WALLACE STEVENS
(1880-1955) in conversation with Stan Rogal
Among twenty snowy
mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
I had been
summoned. Again. By what nefarious means, you might ask? A scrap of used typing
paper from my recycle pile (words to an unfinished poem — slated to remain
unfinished, I confess — printed on the underside), placed neatly on the kitchen
table, weighted down by an empty wine bottle, contained the hand-written message
(in pencil): Wallace Stevens, STOP. The Victory Café, STOP. Today, four pm,
STOP. The topic? Boxing match, STOP.
STOP, indeed. How had the note arrived? From what
eternal infernal place, either heaven or hell? Meaningless questions, to be
sure, from my recent experience, and not worth the least consideration. The critical
point being, the note had arrived, I had been summoned, and nothing to be done
except adhere to the strict (if not impassive) instructions.
I was familiar with the Victory Café, not only with
its present incarnation in the Annex along Bloor Street at Borden, but when it
was situated on Markham Street, as a bar with a second floor alternative performance
space, in a romantically moldering century house, within an aging Mirvish
Village — when there was a Mirvish Village, an area formerly crawling with poor
students and starving striving artist-types alongside the Birkenstock crowd, all
enjoying the colourful array of nonconformist and eccentric shops and shop
owners — now under construction, the village in its entirety, to be revitalized
into an area of expensive posh storefronts and pricey living quarters.
When I arrived on the scene, slightly before the
designated hour of four, the man wasn’t difficult to recognize: six-foot-two,
two-hundred-forty pounds with a paunch, wispy sandy-coloured hair, the sleeves
of his white shirt rolled to the shoulders, sat on a stool at a high table,
hunched over a glass of beer.
I have served.
I will be of service. Such was my
only awareness of The High Table, as it pertained to John Wick. Oh, wait, one
other thing. They will replace him before
the body’s cold. Hercules had his Hydra. You have The Table, except you will
run out of bullets before they run out of heads.
Goddamn Wikipedia. Except, here, luckily, there is a
connection, however slight or tenuous, so…
I dragged back a stool and perched across from him. Mr.
Stevens, I said, and placed the recorder between us. The server showed,
Johnny-on-the-spot. I ordered a glass of red wine and Wallace tapped his glass
for another beer. I wondered if that was his first. He had a reputation for
being a touch more than argumentative when he was in his cups. Which, in part, was
what I was here to talk about, though not engage in, physically, if I could
help it. The drinks arrived.
Stan Rogal: Shall I begin?
Wallace Stevens: (He gave me one
of his patented deadpan stares). It’s your dime, son. Shoot.
SR: You’ve often been labeled a “poet’s
poet”, that is, someone who writes for other poets and the cultural elite,
rather than for the population at large. How do you respond?
WS: Guilty, as charged, I suppose. My
first collection, Harmonium, sold
less than one hundred copies, and was reviewed — with the odd exception —
unfavourably. Though, to be fair, I never set out to place my poetry either
above or outside anyone’s understanding or appreciation, it’s just the way my
mind works when it’s in the process of composing. It’s the way I think. It’s
the way I view the world.
SR: Along those lines, your work has
often been decried by certain critics as totally non-autobiographical, to such
an extent that it’s impossible to discover — never mind relate to — the person
behind the poem.
WS: Yes, they’d have me bleed or vomit through
the page in order to reveal my innermost grief, pain and longing, in which they
can then wallow and remark. From a safe distance, of course. Ha! What bullshit.
I was often told I was more in my head than in my heart. (He shrugged and sipped his beer). What can I say? Poetry is not
personal. To make sense of the world is to construct a world view through an
active exercise of the imagination. What did I say in my poem, Of Modern Poetry? “The poem of the mind
in the act of finding what will suffice.” Poetry is work. Poetry involves
consideration and evaluation. It involves constant objective decision making at
the lowest and highest levels. It is neither cathartic nor therapeutic to any measurable
degree. Most people are either too lazy or else too ill-equipped, mentally, to
tackle poetry beyond the sentimental and simplistic Hallmark card sort. If that
makes my work — or me, for that matter — unfeeling or elitist, so be it.
SR: You earned a law degree and worked
as an insurance executive for the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company, is
that correct?
WS: That is correct. What’s your point?
SR: I’m just wondering, do you feel,
perhaps, that your education as a lawyer influenced your writing style? That
is, prompted it, in some manner, to be more objective than subjective, more
stoic than emotional?
