Businessman by Day, Poet by Night

Earlier this morning I read a poem by Wallace Stevens. Isn't the name Wallace Stevens a perfect name for a poet? I think it is. Interestingly enough though (at least I think it's interesting), while Stevens was alive, he wasn't really recognized as a poet as much as a successful businessman. It wasn't until he passed away that people started to consider him one of the major American poets of the 20th century. Why does that always happen to these poor artists? It has been said that Stevens led a quiet, uneventful life--spending his days behind a desk at the office and composing poems on his way to and from work and in the evenings. Some people may think that to be a sad description of someone's life, but I don't think so. I like the idea of Wallace Stevens working as a businessman by day and a poet by night. I view him as someone who wrote poetry for the pure love of it rather than any fame or fortune that may come of something like that. I like to think that he used the power of his imagination to transform the uneventful things of his life into exciting things, things to be admired. Besides being spoken of as someone who led a quiet, uneventful life, it has also been said that Stevens' work is infused with the light and color of an Impressionist painting. I love that description of his work and think it's a true one, especially after reading the following poem. Impressionists try to simulate actual reflected light in their paintings so to say that Stevens' poems have elements within them that help the reader to conjure up images of light or reflected light is a huge compliment; a compliment that I think is much deserved in this case. Gosh, I really like this guy's name. I'll be reading more of his stuff this week for sure.


Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour
by Wallace Stevens

Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.