“From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.”
Wallace Stevens' quote encapsulates a profound existential sentiment, revealing the complexities of identity and belonging. The lines invite contemplation on the nature of selfhood in relation to one's environment and the challenges inherent in navigating these realms.
The phrase “From this the poem springs” suggests that the poet’s work emerges from a deeply felt experience of dislocation. Stevens acknowledges that we inhabit a world that feels foreign, emphasizing the notion of alienation. This establishes a foundational theme that permeates much of his poetry—where the external landscape often mirrors internal struggles.
The line “That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves” highlights a dual sense of estrangement. It signals that our surroundings are not merely physical spaces but also linked to our identity and essence. The word “much more” implies a deepening complexity; it suggests that the struggle for identity is compounded by external circumstances that reinforce this disconnection. Here, Stevens touches on a universal human experience—the search for authenticity amid a world that often feels imposed and inauthentic.
Lastly, the phrase “And hard it is in spite of blazoned days” poignantly captures the contrast between outward appearances and inner turmoil. The term “blazoned” evokes imagery of vibrant, celebrated moments—days that may appear to be filled with brilliance and joy. However, Stevens counters this brightness with the word “hard,” asserting that beneath the surface, life can be challenging and fraught with dissatisfaction. This duality encourages readers to recognize the complexity of existence, where beauty can mask deeper struggles.
In summary, Stevens invites a reflective exploration of how we relate to place and self. Through this quote, he articulates the tension between external realities and internal experiences, prompting a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive in a world that often feels incongruent with one’s true self.
Wallace Stevens' lines resonate powerfully today, as they express the disconnection many feel in a world that is ever-changing and often overwhelming. The notion of living in a place that feels foreign—and, more poignantly, the struggle to maintain a sense of self in such an environment—echoes current societal challenges.
In a time characterized by rapid technological advancement, urbanization, and globalization, individuals often find themselves grappling with identity and belonging. Social media can amplify these feelings, presenting idealized versions of life that seem unattainable and reinforcing the perception of alienation.
Moreover, the phrase "blazoned days" speaks to the superficiality of modern existence, where days may seem bright and flashy yet lack depth or genuine connection. As people navigate complex emotional landscapes amid constant change, Stevens’ contemplation encourages a deeper reflection on personal identity and the quest for authenticity in a world that feels increasingly out of reach.
“The Poem That Took The Place Of A MountainThere it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged Where he could lie and gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.”
“THE POEMS OF OUR CLIMATEIClear water in a brilliant bowl, Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air, Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoons return.Pink and white carnations - one desiresSo much more than that. The day itselfIs simplified: a bowl of white, Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,With nothing more than the carnations there.IISay even that this complete simplicityStripped one of all one's torments, concealedThe evilly compounded, vital IAnd made it fresh in a world of white,A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,Still one would want more, one would need more,More than a world of white and snowy scents.IIIThere would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.”
“... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves,So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound.Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self,Impalpable habitations that seem to moveIn the movement of the colors of the mind.Confused illuminations and sonorities,So much ourselves, we cannot tell apartthe idea and bearer - being ofthe idea....”
“The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.”
“A poem is a meteor.”
“The poem must resist the intelligenceAlmost successfully.”