WS: Uh-huh. I’ll answer that by saying I was
practicing poetry long before I was practicing law, so, difficult, if not
impossible, to determine which influenced which, if either. (He used his open hands as a scale, bouncing
slightly one hand then the other). A sort of chicken and egg dilemma.
Besides… (He reached for his mug and took
a large swig, smacking his lips and licking the foam clean). I always preferred to keep my two
occupations, law and poetry, separate, as best I could. Even my briefcase was
compartmentalized, with business papers on the one side, my poetry notes on the
other.
SR: You often claimed that no one on the
business side was aware that you were a poet. Of course, that wasn’t entirely
true, especially as you began to gain notoriety by way of winning a few awards.
How did you attempt to control people who might be curious?
WS: Simple. I made with the old hairy
eyeball, shook my head, and changed the subject, letting them know in no
uncertain terms that that line of questioning was strictly taboo.
SR: And why was that? What was the
discomfort? The fear?
WS: These were business people who knew
nothing, cared less, about poetry. It was small talk for them at best, like the
weather. At worst, it was a topic that elicited laughter, even ridicule, as why
anyone would waste their time. Or else expecting me to perform like a trained
monkey if they broached the subject. No, with my business friends and
associates, we talked business. I talked poetry with my poet friends. Of which
there were several: Williams, Moore, Cummings, and so on. Robert Frost and I
used to frequent the local speakeasys together during prohibition. But, I’m
sure you know all this already, and you’ve come to meet me with something else
on your mind, such as, what is it that brings me here? Yes? (He finished his beer and twirled a finger
in the air for another round).
SR: Right you are. Though, to be fair,
I do find it far more interesting hearing your story from the source, as
opposed to consulting a book, or a computer.
WS: Yeah, yeah, whatever. (He rolled a hand through the air, like,
let’s move things along, I’m double parked).
SR: Okay. I received a note informing me that you were in town, and it having
something to do with a boxing match. Maybe you can elaborate. (Fresh drinks arrived and the empty glasses
were removed).
WS: Gladly. It appears that my bones
have been unearthed in order to do battle in the boxing ring with a fellow
poet, one Tara “The Terror” Sanchez.
SR: A woman. (A look of slight confusion must’ve crossed my face, as Wallace jumped
in immediately to confirm).
WS: A woman, yes, I know, it sounds
somewhat suspect, even laughable — as, perhaps, a joke, right? — and yet, it
has come to my attention that in this present period of time it’s not only man
against man, woman against woman, but also man against woman, woman against
man, them against they, noun against pronoun, and so on and so forth down the
line. A regular free-for-all. And this Sanchez person not to be taken lightly, no sirree. She’s apparently light
on her feet, with quick hands, and able to take a punch. Of course, she’d have
to be hard-headed to be a poet in the first place, right? Prepared to get
knocked to the mat, and jump to her feet again, rather than have the boots put
to her while she’s down, and thrown out of the ring on her sorry ass, to be
picked up and collected like yesterday’s garbage, a has-been at whatever young
age.
SR: I assume you were chosen as you’ve
had some experience with the gentlemanly art of fisticuffs?
WS: Hah, that! Not so gentlemanly, I’m afraid.
SR: What happened? You and Ernest Hemingway,
yes? Going at it. (I threw a few fake
punches toward Wallace).
WS: Yes. I was at a house party with
various writers and artists and had too much to drink, I’m afraid. A habit of
mine. Not one I’m proud of, but, there you go. I must’ve been going on about
the brutish Hemingway, whom I’d labeled the “antipoet poet”, writer of
emasculated men, long suffering bitch/goddess women, and sacrificial bulls. (He waved a half-drunken hand in the air).
Anyway, some relation or other to Ernest was there and she went home in tears
to tell him of my accusations. He stormed over to the house and met me outside
the door. It was raining. Words were exchanged. He came at me like a man on
fire and hit me with a couple of solid jabs. Remember, he was a good twenty
years younger than me, fit and athletic, at the time. I knew the only chance I
had was to catch him unawares. As he prepared to remove his glasses and pass
them to an onlooker, I took advantage of the opportunity to try to land a
haymaker. I struck him square in the jaw and broke two bones in my hand for my
effort. (Wallace mimed the ongoing
action). He barely blinked, but resumed his attack, weaving like a shark
and hitting me one-two, me going down “spectacularly” (as he later described
it), into a puddle of fresh rain water. Party guests closed in at this point to
pull us apart and try to talk some sense. We eventually calmed down and went
our separate ways, still cursing each other under our breath.
