Tuesday, December 24, 2013

A Note on the Interpretation of 'The Snow Man'

This essay is a work in progress. It needs to be revised and extensively expanded, because it's necessarily incomplete, since I'm currently only dealing with half of the propositional content.

‘The Snow Man’ presents a dissolution of the categorical distinction between subject and object. Here we may detect the influence of Heidegger’s In-der-Welt-sein, although we need not restrict ourselves to a Heideggarian analysis, since Stevens appropriated philosophy for his poetry on the basis of aesthetic rather than systematic necessity. As he put it, “I like my philosophy smothered in beauty, not the other way around.” Stevens, was, moreover, too self-deprecating to consider himself a proper philosopher, declaring himself deficient in diligence and memory, a bit of flagrant self-debasement given his prodigious intellectual capacity--nevertheless, we may locate his position very close to the phenomenology of Husserl and Heidegger. It’s evident from 'The Snow Man' that Stevens held the qualitative content of consciousness to be itself a type of reality, and regarded as false the dichotomy between events in the mind and events in the external world. As we shall see, the titular snow man is by the poem's end both the subject and the object, both the beholder and the beheld.

To understand how Stevens accomplishes this transformation, let us examine the specific poetic choices that inform the semantic, syntactic, and phonological content of this poem. Firstly, the description of the landscape contains finely adumbrated figuration such that the disordering effects of entropy in nature evoke biophysiological analogues, a technique which is not quite anthropomorphization, but the metaphorical implications are clear enough. For instance, the description of the pine-trees as “crusted” is redolent of unshaveness, uncleanliness, bleariness, and fatigue, as well as of a temperamental crustiness, as in cantankerousness or curmudgeonliness. Nextly, the junipers are described as “shagged,” a word whose primary adjectival usage in the 1920s referred to either overgrowth or encrustation, or to hirsuteness (carrying connotations of haggardness, gauntness, and dishevelment), reflecting its derivation from the Old English sceacgede “hairy.” “Rough” has a similar original signification, stemming from the Old English ruh, meaning “rough, coarse (of cloth) hairy, shaggy; untrimmed; uncultivated,” an etymological lineage perhaps reflected in its contemporary dual resonance in referring either to primarily tactile phenomena or to an uncivilized coarseness of demeanor.  

The phrase “mind of winter” is syntactically a generative construction, which given its metaphorical nature may elicit multiple meanings, but which Stevens here employs to simultaneously express both reference quality and compositionality; that is, to indicate respectively that the mind is both characterized by winter, as in the homologous expression “a man of humor” and composed of winter, as in “a ring of gold,” thereby collapsing the Cartesian duality of mind and matter.

Stevens further transfigures the snow man through a felicitous syntactical sleight of hand. “Have” in the first line is used in the present indicative to mean “possess” while in the fourth line the verb is transfigured to become the auxiliary verb to the past particle “been” in a present perfect construction. This tense shift is accompanied by a concomitant transformation of linguistic modality (the speaker’s attitudinal expression towards the propositional content of the speech act) from deontic (the modality of necessity) to epistemic (the modality of supposition), which pendulates on the conversion of the modal auxiliary verb “must.” This amorphous boundary between these two categories of irrealis moods encapsulates Stevens’ conceptualization of the transfiguring power of imagination: that it is a process by which our ideas about necessity morph into our notions about possibility in a seemingly permeable interchange of ontology and epistemology.

Stevens also creates an appositional identification of the sound of the wind with the sound of a few leaves, and then equates the unity of this appositional identification with the sound of the land (containing the wind blowing within that land) by specifying it as the referent to the following non-restrictive relative clause. We may also note that Stevens conceptually synthesizes the wind, sound, land, and mind through the phonemic echo /nd/. In effect, he equates the medium of perceptual transduction with the perception itself, again subverting the dichotomy between mind and reality. The enjambment of line seven has a similar effect, permitting the expression of both the intransitive and transitive senses of the verb “think,” a tactic which allows Stevens to emphasize the inseparability of consciousness from its phenomenological intentionality, signifying the interdependence between object and subject.

