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 interested and curious reader, this poem is a tiny distillation of Stevens’ lifelong mannerisms and obsessions into one concentrated dose, at 12 lines even shorter and more potent than a sonnet. I have shared Stevens’ poems in this space before. And I believe this, dear reader, may be his best. 

    A little history. The exact date of composition is unknown, but most likely sometime in 1955, the last year of his life. One is therefore tempted, somewhat irrationally (like yours truly), yet irresistibly, to view it as a summary or closing argument…a swan song, as it were. Apparently Holly Stevens, his daughter, felt that way. When she edited a volume of her father's selected poetry in 1971, she titled it after the first line of this poem, The Palm at the End of the Mind, and gave it pride of place as the final poem in the book. That book/collection holds a special place in my library. If you are Lower Bucks County local…you are more than welcome to borrow it. 

    The title of this poem could serve as easily for a book of metaphysics, or an essay by Francis Bacon, which is typical Wallace Stevens. Stevens always put his philosophical preoccupations front and center. When originally published in Opus Posthumous in 1957, the last word of the first three-line stanza was “distance.” Holly Stevens changed it back to the word used in the typescript draft, “décor.” And that is, so much, a better word; such a Wallace Stevens word! Of course at the end of his mind there would still be something describable as a décor, and of course, it would be bronze. Could this be the “bric-a-brac” that Robert Frost supposedly accused him of writing about? One would think Frost would know better. 

    The second stanza introduces the wondrous, key image: “A gold-feathered bird / Sings in the palm, without human meaning, / Without human feeling, a foreign song.” The movement from bronze to gold subtly suggests being ushered into the presence of majesty. There the mind stops in its tracks, transfixed. What lies at the end of the mind, beyond that last thought, is a vision all the more compelling because it simply bypasses, if not surpasses our intellect, making itself known only to direct apprehension. Suddenly the “mere being” of the title takes on new weight. Stevens plays on both of the main meanings of “mere,” as in “smallest or slightest,” but also, “pure.” In the former sense, ordinary, unexpanded consciousness (a “reducing valve,” as Aldous Huxley called it) presents some everyday sensory data to us and reason steps in to analyze and interpret. In the latter sense, though, “mere being,” PURE being, cannot be interpreted by reason. Not unlike…love.  

    Thus the powerful realization that opens stanza three: “You know then that it is not the reason / That makes us happy or unhappy.” The first two stanzas consist of a single sentence flowing smoothly like a film. The final two stanzas consist of six sentences, more like a quick succession of still photographs. The last line of stanza three contains two uncharacteristically concise sentences of three words each: “The bird sings. Its feathers shine.” I am continually in awe of those people who can say so much and convey such feeling with just three words. We can almost picture the poet’s mouth agape with wonder. He has already told us the bird is singing. The reiteration has a bit of a hypnotic effect, or hints that the poet himself is under some kind of spell, perhaps his own.

    The fourth and final stanza builds on everything that has come before. In a way it reiterates the structure of the entire poem. It is called something I learned long ago; a fractal, self-similar to the whole. First we notice the palm, which “stands on the edge of space.” What space? Where? Let us leave those questions for the moment. In the second line we perceive something in the palm, but not yet the bird: “The wind moves slowly in the branches.” Note that Stevens does not focus on the movement of the branches, but rather on what is making them move. He perceives the invisible by means of the visible. Because of this, and because wind is frequently used in religious literature as a metaphor for the spirit, this line is often taken to refer to a movement of the spirit. I believe this reading is correct. But not in the normative Christian sense, but in a more Gnostic, searching for knowledge or the gnosis, sense. 

    The last line of the poem takes us by surprise, because up until that point Stevens does not employ a lot of the usual poetic devices. It is all imagery and plain talk. Only in this line does he overtly use alliteration and internal rhyme: “The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.” Obviously “fire-fangled” is the centerpiece of this line. Did you know there are more than 20,000 words in the English language? I know I didn’t. Like Shakespeare, however, Stevens did not find that to be quite enough for his purposes, so he invented one more. How cool is that?! The neologism “fire-fangled” conveys the meaning of “decked out,” especially in a stylish manner, as well as the more archaic root meaning of “a silly or fantastic contrivance” (see Merriam-Webster). With this melodious line, the speech of the poem becomes a song of praise and awe.

    Naturally, Stevens being Stevens, and poetry being poetry, there are layers in this short but powerful poem. Layers that will take an idiot like me the rest of my life to comprehend. But that’s the beauty of the journey, right?! The poem implies so many questions, giving no answers but itself. Can we ever perceive reality directly? And if we could, what difference would that make in our understanding of it? If we are forever trapped in our own heads, is that internal universe any smaller or less mysterious or complex than the one around us? What, if any, is the relation between the two?

    Like other Stevens’ poems-about-poetry, Of Mere Being both explores and enacts these unspoken yet very present questions. Whether space (external or internal) can have an edge, and whether anything lies beyond that, the poet encompasses all of it; planting a palm with a dazzling unknown bird in its branches to mark the occasion. He transmutes reason’s wandering and wondering into a primal, wondrous wonder. And I invite you, faithful reader, to wander and wonder with me, and with Wallace Stevens; the glorious sage of Hartford, Connecticut. 

Write to Peter: magtour@icloud.com