The Planet on the Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
– Wallace Stevens (American poet, 1879-1955)
I admit that Stevens’ poems make me feel discouraged about my own pathetic efforts at poetry. In my irrelevant opinion, he was the greatest American poet of the 20th century. Then again, I’d put Robinson Jeffers in the top 5 too – and most people haven’t even heard of him.
[UPDATE 2020-03-31: While doing some routine maintenance on this here blog, I am embarrassed to realize, only now, that I have cited this poem twice on this blog. This is the second appearance. The first was on 2015-10-03. Well, I guess it’s a pretty good poem.]
[daily log: walking, 6.5km]
