I know; I had the exact same reaction to it when I read it for the first time a few days before Easter. When that happened, I just knew I had to publish it.
Yes when that happens, you do!