Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear.
But take the opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began.
Allow, Therefore, that in the planetary scene.
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves.
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things.
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
Written by Wallace Stevens
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EVERY WOMAN || 2019 || Completed
PoetryEvery woman beautiful like nature. Every woman is strong like the flurry of winds holding nothing but aught of value and love. She is enough. She is like breath that is naught, but life that doesn't fickle. Every woman is beautiful, made in the ima...