SR: And was that it between you? Your
relationship?
WS: God, no. Once I sobered up I called
him and made nice. Entirely my fault, I said. A thousand apologies. I mean,
let’s face it, Ernest was no saint himself, and certainly no stranger to the
demon rum. We got together at the Canoe Club for a couple of Martinis and a
pork chop to bury the hatchet. Forgiven though not forgotten. What began as an
argument and a fist fight became an amusing story to share among acquaintances,
complete with embellishments.
SR: Uh-huh. Interesting. Any
thoughts on how to defeat Sanchez?
WS: (He recoiled
and twisted his face, incredulous). Are you joking? She’s going to wipe the floor with
me. She seems to take no small delight in kicking old white guy poet butt.
Williams went down in the fifth round. Eliot lasted six. Auden went down hard
in the second, back-pedalling the whole time, under a barrage of body blows.
Pound, mad man that he was, stuck it out for eight, screaming verses of his
Cantos at her in Greek. Bukowski’s been the only one to make it ten, and this
due to the fact he had a boxing history. Even so, he went into the final round
flailing wildly, like a street brawler, all boxing technique shoved aside, managing
to connect once with an upper cut hard enough to drop Sanchez to the mat for a
mandatory eight count. That saved his bacon. He won with a decision and straight
away vowed to hang up his gloves forever. He’d had enough. No, I only hope I
can hang in long enough to put on a show that proves I’m still worthy to be in
the ring.
SR: Yeah, she seems to be a force to
reckon with all right. Also a pretty adept and popular poet, by all accounts,
with a few awards already under her belt. She even wrote a version of your own 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,
retitled, 13 Ways of Looking at a
Buckboard.
WS: Country Western motif?
SR: Not exactly. The immigrant experience. Settlers travelling across America,
struggling to survive. Diaspora, and so on.
WS: Ah, yes. A
favourite topic these days, or so I’m told.
SR: Just saying. She may not be as
contemptuous toward you as you think.
WS: Imitation being the highest form of
flattery, is that it?
SR: Maybe.
WS: Right. That and a quarter’ll get you
a cup of coffee. No, past behaviour being the best predictor of future
behaviour tells me that she’ll be locked and loaded to add my head to her list
of conquests. (He grinned a wide grin,
winked, and finished his beer).
SR: Where and when is the auspicious event
to take place?
WS: A high school gymnasium near Harbord
and Bathurst. Tomorrow night, eight pm.
SR: Not exactly Maple Leaf Gardens, is
it?
WS: Maybe the promoters think it’s the
only way they can get teenagerss to come out to a match between two poets.
Watch them attempt to beat the crap out of each other.
SR: Uh-huh. Well, I’ll try to be there
to see how it goes.
WS: I wouldn’t bother. It’s a foregone
conclusion.
SR: “It was evening all afternoon. It
was snowing and it was going to snow.”
WS: (He
flashed a Cheshire cat smile at me that stretched his entire face). Ha-ha,
yes, those lines still tickle me when I hear them.
SR: Yeah, me too. (I turned off and pocketed the recorder, drank the remains of my wine, stood
and reached for my wallet. Wallace fluttered his fingers at me).
WS: Don’t worry, son, I’ve got this.
Expense account. I can still use the lawyer side of me when need be. (He opened a menu and ran a finger down the
page. The server approached. I wished Wallace luck and walked away). I’ll
try the fish tacos. And another one of these. (He handed the server his empty mug). The night is young, even if
I’m not.
As I reached
the door, I turned to look over my shoulder one last time, and caught Wallace
making small sparring moves, dropping his shoulders, bobbing his head, jabbing
his loose fists at the phantom air. I recalled the final line of the stanza:
“The blackbird sat in the cedar-limbs”. No more, I thought, no more. He was
old, slow, and soft. No doubt, the poor man didn’t stand a chance. One good
shake of that tree and he’ll be down and out for good. So long, Wallace, adieu,
farewell. It was nice knowing you. Try to remember to keep your guard up and
your head down. For a time, at least.
I wouldn’t attend the match. I wasn’t much interested
in seeing how the once-mighty fall gracelessly into oblivion. I walked out the
door and stared into the crisp autumn evening sky, where, “the stars are
putting on their glittering belts,” as Wallace Stevens had once so accurately described.
That was enough for me. More than enough.
Stan Rogal
lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and
their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous
magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of
chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher: anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego
Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
