The man bent over his guitar,
A shearsman of sorts. The day was green.
They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”
The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”
And they said then. “But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves,
A tune upon the blue guitar
Of things exactly as they are.”
I cannot bring a world quite round,
Although I patch it as I can.
I sing a hero’s head, large eye
And bearded bronze, but not a man,
Although I patch him as I can
And reach through him almost to a man.
If to serenade almost to man
Is to miss, by that, things as they are,
Say that it is a the serenade
Of a man that plays a blue guitar.
Ah but to play man number one,
To drive the dagger in his heart,
To lay his brain upon the board
And pick the acrid colors out,
To nail his thought across the door,
Its wings spread wide to rain and snow,
To strike his living hi and ho,
To tick it, tock it, turn it true,
To bang it from a savage blue,
Jangling the metal of the strings . . .
So that’s life, then: things as they are?
It picks its way on the blue guitar.
A million people on one string?
And all their manner in the thing,
And all their manner, right and wrong,
And all their manner, weak an strong?
The feelings crazily, craftily call,
Like a buzzing of flies in autumn air,
Do not speak to us of the greatness of poetry,
Of the torches wisping in the underground,
Of the structure of vaults upon a point of light.
There are no shadows in our sun,
Day is desire and night is sleep.
There are no shadows anywhere.
The earth, for us, is flat and bare.
There are no shadows. Poetry
Exceeding music must take the place
Of empty heaven and its hymns,
A tune beyond us as we are,
Yet nothing changed by the blue guitar;
Ourselves in the tune as if in space,
Yet nothing changed, except the place
Of things as they are and only the place
As play them, on the blue guitar,
Placed, so, beyond the compass of change,
Perceived in final atmosphere;
For a moment final, in the way
The thinking of art seems final when
The thinking of god is smoky dew.
The tune is space. The blue guitar
Becomes the place of things as they are,
A composing of senses of the guitar.
It is the sun that shares our works.
The moon shares nothing. It s a sea.
When shall I come to say of the sun,
It is a sea; it shares nothing;
The sun no longer shares our works
And the earth is alive with creeping men,
Mechanical beetles never quite warm?
And shall I then stand in the sun, as now
I stand in the moon, and call it good,
The immaculate, the merciful good,
Detached from us, from things as they are?
Not to be part of the sun? To stand
Remote and call it merciful?
The strings are cold on the blue guitar.
The vivid, florid, turgid sky,
The drenching thunder rolling by,
The morning deluged still by night
The clouds tumultuously bright
And the feeling heavy in cold chords
Struggling toward impassioned choirs,
Crying among the clouds, enraged
By gold antagonists in air –
I know my lazy, leaden twang
Is like the reason in a storm;
And yet it brings the storm to bear.
I twang it out an leave it there.
And the color, the overcast blue
Of the air, in which the blue guitar
Is a form, described but difficult,
And I am merely a shadow hunched
Above the arrowy, still strings,
The maker of a thing yet to be made;
The color like a thought that grows
Out of a mood, the tragic robe
Of the actor, half his gesture, half
His speech, the dress of his meaning, silk
Sodden with his melancholy words,
The weather of his stage, himself.
Raise reddest columns. Toll a bell
And clap the hollows full of tin.
Throw papers in the streets, the wills
Of the dead, majestic in their seals.
And the beautiful trombones – behold
The approach of him whom none believes,
Whom all believe that all believed,
A pagan in a varnished car.
Roll a drum upon the blue guitar.
Lean from the steeple. Cry aloud,
“Here am I, my adversary, that
Confront you, hoo-ing the slick trombones,
Yet with a petty misery
At heart, a petty misery,
Ever the prelude to your end,
The touch that topples men and rock.”
Slowly the ivy on the stones
Becomes the stones. Women become
The cities, children become the fields
And men in waves become the sea.
It is the chord that falsifies.
The sea returns upon the men,
The fields entrap the children, brick
Is a weed and all the flies are caught,
Wingless and withered, but living alive.
The discord merely magnifies.
Deeper with the belly’s dark
Of time, time grows upon the rock.
Tom-tom, c’est moi. The blue guitar
And I are one, The orchestra
Fills the high hall with shuffling men
High as the hall. The whirling noise
Of a multitude dwindles, all said,
To his breath that leas awake at night.
