"cuckoos" poems - Hello Poetry

The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose. I That obsolete fiction of the wide river in An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed; And the metal heroes that time granulates - The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew, Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines Concerning an immaculate imagery. If you say on the hautboy man is not enough, Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong In the end, however naked, tall, there is still The impossible possible philosophers' man, The man who has had the time to think enough, The central man, the human globe, responsive As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass, Who in a million diamonds sums us up. II He is the transparence of the place in which He is and in his poems we find peace. He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer, The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries, "Thou art not August unless I make thee so." Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call. III One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms. How was it then with the central man? Did we Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found, If we found the central evil, the central good. We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns. There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we. It was not as if the jasmine ever returned. But we and the diamond globe at last were one. We had always been partly one. It was as we came To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard Him chanting for those buried in their blood, In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew The glass man, without external reference.

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Wallace Stevens

Asides on the Oboe

The prologues are over. It is a question, now, Of final belief. So, say that final belief Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose. I That obsolete fiction of the wide river in An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed; And the metal heroes that time granulates - The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew, Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines Concerning an immaculate imagery. If you say on the hautboy man is not enough, Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong In the end, however naked, tall, there is still The impossible possible philosophers' man, The man who has had the time to think enough, The central man, the human globe, responsive As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass, Who in a million diamonds sums us up. II He is the transparence of the place in which He is and in his poems we find peace. He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer, The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries, "Thou art not August unless I make thee so." Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call. III One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms. How was it then with the central man? Did we Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found, If we found the central evil, the central good. We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns. There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we. It was not as if the jasmine ever returned. But we and the diamond globe at last were one. We had always been partly one. It was as we came To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard Him chanting for those buried in their blood, In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew The glass man, without external reference.