Here's the original:
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens
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. Beautiful, right? And here is the version my poetry class at San Quentin wrote last week (we each wrote a few stanzas; I picked 13 and put them in a random-ish order): Thirteen (More) Ways of Looking at a Blackbird (after Wallace Stevens) San Quentin H-Unit Poetry Class, May 2011 I. The rocks begin to move from the earthquake, but the blackbird sits firm on top of the biggest rock. II. Spring awaits a young blackbird who patiently survived his first Ohio winter. III. The blackbird lifts his wings in greeting: all rise. IV. I see through the eyes of the blackbird as the sun sets over sea like an orange at the edge of a glass bowl. V. The blackbird speaks a language I don’t know, but I prefer inference anyway. VI. As the sun rises, so does the blackbird on its prey. VII. Blackbird flies by, headed south. No direction toward the moon. Unique-colored and dreamed of. VIII. Sailing through the sky at neutral pace, the blackbird continues to fly. IX. Snow-encrusted branches shelter a solitary nest of a pair of blackbirds longing for winter’s icy grip to relinquish its hold. X. My pupils somersault tracking the blackbird. XI. I need not know of the blackbird’s song for I have not a song of my own. XII. There are many different blackbirds in this part of town. But I never see them. XIII. Unseen at night, the blackbird quiet while in flight, brave jet-speed wings flap aloud. Pretty incredible, huh? I'm so proud of these guys, many of whom had never written a poem before January. |
