A funny thing happened on the way to Wallace Stevens' later poetry
I wander around talking to my Genius, like Al Snow and Head, replacing the ropes of verse with barbed wire of explosive prose. I'm a Saint of Creeps and Losers and Poseurs and Thieves. The Bard of Sceev. I'm not so much a Re-Tard as I am the Nova Bas-Tard.
Bright Mystery is the light of all that is and isn't, and fuels my Lantern the Sun which charges Shining Ignorance. Wearing the Dunce Cap of the Sun and the Witch Hat of the Moon, my sublunar antics are perfect and purely what they are.

That is what every dictionary says that poetry means.


The Poets are Statues in a Memorial Garden. Play their statues right, and they will move over, revealing a subterranean tunnel into their Affective Gymnasium of Fixed Stars. That is a Wonderland of Connect the Dots, Musical Chairs, Sonics and Rhythms and Meanings.

Between the Statues of Allen Tate and T. S. Eliot is Conrad Aiken. 

As this is the Internet, you can use this cheat code:   Tetelestai - Conrad Aiken - YouTube   
That will give clues as to which notes to play on his set in stone antics.
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RE: A funny thing happened on the way to Wallace Stevens' later poetry - by rowens - 11-27-2023, 11:09 PM



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