Tag Archives: Wallace Stevens

Baby, it’s cold inside …

The “Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.” Wallace Stevens was a seminal, groundbreaking American modernist poet.  A contemporary of Eliot, he flipped the archetype of the wan, pale, misunderstood verbal virtuoso.  Instead, he pursued a lucrative … Continue reading

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Cold? “The Snowman” by Wallace Stevens – that’s cold

The Snow Man WALLACE STEVENS One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The … Continue reading

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Have Hit a Major Roadblock – POETS ON POETRY – No “Emotional Slither!”

My library is fated to swell and I to be buried in the falling, cascading books from the shelves. An appropriate end for a misspent life, I suppose, monomaniacally focused on books. Have unearthed a modest looking old paperback anthology … Continue reading

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Oh, Eliot, You Wonderful, Infernal, Old Dog of My Heart

       (c) Copyright 2014, Margaret Langstaff, All Rights Reserved “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” ― T.S. Eliot I received a jolt, as I always do, when I opened … Continue reading

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“The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.” – Wallace Stevens

Though he’s been gone for years, Stevens seems more contemporary and “with it” with every passing year.  That’s the mark of a great poet, IMHO, whose work is bound to endure because it is essentially timeless. Ever since he began … Continue reading

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From Wallace Steven’s “Examination of the Hero in Time of War”

Wallace Stevens, magnifico American poet of the mid-twentieth century, a giant truly whom general readers are only now beginning to appreciate. For Stevens, Imagination was the supreme faculty of mankind. Utterly mysterious, transformative, redemptive and given to only a privileged … Continue reading

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Oranges in a Sunny Chair: Wallace Stevens’ “Sunday Morning”

Sunday traditionally has been a time for reflection, easy speculation, and many of us call a truce with the nattering details of our lives to indulge our senses and explore with greater interest and attention the possible sense in things (if anything). Poetry, the best, … Continue reading

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