THE SNOW MAN -- Wallace Stevens

An irresistible choice, I suppose, given that we’ve just experienced what was purported to be an historic storm, here in the New England area. In New Haven, not so much. Still. There is snow out there, and more to come.

Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man” is a bit deceptive, as a poem. The title and the first line about “a mind of winter” suggest that this might be one of those American poems that school children learn, so they can go about reciting something every time it snows. The early twentieth-century equivalent of that song from Frozen, perhaps.

Stevens isn’t the kind of poet to write that kind of poem. We can leave that to Frost, I suppose, with “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” The implied end to all activity in the latter poem is more or less the starting place here. The “mind of winter,” the “listener in the snow.” These are “the snow man,” of course—and the idea of giving sentience to a snow man is certainly the kind of thing that would accord with popular entities like “Frosty the Snowman.” But Stevens isn’t after some cutesy idea of “how would a snow man feel.” He’s after something like the thoughts of a man of snow. A man who is part of the landscape (the way we all will be part of the landscape, some day), a landscape of snow.

The opening idea, then, is a supposition: “one must have a mind of winter” in order “to regard the frost and the boughs / Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;”—that semi-colon lets us know the thought is continuing while letting us “regard” what the mind of winter regards, or, rather what having “a mind of winter” would enable us to regard: a frozen landscape. Can we not look at it without a mind of winter? Perhaps we could, and that’s why the thought must continue:

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind

We finally, after another semi-colon, arrive at the conclusion of the thought, but not before we are offered a restatement of “a mind of winter”—“cold a long time”—and another statement of the frozen landscape. The lines keep sketching the visual riches of the scene, cold as it might be: “boughs of the pine-trees crusted with snow,” “junipers shagged with ice,” and “spruces rough”—pines, junipers, spruces. There are living things out there in the snow. But our attention is on “one” who is able to regard all this—including, wonderfully, “the distant glitter / Of the January sun,” a palpable presence that is just enough to illuminate and not heat—and “not to think / Of any misery in the sound of the wind.”

Warm in our homes, we tend to hear misery in the sound of the wind. It sounds frightful at times. Out there in the elements, we imagine, such a wind would be doing us a mischief. And so we realize what Stevens is getting at: we must imagine ourselves out there in the cold and the snow as in our natural element (as even the trees might not be) and find no misery in it at all. Now we have some idea of what “a mind of winter” means.

Then Stevens, as is his wont, decides to expatiate a bit on that sound. It isn’t just that “one” doesn’t think of misery in the sound of the wind, but we must also not hear misery: “In the sound of a few leaves, / Which is the sound of the land / Full of the same wind / That is blowing in the same bare place.”

That verse is a definite deflation, to my mind. Its repetitions: “in the sound,” “sound of the land,” “same wind,” “same bare place” seem to retard our progress. We step in place, we walk slowly. That sound, that same wind, continues to blow. The place is haunted by this lack of progress, lack, we should say, of volition. Sentience without volitional movement. A snow man frozen in place. And yet not hearing misery in “the sound of the land.” (Much might be said about what kind of land that is, and why “land” comes in there, but let's keep this short.)

And so that incessant wind, with its “few leaves,” stirs the sense of the living and the dead, makes us ponder what we are—if we aren’t trees or leaves or wind. We are land in a bare place. We are snow. We are replete in this landscape that we share our substance with. But we will not stay long.

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

We may, if we like, think that “one” has been a human listener all along, standing in the snow to observe and to hear what one may hear—much as Frost’s pilgrim does, taking in the snowy woods. But our listener here is also a man of snow, or conscious of himself as a man of snow—“nothing himself.” And so the repetition of “nothing” creates a tripartite sense. He is “nothing himself”—a nobody, anonymous, but even more: a non-entity. Devoid of character, in a void. Or rather perceiving, in the midst of the landscape we’ve already been asked to imagine, a void.

He sees only what is there. This is a stress that Stevens comes back to often: the effort, on the part of our senses, our notions, our ideas, to see only what is there. Our snow man, our mind of winter, does that. It has access to these basic elements, these unavoidable aspects of reality, and yet . . . such a mind, listening with no thought of misery, no sadness, also perceives “the nothing that is (there).” That nothing that is here as well. Wherever you find yourself, on this January day. The nothing that is us, because we are nothing ourselves. The nothing that, being nothing, we are. The nothing to which the snows go, eventually.

Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
Ophelia: What is, my lord?
Hamlet: Nothing.

METRO LACE

V. (cont.)

May 22

If it's not later, it must be now.

Or so we'll say when the procession begins.

Unison brings out the best in some people,

the rest shall keep as they are,

or maybe take a few drags on a Djarum

and reminisce about how we all

liked what we liked then.

She said she found his hand on her thigh,

uninvited.  Thereafter, a shambles

of all that high-minded sham,

as if pierced with insight, again.

Men will be boys, always prepped

for some great anointing, riddled

with gifts out there in the sticks,

planning on someday making a comeback

with a discourse on confidence tricks,

what we mean when we say “deficit.”

Were you hoping for something original,

like an effort made on behalf of us all,

a tower with high-toned gables

so we might move in next door?

There are reasons they're leaving

and won't look back, but taut silk

and blousy muslin have nothing to do with it,

those are simply signs of indeterminacy,

of forgotten persons, like Einstein's daughter,

or phantom entities like Prester John.

We've stacked the chairs before the door,

have gathered hats in case of rain,

distributed tops and blocks and kites,

and stored the nunchuks, shivs,

and brass knuckles with the boomerang.

