Friday, January 12

(art comes) out of nothing

To discover an order as of
A season, to discover summer and know it,

To discover winter and know it well, to find
Not to impose, not to have reasoned at all,
Out of nothing to have come on major weather,

It is possible, possible, possible. It must
Be possible. It must be that in time
The real will from its crude compoundings come,

Seeming at first, a beast disgorged, unlike,
Warmed by a desperate milk. To find the Real,
To be stripped of every fiction except one,

The fiction of an absolute—-Angel,
Be silent in your luminous cloud and hear
The luminous melody of proper sound.

-- Wallace Stevens, from Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction