It's All About the Blackbird.

Here is possibly the coolest poem ever, by Wallace Stevens, America's mid-century Insurance Executive/poet. I could spend hours discussing this piece, and did today, in my English class.

I promise the poems will stop soon--we're moving on to our drama unit next week. But really, what did you expect?

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

                    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.

Wallace Stevens