it is addressed thusly:

A thought.
it reads:
They only grip tight when the wheel is slipping
Orwell understood, and yet missed a truth
Of the transformation from free to uncouth--
Not how, but why the wheel they are gripping
Fingers white - with their eyes blood shot
Is it just the season - is it just our lot?
Or do Dracon and Nero have a brotherhood
What is the driver doing - in his driver's chair
Does he think at all, has he understood
Why does he have both his hands in the air?
He hits a bump - and now the chariot is tipping
It wouldn't be, had the wheel he'd been gripping
Light and firm and measured and fair --
They only grip tight when the wheel is slipping.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
secure sovereignty


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

it is addressed thusly:
Re-engineered, for Wallace Stevens
it reads:

Among twenty hills
Snow capped, all was still save this
The blackbird's bright eye.


Of three minds was I
Like a tree in which sat blackbirds
Three of them, that is.


Tossed in autumn wind
The blackbird went, but small was it
Amid great gestures.


This man and woman
Are one, and with a blackbird
One they still remain.


Of speech or sighing?
The blackbird's song or just after?
Which delights me more?


Glass full of rude ice
The blackbird's shadow crossing
Marking unknown things.


Dreaming birds of gold -- ?
Men of Haddam! At your feet
See? The blackbird walks.


Rhythm and timbre
I know, and the blackbird too
Is somehow involved.


The blackbird in flight
Vanished, one more circle's edge
Marked by its passing.


Blackbirds in green light
Of their flight, even sweet singers
Would cry out sharply.


Riding a glass car
In fear mistook its shadow
But once, for blackbirds.


The river moving
Like it, somewhere the blackbird
Is moving in flight.


Evening came early
Snow coming, in cedar-limbs
Had sat the blackbird.
a postscript is here written:
This is a Haiku transformation of Wallace Stevens' poem of the same name. I tried to maintain as much of his original style as possible, which was very like the core mood or approach of Haiku anyway. Additionally, the use of the word 'blackbird(s)' should be identical to the original part in his poem, in which it should be noted that blackbird(s) occurs precisely 13 times.

My intent here is to both show that Wallace Stevens was an excellent poet, and also that the formlessness of modern 'styles' gains them no boons. Although the Haiku imposes certain greater restrictions (especially see XI) nonetheless, even the simple formula of the Haiku strengthens each of his thirteen images.

Modern poetry is somewhat like a series of photographs of stones 'randomly' thrown in a pool. Unknown felicities arise, but they are the felicities we have already seen elsewhere when we examine them carefully. We do not lack genius yet, but virtue has gone with discipline.


Blessing for a Woman

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
For her may there always be
 A child aside, upon her knee-
Where she is, may there be found
 A song, a hymn, a pleasant sound
Where raindrops droop and birds still sing
 Her finger bear a single ring--
A bower, broad-beamed place of rest
 A babe asleep upon her breast
Where fields fertile now bud forth grain
 And under shadow, after rain
Beside the fire, may safety find
 Her there, and there, a quiet mind.


Colder Still that Metal Box

it is addressed thusly:

A song.
it reads:
Pray for those whose rescue is
Only ruin - naught beside
Fate is cruel, and freedom more
And duty ill betide
Cold comfort in a picket line
Water and not wine
Colder still that metal box
Which knows our ev'ry sign;

But where has their redeemer gone
For their kin make good
Of this bargain made unthought
Pledged, not understood--?
Firebrands burn and light aflame
Light is light the same;
Colder still that metal box
Though it bear our name;

Its listless eyes must edge to sleep
Digits like a song
Whose guarantee, whose lullaby
Tells us right from wrong
I do not come to judge, it said
Black and white and red --
Colder still that metal box
The living and the dead.

It does not have our flesh and blood
Remaining pure ideal
Their bones must feel its icy prod
If their bones can feel;
Cold comfort from their Bacchus-bliss
Vinegar and piss--
Colder still that metal box
In whom their succor is.