I know that timid breathing. Where
Do I begin and end? And where,
As I strum the thing, do I pick up
That which momentously declares
Itself not to be I and yet
Must be. It could be nothing else.
The pale intrusions into blue
Are corrupting pallors . . . ay di mi,
Blue buds or pitchy blooms. Be content –
Expansions, diffusions – content to be
The unspotted imbecile revery,
The heraldic center of the world
Of blue, blue sleek with a hundred chins,
The amorist Adjective aflame . . .
First one beam, then another, then
A thousand are radiant in the sky.
Each is both star and orb; and day
Is the riches of their atmosphere.
The sea appends its tattery hues.
The shores are banks of muffling mist.
One says a German Chandelier-
A candle is enough to light the world.
It makes it clear. Even at noon
It glistens in essential dark.
At night, it lights the fruit and wine,
The book and bread, things as they are,
In a chiaroscuro where
One sits and plays the blue guitar.
Is this picture of Picasso’s, this “hoard
Of Destructions,” a picture of ourselves,
Now, an image of our society?
Do I sit, deformed, a naked egg,
Catching a Good-bye, harvest moon,
Without seeing the harvest or the moon?
Things as they are have been destroyed.
Have I? Am I a man that is dead
At a table on which the food is cold?
Is my thought a memory, not alive?
Is the spot on the floor, there, wine or blood
And whichever it may be, is it mine?
The earth is not earth but a stone,
Not the mother that held men as they fell
But stone, but like a stone, no: not
The mother, but an oppressor, but like
An oppressor that grudges them their death,
As it grudges the living that they live.
To live in war, to live at war,
To chop the sullen psaltery.
To improve the sewers in Jerusalem,
To electrify the mimbuses –
Place honey on the alters and die,
You lovers that are bitter at heart.
The person has a mould. But not
Its animal. The angelic ones
Speak of the soul, the mind. It is
An animal. The blue guitar –
On that is claw propound, its fangs
Articulate its desert days.
The blue guitar a mould? That shell?
Well, after all, the north wind blows
A horn, on which its victory
Is a worm composing a straw.
A dream (to call it a dream) in which
I can believe, in face of the object,
A dream no long a dream, a think
Of things as they are, as the blue guitar
After long strumming on certain nights
Gives the touch of the senses, not of the hand,
But the very sense as they touch
The wind-gloss. Or as daylight comes,
Like light in a mirroring of cliffs,
Rising upward from a sea of ex.
That I may reduce the monster to
Myself, and then may be myself
In face of the monster, be more than part
Of it, more than the monstrous player of
One of its monstrous lutes, not be
Alone, but reduce the monster and be,
Two things, the two together as one,
And play of the monster and of myself,
Or better not of myself at all,
But of that as its intelligence,
Being the lion in the lute
Before the lion locked in stone.
What is there in life except one’s ideas,
Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
Is it ideas that I believe?
Good air, my only friend, believe,
Believe would be a brother full
Of love, believe would be friend,
Friendlier than my only friend,
Good air. Poor pale, poor pale guitar. . .
A substitute for all the gods:
This self, not that gold self aloft,
Alone, one’s shadow magnified,
Lord of the body, looking down,
As now and called most high,
The shadow of Chocorua
In an immenser heaven, aloft,
Alone, lord of the land and lord
Of the men that live in the land, high lord.
One’s self and the mountains of one’s land,
Without shadows, without magnificence,
The flesh, the bone, the dirt, the stone.
Poetry is the subject of the poem,
From this the poem issues and
To this returns. Between the two
Between issue and return, there is
An absence in reality,
Things as they are. Or so we say.
But are these separate? Is it
An absence for the poem, which acquires
Its true appearance there, sun’s green,
Cloud’s red, earth feeling, sky that thinks?
From these it takes. Perhaps it gives,
In the universal intercourse.
A few final solutions, like a duet
With the undertaker: A voice in the clouds,
Another on earth, the one a voice
Of ether, the other smelling of drink,
The voice of ether prevailing, the swell
Of the undertaker’s song in the snow
Apostrophizing wreaths, the voice
In the clouds serene and final, next
The grunted breath serene and final,
The imagined and the real, thought
And the truth, Dichtung and Wahrheit, all
Confusion solved, as in a refrain
One keeps on playing year by year.
Concerning the nature of things as they are.
A poem like a missal found
In the mud, a missal for that young man,
That scholar hungriest for that book,
The very book, or, less, a page
Or, at the least, a phrase, that phrase,
A hawk of life, that latined phrase:
To know; a missal for brooding-sight.
