Sunday, February 04, 2007

So, Wallace Stevens, I used to have an almost unhealthy preoccupation with him, all started with my dad's unusual interest in the following poem:

I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Being a tall, gray and uncanny thing from Tennessee myself, it's long strangely interested me as well.

I don't want to hurt anyone, but it keeps happening. Probably in need of some unknown form of miraculous help, recommendations?

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