“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

Explore This Quote Further

Quote by Wallace Stevens: “From this the poem springs: that we live in a pl… - Image 1

Similar quotes

“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.”