Wallace Stevens is another poet whom I really ought to know better. But, ain’t gonna lie, he’s difficult for me. Any time I read a poet who obviously knows more than I do, I tend to shut down. I want to feel something, not learn something. (I’m an ENFP! Sue me!) So, he’s among the intellectuals who sit in my bookshelf taunting me because I have to look up so many ideas to even understand what they’re getting at. (Robert Lowell: Collected Poems, I’m looking at you, you massively big, hardback mocker.)
by Wallace Stevens
Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Move the leaf in the bowl–
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.