When's the last time an insurance salesman got drunk and punched you in the face?

Pictured above (uncharacteristically sporting an indication of emotion) is Wallace Stevens: Insurance salesman by day, and by night- well, probably sleeping like everybody else in preparation for another day of selling insurance. But somewhere in there- often on morning walks, I've heard- he found time to produce an astonishing body of work, earning him a lasting place amongst the giants of American poetry.

But his personal life wasn't all so straight-laced. Though he was perhaps no Byron (making love to hundreds of men and women across Europe and drinking wine out of a human skull- often simultaneously, I like to imagine), he nevertheless managed to get into at least one hilarious adventure worthy of a creative spirit. I stumbled upon this as I was reading through his biography in the Collected Poetry & Prose:

"1935- Meets and spends time with Robert Frost in Key West. Discouraged by (wife) Elsie from drinking at home, becomes connoisseur of teas; frequently joins friends for martinis at the Canoe Club in Hartfort[...]
1936- Provokes drunken fight with Ernest Hemingway while in Key West in February; breaks right hand in two places from hitting Hemingway's jaw, and is knocked down' the two make up before Stevens leaves (tells Elsie he fell down a flight of stairs)."

I like how you can trace his decline-this would make a good moment in a "Behind the Poet" documentary. Stevens could talk about trying to stick to his teas, but ultimately falling off the wagon, having a few martinis, and looking for shit from Ernest Hemingway. There could be a great dramatic re-creation: Stevens drunkenly throwing a punch into Hemingway's jaw (likely after a brief and furious moment of indecision in the wake of a snide insult), recoiling in horror and pain has he realizes that he has broken his hand, then getting promptly knocked to the ground in front of any and all spectators.

I think you know you've made it as a poet when you not only meet and socialize with an established artist of your time, but then proceed to break his jaw in a drunken moment of rage. Stevens' real mistake was picking on somebody who was undoubtedly a superior all-around physical specimen.

My plan to earn literary recognition is a little more thought-out: I will take out one of the elderly greats. Their skin and bones are softer, reducing the likelihood of a broken hand on my part, and there's every chance that I could nearly kill one of them on impact- no return punches.

If I ever run into W.S. Merwin, he'll get what's coming to him- right in his feeble, 82-year-old face.

Above: The increasingly grandmotherly W.S. Merwin as he appears before my fist caves in his soft, feeble skull before a crowd of onlookers.

Well, I'm in the mood to include a poem by Wallace Stevens now. I choose this one because I think it's one of his lesser known poems, though it's very enjoyable:


Six Significant Landscapes

I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.

II
The night is the color
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.

III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way the ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.

IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.

V
Not all the knives of the lamp posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape leaves.

VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses-
AS for example, the ellipse of the half-moon-
Rationalists would wear sombreros.