Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
This poem has been an inspiration to me for a long time. Wallace Stevens was, i believe, in "the moment" when he jotted down these exquisite lines. Verse after verse trace distinct "image sensations," painting a visual feast any true melancholic can enjoy. Green skies, euphonic bawds, bare trees, blackbird eyes, sharp icicles, snowy landscapes and autumn winds blowing blackbirds about. There is fear and awe in this series of word images that provoke a twilit empyrean sense of reality. Time seems to stand still, held in suspension by words that activate eternity like a lever and we lose sight of where we are for a moment. Stevens connects us to the blackbird and nature every step of the way. There is secret knowledge here for those who wait for the connection. You have to let go and slide between the lines to understand what the poet might have been seeing and feeling.
Crafting sublime visual images with words has to be a creative act of the highest order. It is akin to making music, painting pictures or choreographing dance moves but is richer because it moves us beyond the merely physical to other worlds. In this textual world blackbirds have the power to be sinister harbingers of disaster or heralds of enlightenment and the reader-participant makes a choice. No matter what metaphorical interpretation is applied to this poem it remains an eerily beautiful compilation of graphically stark yet sensual word paintings.
Check out other great poems by Wallace Stevens here.
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
This poem has been an inspiration to me for a long time. Wallace Stevens was, i believe, in "the moment" when he jotted down these exquisite lines. Verse after verse trace distinct "image sensations," painting a visual feast any true melancholic can enjoy. Green skies, euphonic bawds, bare trees, blackbird eyes, sharp icicles, snowy landscapes and autumn winds blowing blackbirds about. There is fear and awe in this series of word images that provoke a twilit empyrean sense of reality. Time seems to stand still, held in suspension by words that activate eternity like a lever and we lose sight of where we are for a moment. Stevens connects us to the blackbird and nature every step of the way. There is secret knowledge here for those who wait for the connection. You have to let go and slide between the lines to understand what the poet might have been seeing and feeling.
Crafting sublime visual images with words has to be a creative act of the highest order. It is akin to making music, painting pictures or choreographing dance moves but is richer because it moves us beyond the merely physical to other worlds. In this textual world blackbirds have the power to be sinister harbingers of disaster or heralds of enlightenment and the reader-participant makes a choice. No matter what metaphorical interpretation is applied to this poem it remains an eerily beautiful compilation of graphically stark yet sensual word paintings.
Check out other great poems by Wallace Stevens here.