Inventory is the secret god

of mercantilism, or that's what

we were told at sleep-away camp, those

gladsome days among the pines, the water

mind-numbingly cold, and the cabins

humid at twilight.  Printed photos kept

our identity intact until now,

as the light comes up outside the window

we realize at once how much the others

depend on us to maintain discipline

and not simply shrug off discomfort,

for without the fresh eyes of dawn,

the round mouth of night, the trick thumb

of noon we'd have expired for sure,

unaware of chat-room protocol, teams,

and all the guests that come with them,

many with attractive gadgets

that need to be recharged.  No surprise,

the plaster dust got in the gears

and made the clock wheeze.  A joke

at first some thought it, but later

as if in a trance or on a commercial,

we took stock of the staff cuts,

the pay stubs, the circulating sheet

for signatures.  Eventually,

officers came and carted him away

in an ambulance, but for an hour

Dave lay oblivious to us all on the steps

of that sustainable shop, swallowed,

we could say, by the abyss behind

the eyes, or afloat on the unruffled brow

of an ageless, nameless god.

These days parking lots

are filled more often than not,

especially

near theme parks and airports.

People gather

when they travel,

hand themselves over,

publicly,

to a uniformed contingent.

When the doors open,

we find ourselves

somewhere else—

reason enough

for shared fantasies,

flashes of sudden

vertigo

or claustrophobia, the odd drop

in air pressure or explosion.

The quiet of the street is quite inspiring,

this late.

            On the shadowy patch of pavement

the odor of the trees closes in.

                                                One feels—

if attentive—as if one's head is in a pine box,

oh how cozy.

                        Like a tunnel, you know

you're through it when you are.

                                                Every step

creates a space for itself, have you noticed?

And every voice joins its face in creating

a unity, a gestalt, a game of matched attributes.

We're mostly trading laughter when we're not

comparing maladies, aches and pains, losses,

and where to get a good deal on drugs.

What's rare, it seems, is interpersonal continuity.

Those we recognize may surface at any time,

others are too far back to reappear easily,

and still others reside like a low hum in the ear,

so constant you can easily overlook its presence.

But the ones hardest to account for we forever

associate with a particular time and place

that, no matter how vivid, lively, and suitable

for framing, slips away into a special folder

rarely opened, though there's no cause for alarm,

yet.  In most cases, the contents will emerge

unscathed when called upon—but sometimes

we find it empty, nothing appears, and we're

shocked to admit we've seen the last of it.

Rounding up what pleases you

shouldn't be as selfish as it sounds,

you can always remove the hard drive

and make it a paper weight or door stop,

hedge your bets, collect your funds,

withdraw your support, withhold

your vote, remove all traces

of your participation except

the minimal ID tags, your

uncanceled check, soft

money, last words.

Standing flushed at the party

as the lights come up may be briefly

disappointing, but how elated you'll be

at finding yourself among the others.

That's the way I'd always remember myself if I were you.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

METRO LACE

V. (continued)

May 21

And on that island

all shared their mistakes

with one another, volubly,

humbly, through clenched teeth.

no one thought of snacks, I can assure you

if you would, please hit the dimmer switch

there's space in this charade for one mishap

“I don't know why,” he said,

“but sometimes love overflows me

when I think of that salad dressing

and the chairs on the porch

and the orange light

striking the digital clock.”

all our tubs were plumb, that’s all I know

tree houses invited birds to share their songs

replenished shadows strategically arranged

We're approaching the planet

Meltdown, and everyone in the room

knows this is probably the final issue.

We haven't the wit to divide

and conquer any more.

And no handouts from famous angels

or heirs apparent.  Strike

the set, get me Make Up.

the bicycle at the library signaled her presence

don’t bother with dinner—I’m eating Indian

remember sun on flat rocks at Schoodic Point?

When we return for another summer,

we'll find that tempests

still make things happen; we'll

be relieved we saved our shoes

from worse fates, squelch

the sudden nostalgia

for tennis balls and thermometers,

and adjust to the moods of a bad cat.

grab the lucky charm affixed to the mirror

Dr. Reznikoff, we’re assured, sails next week

all the eager children mob the reference desk

Hirsute legions have asserted

the right to bare body parts

usually kept concealed, and why not?

What's yours is mine and what's mine

is theirs too, and vice versa.

The captain hadn't yet finished

with the final reckoning

but at least the storm abated

or fell short, while we drew

our meager salary and sought

higher ground.  Nest

of cormorants.

fitfully original, we capsized in the rapids

in the fitful rapids, we capsized originally

the original cap size was rapidly fitted

I'll try to circle back

when I can.  I hope those tapes

aren’t covered with dust

like an ancestor's prosthetic limb.

A charcoal menagerie in the caves

should count for something, like

iron tables outside the market

where, it seems, only women

have leave to sit.  Printed

reminders conceal the real thing,

peeling from the rafters like

a dropped pocket onto the heads

of strategists from Mahwah,

proficient in hieroglyphs

of four milliseconds, but not

the resonant and occult gesture.

Introduce me.  Say I was with you.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

METRO LACE

V. (continued)

May 20

With no further appointments

the future compresses

to a day spent in bed

or a night at the grind

And then we stopped paying rents,

stopped return addresses,

pretended we were dead

and no one seemed to mind

Be careful, ladies and gents,

care, you know, oppresses

and reason has now fled

like daylight for the blind,

leaving us with slick ointments,

slicker, he confesses,

then crude oil that has spread

over seas we might find

were like tired habiliments—

tired, spent ball dresses,

a hat that drowned your head,

glass slipper left behind.

©Donald Brown 2010/2013