The Palm At The End Of The Mind
The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down. The first time I read the above poem, Of Mere Being, by my favorite poet, Wallace Stevens, I knew I had to memorize it. No, not because I’m a dork…well, at least not this time; but I could not proceed without this poem being part of my permanent mental furniture. No one but Stevens could have written this poem. I mean, I’d like to think I could put 12 measly lines together that would, in some way, come close to this poem, but unfortunately I just end up writing about it because I’m a dope. Such is life! But for the int...