August 7, 201412 yr Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour 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, in 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. Wallace Stevens
August 7, 201412 yr Active Members So you got time to mess around with Wallace Stevens and all his poetical folderol" While I'm still patiently waiting for one measly little word? Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,A knowledge... What the fuck, AS, just what the fuck!? Light up that God damn candle, crack the the books and find me my word!
August 7, 201412 yr Author Failed you, I fear. Not one blessed clue or lead. You have any least intuition of what infernal thing it is, or what KIND of thing? After quite a bit of blind groping, I have still not hit on anything even close to the examples we started with.
August 7, 201412 yr Author P.S. Or as Stevens put it: No Possum, No Sop, No Taters He is not here, the old sun, As absent as if we were asleep. The field is frozen. The leaves are dry. Bad is final in this light. In this bleak air the broken stalks Have arms without hands. They have trunks Without legs or, for that, without heads. They have heads in which a captive cry Is merely the moving of a tongue. Snow sparkles like eyesight falling to earth, Like seeing fallen brightly away. The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound. It is here, in this bad, that we reach The last purity of the knowledge of good. The crow looks rusty as he rises up. Bright is the malice in his eye... One joins him there for company, But at a distance, in another tree.
August 7, 201412 yr Author OK, MsGuy. Here goes. One category that our construction fits, more or less, is: Asyndeton. The deliberate omission of conjunctions that would normally be used. But that's not exactly it. Hunt continues.
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