Twenty-Six Ways of Looking Through Stevens’ Eyes When He Wrote This Poem

1

I can't see it, but I know it's there . . .

2

I'm on acid and I know everything, man.

3

Have you ever seen one of those pictures, you know, those classy art photos, where something in the foreground is all sharp and in-focus, and then everything else behind it is all blurry because it's not as pretty as the focused-on object, but it's still important, that's why it's still there, in all its foggy glory.

4

Voyeurism is fun.

5

I prefer indecisiveness.

6

Oooh! How pretty. The shadows are running, maybe I should be running, too.

7

I don't know why "gentlemen" prefer blondes; I'm a brunette man, myself.

8

You hear that old British bag, trying to sound all smart with his "Indeed, indeed?" Even the blackbird on the window seal says, "Bullshit!"

9

I am sooo drunk right now.

10

Hookers are usually eloquent, unless they see something gorgeous.

11

Dude saw Hitchcock's The Birds one too many times--now he's crazy.

12

There's always a blackbird somewhere.

13

Oh, you didn't hear me the first time? Let me reiterate: there is always a freakin' blackbird, everywhere you look, no matter where you go. They're everywhere, man, nipping at your feet with insatiable yearning.

 

 

--OR--

 

 

I

Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there, watching you.

II

I read Eastern philosophy, and I know what the collective consciousness is.

III

Out of all the things whirling in the wind--the leaves, the dirt, the garbage--I chose to focus on the blackbird, because he was the only one in control of his movements, and the notion of having no control makes me uncomfortable.

IV

Metaphysics, anyone? Because I really like talking about things that no one will ever understand. It makes them think I'm smart.

V

What a deep, thought provoking way of saying that I prefer indecisiveness, because I simply can't decide which is more beautiful (the thought that they could be equally so would never occur to someone like me.)

VI

You can see what I saw, can't you? Can't you?! But, do you know what I mean? Of course not, I don't even know what I mean.

VII

If you don't hit that, someone will. Ahh, I'm so good at finding beauty, even when so little exists.

VIII

I am part of the collective consciousness, but apparently I'm only keen enough to absorb the intellect of a blackbird.

IX

I am sooo drunk right now.

X

In seeing what I see, even the whores of harmony would be driven to discord.

XI

If something is on your mind, you're likely to see it everywhere. Likewise, if you see something often, it is likely to grace your consciousness with frequency.

XII

There is always a blackbird somewhere, living, breathing, moving. It doesn't care if you can see it or hear it; it will still move forward with its (meager?) existence.

XIII

Among constant change is only one thing: Constance. By definition, it is always there.

 

 
Now tell me, which one is more ridiculous . . .

 

 

"Of Our Spiritual Strivings," Arthur Symons, p. 895/I'm in the Deeep South!

"As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?"

I believe that Du Bois used this excerpt because it drove in his idea of a dual existence, of African Americans trying to be themselves and Americans at the same time. I'm sure he wasn't the first to identify this struggle, but he was probably the first one to point it out. I wouldn't be surprised if many people weren't quite sure what they were going through, they couldn't understand what it was they were feeling--or as this poem personifies--hearing. I'm sure it was the voice of their hearts and the voice of the sea.

But the poem goes even farther than this, because the voice is also crying for rest.

"Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail . . ."

How tiring it must have been, being an African American in this time period. First, the constant duty of being a slave, of always having work to be done, and never once a vacation (wow, do I feel like crap right now.) And then, after emancipation, the incessant struggle of trying to find one's place in the world, in America; always smashed between two boulders of freedom and oppression, ever reaching out to grasp at opportunity, which I'm sure didn't pass by often.

Du Bois was trying to identify with and encourage his fellow men. He was saying, "I know, I know you're tired, I know your soul is crying for rest, but don't give up. We can't give up."

That's what all this is about, pressing on despite physical, social, and emotional exhaustion. That's why Du Bois slammed Washington's philosophies, because he saw them as a giant white flag. He saw Washington plop down right where he was and take whatever he could get, and encourage everyone else to do the same. He saw Washington give in. In Washington's own words, "Cast down your bucket where you are," which in every way discourages one from moving forward. True, there is always something there, and they weren't giving everything up. But there is always more just beyond the horizon, and I'm sure if those sailors had turned and kept sailing up the Amazon River, they would have found a towering waterfall, one more beautiful and plentiful than they could ever want or need.

I find it rather ironic that while I write this, I am sitting in the (former) overseer's house on a (former) plantation in Mississippi. We are staying with my friend John, and his family has lived on this land for over 200 years. If I hadn't of read Up from Slavery before I got here, I wouldn't have known what he was talking about when he said that the big house burned down and the house he now lives in used to be the overseer's house. There are several little shacks scattered all over this part of the property, and I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure that that's where the slaves lived. It makes me a little sad, but also, it's history (and, it's history.)

As for Mardi Gras, well . . .

We went down to 'Nawlins for the first few days of our trip, and I have never had so much fun in my life. There's so much to tell, but I'll only include a few interesting bits for anyone interested.

I saw someone's ashes get scattered right on Bourbon Street. What a way to go.

I saw the Pope, Mic Jaggar, three Captain Morgans, a bear, a chicken, Jesus (or Moses, we're still not sure,) and about 50 trannies.

I got hit in the head with beads several times, and slipped and fell on beads a few times.

I will never drink another hurricane--ever--in my life.

