We were talking about imperfection, wabi sabi, and how messy the creative process is when, out of the blue, David Saltman said “The imperfect is our paradise.” He looked surprised and then said “Wallace Stevens.” He had called up from memory the best line of a famous Wallace Stevens’ poem called The Poems of Our Climate.
We looked it up. It was a little difficult at first, until we read it out loud. O-h-h-h! It became clear as a bell.
So we looked for an audio file to post here, so you could listen to this incredible poem that is about where we humans really live. We think it is a lovely way to start the day (poems often are, as we discovered a while back, and wrote about.) We couldn’t find a recording of it anywhere. So you’ll have to read it out loud yourself, or just stick with that one true and dazzling line, above.
I
Clear water in a brilliant bowl,
Pink and white carnations. The light
In the room more like a snowy air,
Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snow
At the end of winter when afternoons return.
Pink and white carnations – one desires
So much more than that. The day itself
Is simplified: a bowl of white,
Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,
With nothing more than the carnations there.
II
Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one’s torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
III
There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
Note of Amazement: Wallace Stevens worked as an insurance company executive for forty years, writing poetry on the side. He became one of America’s greatest poets.
