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Best Famous Wallace Stevens Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Wallace Stevens poems. This is a select list of the best famous Wallace Stevens poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Wallace Stevens poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of wallace stevens poems.

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Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

Sestina

 for Jim Cummins 

In Iowa, Jim dreamed that Della Street was Anne Sexton's
twin.
Dave drew a comic strip called the "Adventures of Whitman," about a bearded beer-guzzler in Superman uniform.
Donna dressed like Wallace Stevens in a seersucker summer suit.
To town came Ted Berrigan, saying, "My idea of a bad poet is Marvin Bell.
" But no one has won as many prizes as Philip Levine.
At the restaurant, people were talking about Philip Levine's latest: the Pulitzer.
A toast was proposed by Anne Sexton.
No one saw the stranger, who said his name was Marvin Bell, pour something into Donna's drink.
"In the Walt Whitman Shopping Center, there you feel free," said Ted Berrigan, pulling on a Chesterfield.
Everyone laughed, except T.
S.
Eliot.
I asked for directions.
"You turn right on Gertrude Stein, then bear left.
Three streetlights down you hang a Phil Levine and you're there," Jim said.
When I arrived I saw Ted Berrigan with cigarette ash in his beard.
Graffiti about Anne Sexton decorated the men's room walls.
Beth had bought a quart of Walt Whitman.
Donna looked blank.
"Walt who?" The name didn't ring a Marvin Bell.
You laugh, yet there is nothing inherently funny about Marvin Bell.
You cry, yet there is nothing inherently scary about Robert Lowell.
You drink a bottle of Samuel Smith's Nut Brown Ale, as thirsty as Walt Whitman.
You bring in your car for an oil change, thinking, this place has the aura of Philip Levine.
Then you go home and write: "He kissed her Anne Sexton, and she returned the favor, caressing his Ted Berrigan.
" Donna was candid.
"When the spirit of Ted Berrigan comes over me, I can't resist," she told Marvin Bell, while he stood dejected at the xerox machine.
Anne Sexton came by to circulate the rumor that Robert Duncan had flung his drink on a student who had called him Philip Levine.
The cop read him the riot act.
"I don't care," he said, "if you're Walt Whitman.
" Donna told Beth about her affair with Walt Whitman.
"He was indefatigable, but he wasn't Ted Berrigan.
" The Dow Jones industrials finished higher, led by Philip Levine, up a point and a half on strong earnings.
Marvin Bell ended the day unchanged.
Analyst Richard Howard recommended buying May Swenson and selling Anne Sexton.
In the old days, you liked either Walt Whitman or Anne Sexton, not both.
Ted Berrigan changed that just by going to a ballgame with Marianne Moore.
And one day Philip Levine looked in the mirror and saw Marvin Bell.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

INSPIRATION FROM A VISITATION OF MY MUSE

 Memories bursting like tears or waves

On some lonely Adriatic shore

Beating again and again

Threshings of green sea foam

Flecked like the marble Leonardo

Chipped for his ‘Moses’.
And my tears came as suddenly In that dream, criss-crossed With memory and desire.
Grandad Nicky had worked Down the pits for a pittance To bring up his six children But nothing left over for more Than a few nuts and an orange For six Christmas stockings So hopefully hung, weighted by pennies, Stretched across the black mantle.
So Lawrence-like and yet not, grandad A strict Methodist who read only a vast Bible Hunched in his fireside chair insisting On chapel three times on Sundays.
Only in retirement did joy and wisdom Enter him, abandoning chapel he took To the Friends or Quakers as they called them then And somehow at seventy the inner light Consumed him.
Gruff but kind was my impression: He would take me for walks Along abandoned railways to the shutdown Pipeworks where my three uncles Worked their early manhood through.
It would have delighted Auden and perhaps That was the bridge between us Though we were of different generations And by the time I began to write he had died.
All are gone except some few who may live still But in their dotage.
After my mother’s funeral None wanted contact: I had been judged in my absence And found wanting.
Durham was not my county, Hardly my country, memories from childhood Of Hunwick Village with its single cobbled street Of squat stone cottages and paved yards With earth closets and stacks of sawn logs Perfuming the air with their sap In a way only French poets could say And that is why we have no word but clich? ‘Reflect’ or ‘make come alive’ or other earthbound Anglicanisms; yet it is there in Valery Larbaud ‘J’ai senti pour la premiere fois toute la douceur de vivre’- I experienced for the first time all the joy of living.
I quote of their plenitude to mock the absurdity Of English poets who have no time for Francophiles Better the ‘O altitudo’ of earlier generations – Wallace Stevens’ "French and English Are one language indivisible.
" That scent of sawdust, the milkcart the pony pulled Each morning over the cobbles, the earthenware jug I carried to be filled, ladle by shining ladle, From the great churns and there were birds singing In the still blue over the fields beyond the village But because I was city-bred I could not name them.
I write to please myself: ‘Only other poets read poems’
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

