"The Idea of Order at Key West" by Wallace Stevens (read by Tom O'Bedlam)
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- čas přidán 5. 09. 2024
- One can gain insight into what poets are trying to convey from listening to them read their poems. Most poets read with a conspicuous mannerism which, I suggest, mimics a pattern of speech they heard in early life that had a powerful influence on them.
In Bukowski's work, for instance, I'm sure I hear the dismissive, jeering voice of his abusive father. Wallace Stevens reads with a "dying fall", as though he's casting a spell - somewhat like a preacher reading a lesson. Listen to Wallace Stevens reading it:
• Wallace Stevens - The ...
You may find that Stevens' habit of dropping the tone at the end of every phrase doesn't make his meaning any clearer, it is just a habit, but it is plain that that he writes in such cadences on purpose. Robert Lowell has a somewhat similar manner of reading his lines, and the conclusion must be that they were written wilfully to sound like that. Art is art because it works as a charm or a rune for the artist and, by inference, might work for some of the rest of us too.
I remember a boy telling me about the funeral of a relative in which the priest had said "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost" but for years afterwards he thought that the words were "and into the hole he goes" but they still had a profound effect on him.
The words used in poems and incantations - or even advertising jingles - because of their melodious qualities are more powerful than everyday flat transactional speech. If something sounds wonderful then it's harder to challenge the sense. We are swayed by rhetoric - consider the rhetorical battle between Hitler and Churchill that was a substantial part of in WW2. These are spells and charms and language which carry notions and emotions directly into our unconscious mind and bypass our analytical brain. This is why poetry,songs, religious incantations and advertising jingles so influence our emotions and beliefs.
The paintings are by contemporary artists.
Remembering Brittany is available here:
www.christopher...
The Fisherman's Wife:
riafineart.com/...
On the Docks at Key West by Mike Rooney:
mikerooneystudi...
The seascape by Toni Grote:
artisttonigrote...
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
This is one of Stevens' greatest poems. It reads as kind of enchanted fable, and the beauty and power of its music is immistakable.
A rune, indeed, Tom, with "spells and charms and language which carry notions and emotions directly into our unconscious mind and bypass our analytical brain." Enchanting. I agree with your characterization of Stephen's reading as somewhat preachy, like he might end with, "and into the hole he goes." I like both readings, but am partial to yours, wonderful and melodious, as is the poem. Thanks, as always, for the links to the artists' works. "The Fisherman's Wife" is especially apropos.
You did a fine job choosing the paintings.
Thank you for posting Wallace Stevens.
Interesting musing on the reasons behind how a poet reads his work. Very interesting. And thanks for the link to Stevens' reading. Nicely done, my friend. Very nicely done.
The greatest of all American poems.
thank you for posting this
Very good description. I over a time got used to hearing RS Thomas's voice when I was uploading his readings of his poetry, and it became highly tiresome after a while; but I can understand the purpose of that halting tone he takes. Not the same with the Dylan Thomas poems I uploaded, because they were read by Richard Burton, and so there was more performance with each poem.
I suppose that is the difference between an actor and a poet.
Great great great
This was very nice...were the pictures by the same artist?