The Glass of Water
That the glass would melt in heat,
That the water would freeze in cold,
Shows that this object is merely a state,
One of many, between two poles. So,
In the metaphysical, there are these poles.
Here in the centre stands the glass. Light
Is the lion that comes down to drink. There
And in that state, the glass is a pool.
Ruddy are his eyes and ruddy are his claws
When light comes down to wet his frothy jaws
And in the water winding weeds move round.
And there and in another state–the refractions,
The metaphysica, the plastic parts of poems
Crash in the mind–But, fat Jocundus, worrying
About what stands here in the centre, not the glass,
But in the centre of our lives, this time, this day,
It is a state, this spring among the politicians
Playing cards. In a village of the indigenes,
One would have still to discover. Among the dogs and dung,
One would continue to contend with one's ideas.
Notes
Where William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 60 forced us to watch the waves of time crush our brief, mortal perfection, Wallace Stevens’s The Glass of Water resets the palate entirely, turning our attention to a simple, luminous vessel sitting on a plain table. The humble liquid becomes a site of radical ontological instability, where the physical object functions as a transient screen masking the turbulent, underlying drive of state shifts—proving that even the most inert substance holds a latent, revolutionary surplus within its container. It grounds August’s theme of Feast in a crisp, crystalline clarity, reminding us that the deepest banquet isn't always a crowded spread, but the infinite potential contained within a single, undisturbed draft. #poetry #feast #wallacestevens #august #glassofwater