Thirteen More Ways of Looking at a Blackbird : After Wallace Stevens

Click here to read Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens

When a blackbird flies in the white sky
close your eyes to see
a black sky
swallowing a white bird.

Augustine’s inkblot, a blackbird,
sinking into the page.
He whispers, “privatio” to the wind.

A shadow across
a field of stones.

Night lifts, the child
sunk in blankets still dreaming
of blackbirds.

The haiku’s last two syllables,
after shadows, after stones,
is blackbird.

In the boundless sunlight
I held up my hand and found
a black as black as any puddle in the dark
where the blackbird drinks.

As the balloon rises we forget
everything we know of blackbirds.

The child groans after each cough,
lung weary and ensnared.
I hear from my bed
his heave of wind, like a blackbird
flapping, tangled in string,
unable to rise.

Beneath blackbirds flying
as I walked by
“Not the shadow,”
said the worm
in the valley
“but its bite.”

The old man wearing only
a blackbird black overcoat
spreads his wings…

Wrath boiled me in winter
and the rock I heaved
into the cloud covered sky
at its falling shattered the tree
into blackbirds.

There are no more blackboards in schoolrooms.
Nor blackbirds.

The earth is no blackbird nor the night sky its wing flying.
The earth is but a mote
in the eye of the blackbird.

[Click here to read my Spoon River Poems]

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