|Waves (M.A. Reilly, 2009)|
From Robert Hass: I don’t remember exactly who was there. The driver was a year ahead of me in school, famously smart, a philosophy major who at the end of his senior year read a French novel about Dien Bien Phu and, quoting Nietzsche on the true aristocrat, enlisted in a branch of the service I’d never heard of called Special Forces where he claimed he would learn to parachute, ski cross-country, and fight bare-handed in jungles in places like Annam and Cochin China, which was now called Vietnam. His girlfriend was from the Philippines, extremely beautiful, the daughter of some kind of politician, we understood, and a French major. It was she who produced the white Vintage paperback volume of Wallace Stevens at some point in the drive and suggested that we take turns reading the stanzas of “Sea Surface Full of Clouds.” I was stunned by the poem. I am still stunned by the poem. After we had read around and gotten over the shock and novelty of the way the adjectives play over and transform the surface of the poem, and after we had read a few others by Stevens, and other books were produced and other poems read, the conversation moved on, but I got my hands on Marie’s Stevens and when we arrived in Carmel and got some more wine and watched the sun set over Carmel Bay in a light rain, I suggested we read the poem again, which we did, to humor me, I think, while the last light smoldered on the horizon. Then we tried to build a fire on the beach, but the rain turned into a lashing Pacific storm and we spent the night, quite wet, eight of us crammed into the car in the parking lot, laughing a lot— it was very sexy as I remember— and making jokes about cars and autoeroticism. I will start to feel like Kinbote, the lunatic annotator of other people’s poems with incidents from his own life in Nabokov’s Pale Fire, if I tell you the story of the lives of each of the people in the car. Marie, who returned to the Philippines and who, I know, had two children and whose spine was badly injured when she was struck by a car; Killpack, who did go to Vietnam and then army intelligence toward the end of the war and after that seemed to disappear from sight; another friend who was a classics major and later managed a café and wrote poems and died of cancer a couple of years ago; but I will resist except to say that the poem stays with me, in the way that songs we fall in love to stay with us, as a figure for that time and those people, and their different lives will always feel to me as if they are playing out in time the way the adjectives of experience play over the adamant nouns in Stevens’s poem: rosy chocolate and chophouse chocolate and musky chocolate, perplexed and tense and tranced machine.
Hass, Robert (2012-08-14). What Light Can Do: Essays on Art, Imagination, and the Natural World (pp. 5-6). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.
Sea Surface Full Of Clouds
I In that November off Tehuantepec, The slopping of the sea grew still one night And in the morning summer hued the deck And made one think of rosy chocolate And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green Gave suavity to the perplexed machine Of ocean, which like limpid water lay. Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude Out of the light evolved the morning blooms, Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm? C’était mon enfant, mon bijou, mon âme. The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green And in its watery radiance, while the hue Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue. II In that November off Tehuantepec The slopping of the sea grew still one night. At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck And made one think of chop-house chocolate And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay. Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen, Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms Of water moving on the water-floor? C’était mon frère du ciel, ma vie, mon or. The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms. The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread Its crystalline pendentives on the sea And the macabre of the water-glooms In an enormous undulation fled. III In that November off Tehuantepec, The slopping of the sea grew still one night And a pale silver patterned on the deck And made one think of porcelain chocolate And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green, Piano-polished, held the tranced machine Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds, Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms Unfolding in the water, feeling sure Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then, The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds? Oh! C’était mon extase et mon amour. So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds, The shrouding shadows, made the petals black Until the rolling heaven made them blue, A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth, And smiting the crevasses of the leaves Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue. IV In that November off Tehuantepec The night-long slopping of the sea grew still. A mallow morning dozed upon the deck And made one think of musky chocolate And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green Suggested malice in the dry machine Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem. Who then beheld the figures of the clouds Like blooms secluded in the thick marine? Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off From the loosed girdles in the spangling must. C’était ma foi, la nonchalance divine. The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing, Would—But more suddenly the heaven rolled Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green, And the nakedness became the broadest blooms, Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled. V In that November off Tehuantepec Night stilled the slopping of the sea. The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck, Good clown… One thought of Chinese chocolate And large umbrellas. And a motley green Followed the drift of the obese machine Of ocean, perfected in indolence. What pistache one, ingenious and droll, Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery And the sea as turquoise-turbaned Sambo, neat At tossing saucers—cloudy-conjuring sea? C’était mon esprit bâtard, l’ignominie. The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch Of loyal conjuration trumped. The wind Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue To clearing opalescence. Then the sea And heaven rolled as one and from the two Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.
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