I Sing The Body Electric

 People sit numbly at the counter 
waiting for breakfast or service.
Today it's Hartford, Connecticut more than twenty-five years after the last death of Wallace Stevens.
I have come in out of the cold and wind of a Sunday morning of early March, and I seem to be crying, but I'm only freezing and unpeeled.
The waitress brings me hot tea in a cracked cup, and soon it's all over my paper, and so she refills it.
I read slowly in The New York Times that poems are dying in Iowa, Missoula, on the outskirts of Reno, in the shopping galleries of Houston.
We should all go to the grave of the unknown poet while the rain streaks our notebooks or stand for hours in the freezing winds off the lost books of our fathers or at least until we can no longer hold our pencils.
Men keep coming in and going out, and two of them recall the great dirty fights between Willy Pep and Sandy Sadler, between little white perfection and death in red plaid trunks.
I want to tell them I saw the last fight, I rode out to Yankee Stadium with two deserters from the French Army of Indochina and back with a drunken priest and both ways the whole train smelled of piss and vomit, but no one would believe me.
Those are the true legends better left to die.
In my black rain coat I go back out into the gray morning and dare the cars on North Indemnity Boulevard to hit me, but no one wants trouble at this hour.
I have crossed a continent to bring these citizens the poems of the snowy mountains, of the forges of hopelessness, of the survivors of wars they never heard of and won't believe.
Nothing is alive in this tunnel of winds of the end of winter except the last raging of winter, the cats peering smugly from the homes of strangers, and the great stunned sky slowly settling like a dark cloud lined only with smaller dark clouds.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

March 1

 I could stare for hours
at her, the woman stepping
out of her bath, breasts
bare, towel around her waist,
before I knew she was you 
in that one-bedroom in 
the Village sunny and cold
that Friday we woke up 
slowly & our breakfast table
arranged itself into 
a still life with irises
in a vase and a peeled orange,
espresso cups and saucers
and The Necessary Angel by
Wallace Stevens, a little violet
paperback opened to page 58:
"the morality of the poet is 
the morality of the right sensation.
"
Written by David Wagoner | Create an image from this poem

Wallace Stevens On His Way To Work

 He would leave early and walk slowly
 As if balancing books
 On the way to school, already expecting
To be tardy once again and heavy
 With numbers, the unfashionably rounded
 Toes of his shoes invisible beyond
The slope of his corporation.
He would pause At his favorite fundamentally sound Park bench, which had been the birthplace Of paeans and ruminations on other mornings, And would turn his back to it, having gauged the distance Between his knees and the edge of the hardwood Almost invariably unoccupied At this enlightened hour by the bums of nighttime (For whom the owlish eye of the moon Had been closed by daylight), and would give himself wholly over Backwards and trustingly downwards And be well seated there.
He would remove From his sinister jacket pocket a postcard And touch it and retouch it with the point Of the fountain he produced at his fingertips And fill it with his never-before-uttered Runes and obbligatos and pellucidly cryptic Duets from private pageants, from broken ends Of fandangos with the amoeba chaos chaos Couchant and rampant.
Then he would rise With an effort as heartfelt as a decision To get out of bed on Sunday and carefully Relocate his center of gravity Above and beyond an imaginary axis Between his feet and carry the good news Along the path and the sidewalk, well on his way To readjusting the business of the earth.


Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

Wallace Stevens

The sea was the house and the world was the nave 
You were the sea and you were the nave 

The nave was stormy, the sea was calm 
While the house was waiting for the world 

To come in by the navy of the sea 
The sea was a nave, the world was a house 

You were the nave in the sea— 
The house and the world 

The world was the navy in the sea 
And the sea was the house 
Written by Ruth Stone | Create an image from this poem

Words

Wallace Stevens says,
"A poet looks at the world
as a man looks at a woman.
" I can never know what a man sees when he looks at a woman.
That is a sealed universe.
On the outside of the bubble everything is stretched to infinity.
Along the blacktop, trees are bearded as old men, like rows of nodding gray-bearded mandarins.
Their secondhand beards were spun by female gypsy moths.
All mandarins are trapped in their images.
A poet looks at the world as a woman looks at a man.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

With Tenure

 If Ezra Pound were alive today
 (and he is)
he'd be teaching
at a small college in the Pacific Northwest
and attending the annual convention
of writing instructors in St.
Louis and railing against tenure, saying tenure is a ladder whose rungs slip out from under the scholar as he climbs upwards to empty heaven by the angels abandoned for tenure killeth the spirit (with tenure no man becomes master) Texts are unwritten with tenure, under the microscope, sous rature it turneth the scholar into a drone decayeth the pipe in his jacket's breast pocket.
Hamlet was not written with tenure, nor were written Schubert's lieder nor Manet's Olympia painted with tenure.
No man of genius rises by tenure Nor woman (I see you smile).
Picasso came not by tenure nor Charlie Parker; Came not by tenure Wallace Stevens Not by tenure Marcel Proust Nor Turner by tenure With tenure hath only the mediocre a sinecure unto death.
Unto death, I say! WITH TENURE Nature is constipated the sap doesn't flow With tenure the classroom is empty et in academia ego the ketchup is stuck inside the bottle the letter goes unanswered the bell doesn't ring.