I actually took a class where we had to write like another poet, so I responded to Wallace Stevens' poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbiird."

I'm going to post his poem and then come back with my response. Good luck to you all.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

by Wallace Stevens

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.

'Wisdom comes to all of us. Someday it might even be your turn.' -Polgara the Sorceress
"Music is the space between the notes" Claude Debussy

Here it is:

Twelve Ways of Looking at and Listening to a Clarinet

I
A silver tinseled tree,
the yellow reed its star,
the red brown bark smooth and shiny.

II
Squawk stick,
raspy
whispering, weak

III
A rifle,
with holes down the top,
and one on the bottom,
and strange firing keys,
the only ammunition the notes

IV
Warm chocolate chalumeau,
silky smooth and warm,
enfolding in the dark notes.

V
Down the barrel,
shades of light in the forest
penetrate the tone holes,
and at the end of the tunnel,
a circle of the floor.

VI
The clarion, melodic and graceful,
cool and refreshing.

VII
The holes and keys flow beneath fingers,
up and down the scales,
muscle memory takes over,
I don’t even look down anymore.

VIII
Altissimo,
bright and beautiful,
screaming and scraping,
as fingernails down a chalkboard

IX
“What a funny looking saxophone you have there”
“Why thank you, it’s actually a clarinet”
“But looks like that thing Kenny G. plays.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Well, only girls play the clarinet.”
“What about Benny Goodman? Or Artie Shaw? Or Stanley Drucker?”
“Oh, well, okay”

X
Vibrant vibrato,
wailing the blues,
hot jazz and flying fingers.

XI
My beautiful bane,
sinister salvation,
hope and hell in one five pound object


XII
Conical,
musical,
lyrical,
technical,
beautiful.

'Wisdom comes to all of us. Someday it might even be your turn.' -Polgara the Sorceress
"Music is the space between the notes" Claude Debussy

I reserve the right to come back and try this sometime this weekend.

/reserved

-Harv
Stella Splendens
December 22, 1985-March 27, 2003