Wallace Stevens

(October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955 / Pennsylvania / United States)

Wallace Stevens Poems

1. Oak Leaves are Hands 11/9/2015
2. Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath the Willow 2/9/2016
3. Sea Surface Full Of Clouds 11/9/2015
4. Repetitions of a Young Captain 11/9/2015
5. Poetry Is A Destructive Force 4/14/2015
6. The Auroras of Autumn 11/9/2015
7. Tea At The Palaz Of Hoon 12/17/2014
8. Phases 4/5/2010
9. No Possum, No Sop, No Taters 3/25/2015
10. The Man With The Blue Guitar 3/12/2015
11. Table Talk 2/28/2011
12. Study Of Two Pears 4/5/2010
13. The Man On The Dump 4/5/2010
14. What Is Divinity 4/5/2010
15. Contrary Theses (Ii) 4/5/2010
16. It Must Give Pleasure 4/5/2010
17. Hymn From A Watermelon Pavilion 4/5/2010
18. The Sense Of The Sleight-Of-Hand Man 1/13/2003
19. Le Monocle De Mon Oncle 4/5/2010
20. Frogs Eat Butterflies, Snakes Eat Frogs, Hogs Eat Snakes, Men Eat Hogs 4/5/2010
21. In The Carolinas 4/5/2010
22. To The One Of Fictive Music 1/13/2003
23. Two Figures In Dense Violet Light 1/3/2003
24. The Death Of A Soldier 4/5/2010
25. The High-Toned Old Christian Woman 1/20/2003
26. Farewell To Florida 4/5/2010
27. The Man Whose Pharynx Was Bad 1/3/2003
28. Another Weeping Woman 4/5/2010
29. Valley Candle 1/3/2003
30. The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain 1/1/2004
31. The Well Dressed Man With A Beard 1/13/2003
32. A Postcard From The Volcano 4/5/2010
33. The Plot Against The Giant 1/3/2003
34. A Rabbit As King Of The Ghosts 4/5/2010
35. A Disillusionment Of Ten O'Clock 4/5/2010
36. Peter Quince At The Clavier 1/3/2003
37. Six Significant Landscapes 1/13/2003
38. The River Of Rivers In Connecticut 1/3/2003
39. Poem Written At Morning 1/3/2003
40. Metaphors Of A Magnifico 1/3/2003

Comments about Wallace Stevens

  • Ann Driscoll, adriscoll5@yahoo.com (1/23/2018 1:48:00 PM)

    I want to buy a book of poems, poems written by Wallace Stevens


































    I want to buy an entire book of poems by Wallace Stevens

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  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (2/14/2016 3:49:00 PM)

    As I haven't found any translation of Wallace Stevens' “Montrachet-Le-Jardin”, even if it is so difficult to understand.. (a ''passage of whimsy and whimsical words''!) .. I'll try my own interpretation and give here a translation of the following 6 lines into Italian..

    What is there to love than I have loved?
    And if there be nothing more, O bright, O bright,
    The chick, the chidder-barn and grassy chives

    And great moon, cricket-impresario,
    And, hoy, the impopulous purple-plated past,
    Hoy, hoy, the blue bulls kneeling down to rest.

    - ITALIAN:

    Cosa v'è da amare che non abbia amato?
    E se nient'altro vi fosse, o radioso, o radioso,
    Il pulcino, il fienile irreperibile e l’erba cipollina

    E la grande luna, impresario dei grilli,
    E, ohi, lo spopolato passato violaceo,
    Ohi, ohi, i tori azzurri che s'inginocchiano per riposare.

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (1/6/2016 11:31:00 AM)

    Wallace Stevens' answer to the questions ''What is a poet? Why does one write poetry? '':
    ''A poet writes poetry because he is a poet; and he is not a poet because he is a poet but because of his personal sensibility. What gives a man his personal sensibility I don't know and it doesn't matter because no one knows. Poets continue to be born not made and cannot, I'm afraid, be predetermined.''

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (10/30/2015 7:08:00 PM)

    **who can tell me what the following lines from Wallace Stevens' “Montrachet-Le-Jardin” mean..? ? Thanks **

    What is there to love than I have loved?
    And if there be nothing more, O bright, O bright,
    The chick, the chidder-barn and grassy chives

    And great moon, cricket-impresario,
    And, hoy, the impopulous purple-plated past,
    Hoy, hoy, the blue bulls kneeling down to rest.

  • Richard Iordano (11/9/2009 3:47:00 AM)

    Hi The Library of America volume of Stevens' collected poetry and prose page 311 -312,4th stanza reads, ' Wanted to lean, wnated much most to be...' I thought it was a very weird line. I looked here and of course you have it differently.'...wanted most to be.
    There is a typo in the Library of America vol? Are there any more?
    thanks and let me know

  • Richard Moores (5/15/2006 10:36:00 AM)

    You have a serious punctuation error in the first stanza of Sunday Morning.
    The line,
    'The day is like wide water, without sound.'
    should end in a comma, not a period. Thus:

    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkens among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

  • Lamont Palmer (2/1/2006 1:41:00 AM)

    Stevens is quite possibly the greatest poet of the 20th century. His neologistic and beautiful words defy the limitations of the concrete world and explores the depths of the imagination. And the fact that he led a very quiet, uneventful life in CT, while creating his gorgeous poetry makes him even more fascinating. I think his reclusive life strengthened his work, intensified it. If not the greatest poet of them all, he was certainly the purest. His influence will forever be felt.

Best Poem of Wallace Stevens

The Emperor Of Ice-Cream

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its ...

Read the full of The Emperor Of Ice-Cream

Poem Written At Morning

A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter

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