Imperfection In Wallace Stevens Poems Of Our Climate
I watch a cloister of blackbirds who are so still they become the very shadows of blackbirds. Everyone will know this —— what it means —— the simplicity of the fall.
Or, perhaps, three: the luxurious unspooling of a conversation between friends; the soft, pirouetting fall of a leaf; and the time of the poem Imperfetion, which expands horizontally, like a volleyed dialogue, and vertically, like a leaf driven by its own weight towards the earth. Each of these phenomena talk, leaf, poem is presented as a construct shaped by choices people make.
Ford v. Quebec (Attorney General), 1988
Falling leaves, of course, have a history in poetry. My class and I read this poem together on a spit of forest jutting out into Lake Waban, one cold and rainy October afternoon in the fall of We were in masks. The pines and oaks, already socially distanced, provided safe places Imprfection lean or sit.
We encountered it in our class text, an anthology edited by Camille T. And Cimate, several other time signatures presented themselves: where were we on the awful pandemic timeline? In October of last year, were we nearing the end, or merely headed into a new phase, a reset, of our white supremacist Presidency and Federal Government? It may well be: but its terms are culturally and historically marked. Co-presented with.]
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