Thank you to C. and K. for reading the next book and giving me some of your thoughts. I made some finishing touches on it over the weekend, and am really happy with how it has turned out. I think it's done now. I hope it's done now.
I was reading Wallace Stevens yesterday, and I think I finally understand what he was trying to say in this poem.
The Planet On The Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
— Wallace Stevens