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Above the forest of the parakeets, A parakeet of parakeets prevails, A pip of life amid a mort of tails.

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
Tails
Forest
Forests
Life
Parakeet
Parakeets
Mort
Prevails
Amid

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The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
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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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Day after day, throughout the winter, We hardened ourselves to live by bluest reason In a world of wind and frost.
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The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
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The world about us would be desolate except for the world within us.
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Already the new-born children interpret love In the voices of mothers.
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A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
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Ethics are no more a part of poetry than theyare of painting.
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Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
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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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Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
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It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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The belief in poetry is a magnificent fury, or it is nothing.
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The wind shifts like this: Like a human without illusions, Who still feels irrational things within her.
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Thus the theory of description matters most. It is the theory of the word for those For whom the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament.
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One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow
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I have said no To everything, in order to get at myself. I have wiped away moonlight like mud.
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I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
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A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.
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Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
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