Notice how in this poem metaphor supplants metaphor: the artificial, particularly human interpretation of winter as misery yields to the metaphor of winter as purification and purgation. Even phenomenological reduction, the quest to perceive without presupposition things as they really are, zu den Sachen selbst in the words of Husserl, let’s see the very thing and nothing else in the words of Stevens, is a particularly human endeavor, mediated by the same interpretation. This is why ‘the snow man,’ who hears no misery in the sound of fallen leaves, perceives among the landscape not barren trees but rather pines, spruces, and junipers -- all evergreens -- and why, furthermore, human temporal divisions are indicated by the location of the winter in January, the calendarical new year. The evergreens and the January sun in which they are illuminated are significant in that firstly, they are symbols of rejuvenation, in particular a poïetic rejuvenation; that is, they represent the generation of a new fiction to displace the existential nihility created by Nietzsche’s gott ist tot. Secondly, the presence of such symbols signifies the projection of phenomenological content onto inhuman reality. For the author of Harmonium, there is no facet of the object that is untouched by the subject, and no aspect of the physical world unpermeated with the qualitative subjective experience of human consciousness.

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Pater Peccavi

Peccavi. Forgive not the flavid afterbloom of my sins
as blue as forget-me-nots. I am not the one who breathed
the wind into my breast, not the one who beat
my battered heart to death. What else, what else could I do
if I flared like sempiternal light? Would I only knock
some sense to your damned skull, and you would open
your mouth and teach me, saying: I am not the one
who said I had a name, not the one who kneaded flesh
to leavened bread, who came immaculately, and filled
the sky with clocks to keep the pulse of pre-eternal time.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Quintessence of Color
For the Emperor of Green 1

Conceived in green's green pedigree, the quetzal   
is the pip of primogeniture, whose ruddy underside   
is overseen by greedy sight, mustering for the bright
emplumed panache. It must be green. It must belong   
amidst the ritz of regent paradise. It needs perpetuate
the green regime. Such red-red-ruby-rosy-rusty-red
pertains to parvenus: It is a flit of figuration, a frill 
on the primal metaphor, just the trope of glitz
one would expect, had one a mind in monochrome.




1Viridis XI, who ruled as Holy Emperor of Semprepace (the capital city of the universe) from 411 C.E. until 434 C.E. when he was removed from power by the Blue Rebellion. Viridis XI, whose name by birth was Jarocus Axdarus, extended the promulgation of green's chromatic singularity that his predecessor, Viridis X, had initiated, purportedly erecting jade monuments at each of the city's four cardinal gates which bore the following inscription:
Everything pertains to green, all-seeding and all-ceding hue, most primitive thing, progenitor of muskmelon green, jade green, pistachio green, jacamar green, beryl green, quetzal green, pakchoi green, puka green, feijoa green. All non-green things are statements about non-greenness and therefore exist only in relation to green.
Costa Rica: Resplendent Quetzal
A quetzal, the necessarily green bird

Thursday, October 31, 2013

O Boneco de Neve

O Boneco de Neve
de Wallace Stevens

Deve-se ter uma mente de inverno
Para olhar a geada e os galhos
Dos pinheiros incrustados com neve;

E se ter sentido frio muito tempo
Para observar os juníperos desgrenhados com gelo,
Os espruces ásperos no lampejo distante

Do sol de Janeiro; e não pensar
De nenhum miséria no som do vento,
No som de umas poucas folhas,

Que é o som da terra
Cheia do mesmo vento
Que está soprando no mesmo lugar vazio

Para quem escuta, que escuta na neve,
E, nada ele mesmo, observa
Nada que não está lá e o nada que está.

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Friday, October 4, 2013

North of the earthenbloom ran the land where every rose 
was not a rose was not a risen knot of wreathing prose,
where moonblood oozed holy flesh upon the frozen moor
and every quark aligned in paradox that spliced the past
to futured ossuaries in my mind. The particles of para-time
bred breathless beneath my breast an underland of heartbeats
that struck the sunset dun and strung the broken covenant
across the Arc of time. I felt the crescent's curve carve up
the State of Stalemate, felt the whiteheaded statues turn
their transfixed eyes to the umberland drumming underneath.


