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The mind is the great poem of winter, the man, Who, to find what will suffice, Destroys romantic tenements Of rose and ice.

Wallace Stevens

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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Romantic
Winter
Rose
Find
Tenements
Great
Suffice
Mind
Destroys
Men
Ice
Poem

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If sex were all, then every trembling hand Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
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The thinker as reader reads what has been written. He wears the words he reads to look upon Within his being.
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The old brown hen and the old blue sky, Between the two we live and die The broken cartwheel on the hill.
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Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.
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Unfortunately there is nothing more inane than an Easter carol. It is a religious perversion of the activity of Spring in our blood.
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Poetry has to be something more than a conception of the mind. It has to be a revelation of nature. Conceptions are artificial. Perceptions are essential.
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The whole race is a poet that writes down / The eccentric propositions of its fate.
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Next to love is the desire for love.
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Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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The grackles sing avant the spring Most spiss oh! Yes, most spissantly. They sing right puissantly.
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What's down below is in the past Like last night's crickets, far below.
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Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration.
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Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends.
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The essential fault of surrealism is that it invents without discovering. To make a clam play an accordion is to invent not to discover. The observation of the unconscious, so far as it can be observed, should reveal things of which we have previously been unconscious, not the familiar things of which we have been conscious plus imagination.
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Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
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Poetry is poetry, and one's objective as a poet is to achieve poetry precisely as one's objective in music is to achieve music.
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At evening casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
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Imagination is the will of things. . . .
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Revolution Is the affair of logical lunatics.
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