To meet that hawk’s eye and to flinch
Not at the eye but at the joy of it.
I play. But this is what I think.
He held the world upon his nose
And this-a-way he gave a fling.
His robes and symbols, ai-yi-yi-
And that-a-way he twirled the thing.
Somber as fir-trees, liquid cats
Moved in the grass without a sound.
They did not know the grass went round.
The cats had cats and the grass turned gray
And the world had worlds, ai, this-a-way:
The grass turned green and the grass turned gray.
And the nose is eternal, that-a-way.
Things as they were, things as they are,
Things as they will be by and by . . .
A fat thumb beats out ai-yi-yi.
The world washed in his imagination,
The world was a shore, whether sound or form
Or light, the relic of farewells,
Rock the valedictory echoings,
To which his imagination retuned,
From which it sped, a bar in space,
San heaped in the clouds, giant that fought
Against the murderous alphabet:
The swarm of thoughts, the swarm of dreams
Of inaccessible Utopia.
A mountainous music always seemed
To be falling and to be passing away.
It is the sea that whitens the roof.
The sea drifts through the winter air.
It is the sea that the north wind makes.
The sea in the falling snow.
This gloom is the darkness of the sea.
Geographers and philosophers,
Regard. But for that salty cup,
But for the icicles on the eaves-
The sea is a form of ridicule.
The iceberg settings satirize
The demon that cannot be himself,
That tours to shift the sifting scene.
I am a native in this world
And think in it as a native thinks,
Gesu, not native of a mind
Thinking the thoughts I call my own,
Native, a native in the world
And like a native think in it.
It could not be a mind, the wave
In which the watery grasses flow
And yet are fixed as a photograph,
The wind in which the dead leaves blow.
Here I inhale profounder strength
And as I am, I speak and move
And things are as I think they are
And say they are on the blue guitar.
In the cathedral, I sat there, and read,
Alone, a lean Review and said,
“These degustations in the vaults
Oppose the past and the festival
What is beyond the cathedral, outside,
Balances with nuptial song.
So it is to sit and to balance things
To and to and to the point of still,
To say of one mask it is like,
To say of another it is like,
To know that the balance does not quite rest,
That the mask is strange, however like.”
The shapes are wrong and the sounds are false.
The bells are the bellowing of bulls.
Yet Franciscan don was never more
Himself than in this fertile glass.
From this I shall evolve a man.
This is his essence: the old fantoche
Hanging his shawl upon the wind,
Like something on the stage, puffed out,
His strutting studied through centuries.
At last, in spite of his manner, his eye
A-cock at the cross-piece on a pole
Supporting heavy cables, slung
Through Oxidia, banal suburb,
One-half of all its installments paid.
Dew-dapper clapper-traps, blazing
From Crusty stacks above machines.
Ecce, Oxidia is the seed
Dropped out of this amber-ember pod,
Oxidia is the soot of fire,
Oxidia is Olympia.
How long and late the pheasant sleeps. . . .
The employer and employee contend,
Combat, compose their droll affair.
The bubbling sun will bubble up,
Spring sparkle and the cock-bird shriek.
The employer and employee will hear
And continue their affair. The shriek
Will rack the thickets. There is no place,
Here, for the lark fixed in the mind,
In the museum of the sky. The cock
Will claw sleep. Morning is not sun,
It is this posture of the nerves,
As if a blunted player clutched
The Nuances of the blue guitar.
It must be this rhapsody or none,
The rhapsody of things as they are.
Throw away the lights, the definitions,
And say of what you see in the dark
That it is this or that it that,
But do not use the rotted names.
How should you walk in that space and know
Nothing of the madness of space,
Nothing of its jocular procreations?
Throw the lights away. Nothing must stand
Between you and the shapes you take
When the crust of Shape has been destroyed.
You as you are? You are yourself.
The blue guitar surprises you.
That generation’s dream, aviled
In the mud, in Monday’s dirty light,
That’s it, the only dreams they knew,
Time in its final block, not time.
To come, a wrangling of two dreams.
Here is the bread of time to come,
Here is its actual stone. The bread
Will be our bread, the stone will be
Our bed and we shall sleep by night.
We shall forget by day, except
The moment when we choose to play
The imagined pine, the imagined jay.
By Wallace Stevens