Wallace Stevens

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

Wallace Stevens Poems

1. A Disillusionment Of Ten O'Clock 4/5/2010
2. A High-Toned Old Christian Woman 1/13/2003
3. A Postcard From The Volcano 4/5/2010
4. A Rabbit As King Of The Ghosts 4/5/2010
5. Anecdote Of The Jar 1/3/2003
6. Another Weeping Woman 4/5/2010
7. Bantams In Pine-Woods 1/3/2003
8. Continual Conversation With A Silent Man 1/13/2003
9. Contrary Theses (Ii) 4/5/2010
10. Disillusionment Of Ten O'Clock 1/3/2003
11. Domination Of Black 1/13/2003
12. Farewell To Florida 4/5/2010
13. Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour 1/3/2003
14. Frogs Eat Butterflies, Snakes Eat Frogs, Hogs Eat Snakes, Men Eat Hogs 4/5/2010
15. Gray Room 1/3/2003
16. Hymn From A Watermelon Pavilion 4/5/2010
17. In The Carolinas 4/5/2010
18. It Must Give Pleasure 4/5/2010
19. Jasmine's Beautiful Thoughts Underneath the Willow 2/9/2016
20. Le Monocle De Mon Oncle 4/5/2010
21. Looking Across The Fields And Watching The Birds Fly 1/3/2003
22. Madame La Fleurie 1/20/2003
23. Metaphors Of A Magnifico 1/3/2003
24. No Possum, No Sop, No Taters 3/25/2015
25. Nomad Exquisite 1/3/2003
26. Not Ideas About The Thing But The Thing Itself 1/3/2003
27. Oak Leaves are Hands 11/9/2015
28. Of Modern Poetry 1/3/2003
29. Peter Quince At The Clavier 1/3/2003
30. Phases 4/5/2010
31. Poem Written At Morning 1/3/2003
32. Poetry Is A Destructive Force 4/14/2015
33. Repetitions of a Young Captain 11/9/2015
34. Sea Surface Full Of Clouds 11/9/2015
35. Six Significant Landscapes 1/13/2003
36. Study Of Two Pears 4/5/2010
37. Sunday Morning 1/3/2003
38. Table Talk 2/28/2011
39. Tattoo 1/13/2003
40. Tea At The Palaz Of Hoon 12/17/2014

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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