Canned Heat , I'm Her Man (Live At Woodstock 69')

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Brandenburg Concerto No.5／Emanuel Pahud

Robert Bly, Oh, on an early morning

Six Significant Landscapes, Wallace Stephens

Six Significant Landscapes

I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.

II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.

III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.

IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.

V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.

VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, Wallace Stephens

I 

Among twenty snowy mountains,   

The only moving thing   

Was the eye of the blackbird.   

II 

I was of three minds,   

Like a tree   

In which there are three blackbirds.   

III 

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.   

It was a small part of the pantomime.   

IV 

A man and a woman   

Are one.   

A man and a woman and a blackbird   

Are one.   

V 

I do not know which to prefer,   

The beauty of inflections   

Or the beauty of innuendoes,   

The blackbird whistling   

Or just after.   

VI 

Icicles filled the long window   

With barbaric glass.   

The shadow of the blackbird   

Crossed it, to and fro.   

The mood   

Traced in the shadow   

An indecipherable cause.   

VII 

O thin men of Haddam,   

Why do you imagine golden birds?   

Do you not see how the blackbird   

Walks around the feet   

Of the women about you?   

VIII 

I know noble accents   

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;   

But I know, too,   

That the blackbird is involved   

In what I know.   

IX 

When the blackbird flew out of sight,   

It marked the edge   

Of one of many circles.   

X 

At the sight of blackbirds   

Flying in a green light,   

Even the bawds of euphony   

Would cry out sharply.   

XI 

He rode over Connecticut   

In a glass coach.   

Once, a fear pierced him,   

In that he mistook   

The shadow of his equipage   

For blackbirds.   

XII 

The river is moving.   

The blackbird must be flying.   

XIII 

It was evening all afternoon.   

It was snowing   

And it was going to snow.   

The blackbird sat   

In the cedar-limbs.

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour, Wallace Stephens

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. 

A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts, Wallace Stevens

There was the cat slopping its milk all day, 
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk 
And August the most peaceful month. 

To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time, 
Without that monument of cat, 
The cat forgotten in the moon; 

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light, 
In which everything is meant for you 
And nothing need be explained; 

Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself; 
And east rushes west and west rushes down, 
No matter. The grass is full 

And full of yourself. The trees around are for you, 
The whole of the wideness of night is for you, 
A self that touches all edges, 

You become a self that fills the four corners of night. 
The red cat hides away in the fur-light 
And there you are humped high, humped up, 

You are humped higher and higher, black as stone— 
You sit with your head like a carving in space 
And the little green cat is a bug in the grass. 

A Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock, Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.