But, for now, that's all you get, except this:

1) Riding a ferry while extremely hungover is not a good idea.

2) If you ever want to be lulled to sleep (very slowly and painfully) by the sound of a 1200 lb cow snoring just outside your window, come to Quitman, Mississippi.

Dunbar's "We Wear the Mask", p.1043

“We wear the mask!”

Look at that exclamation hovering at the end there. It almost beckons us to celebrate. I kind of want to dance. I didn’t always want to dance. In the first stanza, I wanted to hang my head in


shame? In the second stanza, I wanted to do a sad, slow waltz—all by myself. In the third stanza, I felt the urge to yank my arms free of whatever imaginary binding held them, held them fast as they held my hands, which held to the page.

Was it really imaginary?

Then that last line. I wanted to jump up and dance, maybe clap my hands like a birthday idiot, some sort of notifying grin gracing my face.

“We wear the mask!”

The mask is glorious?

I always thought it was shameful to wear a mask. “Just be yourself” is all I ever heard as a child. “Go find out who you are”, ironically, didn’t come until my teenage years much later. Someone should really fix that. Anyways, I’m off the point.

Masks are people’s protection, I’ve been told. You needn’t protect yourself, I’ve been told. Hiding yourself behind a veil is lying, to the world and to yourself.

Be proud of who you are . . .

I call bullshit.

People say that (just be you,) but they mean be who you’re supposed to be, how you’re expected to be. Behave in an appropriate manner (unless no one’s looking ... that’s what Jesus is for.)

But if they happen to glance your way, you’d better hope your disguise is handy.

Who the heck is “they”? And what gives them the right to tell me how to pretend to behave?

Me. I give them the right. If I don’t hide my fear, my anger, my shame, my desire, my suffering, my desperation, my narcissism, my etc. etc. etc. etc. et cetera, they’ll say something. And that something might “hurt” me, and then I have even more to hide. If I’m not presented in the way I’m told to present myself, murmurs will float just past my ears, just close enough so I know they’re there, and just so soft that I can only assume what they mean.

“Be yourself, be proud!” society cries, while under it all they are constantly whispering, “Where’s your mask? Have you no shame???” They are tugging my arms, holding them fast behind my back.

“Our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile.”

How can I take off my mask if my hands are behind me, pressed between the sweaty, accusatory palms of my fellow facaders?

I can’t is a strong statement.

But why not celebrate, on the outside of all of it? Here is my mask, and it’s smiling. Here is my capering guise, you who dares to call me friend.

Is it acceptable? Does it make you happy?

Is that your mask smiling back at me?

What big teeth you have . . .

"The Storm," Kate Chopin, p.531

Thank you, Miss Chopin, for furthering my last argument. If a woman wants to be credited in the annals of great American literature (years after her death, of course. What, you didn't think I would be so preposterous as to suggest that she should actually be acclaimed in her own lifetime, did you?), there is more than one way. She could try Dickinson's method, and write like a man. Or, in Miss Chopin's case, she could write for men.

" . . . her breasts . . . gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy."

Really?

Who the heck would want to read that? Dudes, of course. They're the only ones with the ability to think that breasts serve any purpose besides feeding infants, and the tenacity to think that they possess the power to make them do anything other than satisfy tiny hungry tummies. Lemme tell you (men) right now, you don't. My breasts have never given themselves up in quivering ecstasy, and if they ever did, I'd probably yell at them.

We have to remember that this was written long before women were regularly photographed naked and sold at the Seven-Eleven, and what better way to get the world's attention than giving them a little erotica? But that's where my disappointment sets in. She wrote about Calixta's body, and how it looked and felt to Alcee. But we never got a mouthy description of naked Alcee. Why do you suppose that is? Most likely because the majority of men (i.e.--the majority of her readers whose opinions mattered,) wouldn't want to read about it. But toss breasts, ecstasy, and lips into the same sentence, and you've got their (full) attention.

Don't get me wrong, that's not all there is to appreciate in this story. It is actually a very decent story. I assume that most women would love to be Calixta, with a devoted, scared, and doting husband, who waits, lovingly clutching a can of her favorite treats while she runs about, doing and commanding whatever fancies her. And of course her son is "the picture of pathetic resignation." How else could he have possibly turned out, given the circumstances? I feel that this is the most feminist aspect of the whole story: a woman raising a boy who is destined to submit to the "authority" of every woman in his life, and a father who makes no contention, only furthering this tiny little feminist movement.

I loved how the setting was a character in the story, not only planting us firmly in space and time, but living and breathing and gasping with the tale's action and inaction. Loved the local color in the dialogue. Hated the French and all the exclamation points. Not for the sole purpose of hating something, but because I felt it was all unnecessary, and that the "local color" would have been conveyed just fine (and less annoyingly) without it.

And finally, the last line of the story--why, Chopin, why? Not only is it a choppy indifference, awkwardly crammed under the story's final weight, fidgeting and squirming around the tone that was set so beautifully before, writhing so violently that one can't help but notice it set apart from everything else, but also, I didn't need her to tell me that. I really didn't. I got the whole metaphor of the storm ravaging and then passing, of everyone going back to the same old same-old. I understand the significance of the title, and the setting, and how it all pertains to the desires, thoughts, and movements of the characters. I chewed on it long and hard--I rather enjoyed the taste--until Chopin decided to shove it right down my throat. Rude, just--rude . . .