The Planet On The Table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.

by Wallace Stevens

Comments (12)

The ripe shrub writhed reminds me of the burning bush.
His self and the sun were one And his poems, although makings of his self, Were no less makings of the sun. Nicely written. Thanks for sharing it with us.10 for it.
Very imaginative! So much so that I am having difficulty deciphering this. I think it is about writing and writing creates its own planet... I will return to this when I have 2 brain cells working instead of one.
To me the poet assumes the name of Ariel himself who writes about his poetry as a neutral observer or a critic. Lovely poem. Thanks. I would like to quote: His self and the sun were one / And his poems, although makings of his self / Were no less makings of the sun.
A superb poem displaying a fantastic flight of imagery. Thanks for sharing.
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