Essentially, this poem seeks to refute Gertrude Stein's remark, "A rose is a rose is a rose" by asserting that a rose is not a risen knot of prose that wreathes in rings around the rosie rows amid the knobby knolls where knotgrass grows.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Water falls into the hallows of your skull,
hollowed in its lusts for flesh. I was not born
without a womb, I was not ripped from out your rib.
Unto the skinless night I forge the resurrected light
and trace the arc of dawn along the blade
of blinded sight. All my body is a thrust of knife
that struck against a seed I could not define, and cut away
the skein that tethered our lives in time and half a time.
The fruit speaks unto the peel what the tear had wrested
from the eye: The east runs backward from the west.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Evening Harmony by Charles Baudelaire

Now comes the time when stems begin to sway:
Each bloom secretes scent like a censor's plume;
The evening wind twirls with sounds and perfume;
Melancholy waltz and dizzying glissé.

Each bloom secretes scent like a censor's plume.
The violin quakes like a heart being flayed;
Melancholy waltz and dizzying glissé.
The sad, sweet sky seems like an altar room.

The violin quakes like a heart being flayed,
A gentle heart, which hates the Nothing's gloom.                      
The sad, sweet sky seems like an altar room;
The sun drowns down in its own blood-let bay.

A gentle heart, which hates the Nothing's gloom,
Gleans hints from each luminous yesterday.                     
The sun drowns down in its own blood-let bay...
Your memory glints like a relic's tomb.

Harmonie du soir

Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!

Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.

Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.

Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Odysseus by Haim Gury

Odysseus

And returning to his native town he found a sea
And sundry fish and grass afloat on slowed waves
And sun washed up on the farthest edge of sky.

All error keeps recurring, said Odysseus within his tired heart,
Returning to the crossroads near the neighboring town
To seek out the current road to his birthplace that was not the sea.

A wanderer as fatigued as a dreamer, and full of yearning
Among a people who now spoke a different Greek:
The words he took as provisions on his trek expired.

For a moment, he thought he slept away a lifetime full of days
And had returned to a people who were not shocked at seeing him,
Who did not stare wide-eyed.

He mouthed with signs and gestures and they tried to understand him
From across the distance.
Purple turned violet on the edge of the selfsame sky.

The adults arose and gathered up the children who stood around him in a circle
And whisked them hurriedly away to house after house.
And light after light grew yellow inside.

Dew came and fell unto his head.
Winds came and kissed his lips.
Waters came and bathed his feet like Euryclea
And did not see the scar. And water
Flowed onward down the slope, as is the way of the tide.

Original Poem:


אודיסס


וּבְשׁוּבוֹ אֶל עִיר מולַדְתוֹ מָצָא יָם
וְדָגִים שׁוֹנִים וְעֵשֶב צָף עַל הַגַּלִים אִטִיִים
  .וְשֶׁמֶש נֶחְלֶשֶת בְּשׁוּלֵי שָמַיִם


טָעוּת לְעוֹלָם חוֹזֶרֶת, אָמַר אוֹדִיסֵס בְּלִבּוֹ הֶעָיֵף
  וְחָזַר עַד פָּרָשַת – הַּדְרָכִים הַסְּמוּכָה לָעִיר הַשְּכֵנָה
.לִמְצֹא אֶת הַדֶּרֶך אֶל עִיר מוֹלַדְתוֹ שֶלֹא הַיְתָה מַיִם

הָלַך עָיֵף כְּחוֹלֵם וּמִתְגַעְגֵעַ מְאֹד
.בֵּין אֲנָשִים שֶדִּבְּרוּ יוַנִית אַחֶרֶת
.הַמִּלִים שֶנָּטַל עִמוֹ כְּצֵידָה לְדֶרֶך הַמַּסָעוֹת, גָוְעוּ בֵּינְתַיִם

רֶגַע חָשַב כִּי נִרְדַם לְיָמִים רַבִּים
וְחָזַר אֶל אֲנָשִים שֶלֹא תָּמְהוּ בִּרְאוֹתָם אוֹתוֹ
.וְלֹא קָרְעוּ עֵינַיִם


הוּא שָאַל אוֹתָם בִּתְנוּעוֹת וְהֵם נִסוּ לְהַבִין אוֹתוׁ
  .מִתֹּוך הַמֶּרְחַקִּים
.הָאַרְגמָן הִסְגִיל וְהָלַך בְּשוּלֵי אוֹתָם שָמַיִם


