Tag Archives: Wallace Stevens

Unsaidquarters – Sunday Morning (4/15/12)

Posted on April 16, 2012 by Brian Kubarycz

There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured As … Continue reading →

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Unsaidquarters – The Golden Hour

Posted on February 14, 2012 by Brian Kubarycz

We knew for long the mansion’s look And what we said of it became A part of what it is . . . Children, Still weaving budded aureoles, Will speak our speech and never know, Will say of the mansion … Continue reading →

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Unsaidquarters – Hibernations (1/24/12)

Posted on January 23, 2012 by Brian Kubarycz

The Snow Man One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough … Continue reading →

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Unsaidquarters – “The Auroras of Autumn” (10/17/11)

Posted on October 17, 2011 by Brian Kubarycz

It does no good to speak of the big, blue bush Of day. If the study of his images Is the study of man, this image of Saturday, This Italian symbol, this Southern landscape, is like A waking, as in … Continue reading →

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Unsaidquarters – The Idea of Order

Posted on August 26, 2011 by Brian Kubarycz

The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical … Continue reading →

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