WALLACE STEVENS
THE HOUSE WAS QUIET AND THE WORLD WAS CALM
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom the book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
is the reader leaning late and reading there.
WALLACE STEVENS (1879-1955)
Απο τα SELECTED POEMS, London, 1965
7 commentaires:
Ευχαριστώ σας που σπεύσατε φίλε μου, κι ας είναι και τυχαίο. Ή μήπως τίποτα δεν είναι τυχαίο σ'αυτόν τον calm world;
Le Monocle de Mon Oncle (Canto VIII)
Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruits thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.
WALLACE STEVENS
"Harmonium", 1918
@ lapsus memoriae
Ευχαριστώ για την επίσκεψη. Σας καλημερίζω!
Αν το σπίτι συμβολίζει την ψυχή, τότε πολύ δυνατές οι εικόνες που δημιουργεί στον αναγνώστη αυτό το ποίημα. Αλλά και κυριολεκτικά , σε υποβάλλει με εξαιρετικό τρόπο ..
NOT IDEAS ABOUT THE THING BUT THE THING ITSELF
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.
That scrawny cry--It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
Wallace Stevens
@ ravdi
Θα διάλεγα τη δεύτερη εκδοχή, της κυριολεξίας΄ νομίζω ότι το "σπίτι" είναι σπίτι, ερμηνεία που "γειώνει" το ποίημα κι ενδυναμώνει την άισθηση του γαλήνιου και αδιατάρακτου κόσμου(βιβλίο;)
Σας ευχαριστώ για τις πάντοτε καίριες παρεμβάσεις σας.
@ μένανδρος
Καλησπέρα σας. Χαίρομαι που ο Γουάλας Στήβενς σας κινητοποίησε και επιστρέψατε πανηγυρικά στην παρέα μας.
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