קָמוּ הַמְּבוּגָרִים וְנָטְלוּ אֶת הַיְּלָדִים שֶעָמְדוּ סְבִיבוֹ בְּמַעְגָל
.וּמָשְכוּ אוֹתָם
.וְאוֹר אַחַר אוֹר הִצְהִיב בְּבַיִת אַחַר בַּית

.בָּא טַל וְיָרַד עַל רֹאשוֹ
.בָּאָה רוּחַ וְנָשְקָה לִשְׂפָתָיו
  .בָּאוּ מַיִם וְשָׁטְפוּ רַגְלָיו כְּאֶבְרִקְלִיָה הַזְּקֵנָה

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

A Toast by Stéphane Mallarmé

A Toast

Nothing, this foam, virgin verse
Denoting only the cup;
From afar a siren troop
Drowns upended in reverse.

We sail, O my diverse
Friends, I upon the stern,
You the dashing prow that churns
The flood of winters we traverse;

A lovely flush enlists
Me without fearing its pitch
To offer upright this toast:

Solitude, star, atoll coast
To whatever toll prevails
By the white care of our sail.

Original Poem:

Salut

Rien, cette écume, vierge vers
A ne désigner que la coupe;
Telle loin se noie une troupe
De sirènes mainte à l'envers.

Nous naviguons, ô mes divers
Amis, moi déjà sur la poupe
Vous l'avant fasteux qui coupe
Le flot de foudres et d'hivers;

Une ivresse belle m'engage
Sans craindre même son tangage
De porter debout ce salut

Solitude, récife, étoile
A n'importe ce qui valut
Le blanc souci de notre toile.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Department by Toeti Heraty

Department
For Rien



You gave me
a final order: bring me
everlasting youth and beauty.

The chamber is stifling
as dry dust piles
onto folders, files, and papers
with crinkled corners, and hopes
already stacked and locked away,
silent in dust.

Passion, at first trembling,
arises as orange flames
to youth-green life,
becomes scribbled paper
with typed requests
that are set aside.

Windows opened and curtains pushed aside
let in the sun to warm
the ever-shortened working hours
torn up here and there—
for tables are deserted, ashtrays gleam
and the phone rings and rings
as a voice is lost
in swarming idleness.

Ah, so mankind lives by quiet strength
with roots so deep to seize the earth
and closed-off meetings, seminars, reports
with working papers, copies, texts,
advice from bosses and vice-deputies?
  
The life of man is too much aflame
and without a sign annuls as mute
the piles of dust that echo
and fall upon the paper boys
at the main entrance, and the line
of official cars that come and go.

Indeed,
far from life
and your last request.

Suata Departemen
Untuk Rien

kau katakan padaku
pesan terakhir:
      bawakan keindahan dan
      kemudaan selalu

ruang menyesak, karena
keusangan debu membiak
map-map, berkas dan kertas dengan
ujung-ujung layu dan harapan-harapan
telah ditumpuk, diperam
membisu dalam debu

gairah, semula menggetar
bangunkan nyala-nyala jingga pada
hidup yang hijau muda,
jadi coretan-coretan
secarik kertas dengan ketikan permohonan
      yang dibiarkan saja

jendela terbuka dan tirai menyisi
lewatkan matahari menghangati
jam-jam kerja yang semakin pendek
disobek sana-sini—karena
meja-meja lengang, asbak mengkilat
dan telpon berdering berkali-kali
suara hilang dalam iseng
       yang berlipat ganda ini

ah, manusia hidup kukuh tenang
dengan akar dalam-dalam mencekam bumi
       dan rapat-rapat, seminar, laporan
       serta prasaran, naskah-naskah kerja
       wejangan oleh bapak-bapak atau wakilnya?

hidup manusia terlalu membara
dan tanpa isyarat akan menganggap sepi
tumpukan debu yang berkumandang
       menyentuh anak-anak penjual koran
       di depan pintu, mobil-mobil dinas
       berderetan datang dan lalu

memang,
jauh dari hidup
dan pesan akhirmu