Teatime for one... I only just found this poem the other day, and loved the title. What could tea possibly be like at the palaz of Hoon? What had this unusual title to do with the poem itself?
I find myself puzzling over the meaning of this poem.
In a way, the narrator seems to be transported, almost into a sort of wondering ecstasy, being both in the world, and outside of it. He says the outside world does not affect his inner world, and yet, could he have this inner life without the one outside being what it is? It is the last line that makes one wonder. Is his inner world a true and mysterious place, but so strange he cannot recognize himself? Hasn't anyone ever felt that way about the outside world too, especially at twilight/in the "loneliest air"?
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
by Wallace Stevens
What is also thought-provoking is how the narrator, though dressed up in the finery of twilight, thinks it makes him no more or no less what he is: "not less was I myself". Are we supposed to be more than ourselves? Can we be?
Another way that I read this poem is to think about how we we become so busy with our self-important lives that the amazing beauty of our world fades into the background and turns into minutiae. We need to look outwards. And yet, perhaps a rich internal world can be just as amazing and beautiful. Maybe that can be very strange indeed.
I imagine a tea at the palaz as something very European, Spanish or Italian, but I live in the north, and my "tea room" is more cosy, with views of lacy trees, befriended by ice fog. And I too, find myself, more truly, and more strange.
My Sunday teatime is a quiet time for me today, but I am not as centered as I would like to be. Still, I make the most of my little moments. I have this vintage bubble glass tea set that I like to get out and use every now and then. It reminds me of childhood and grandparents I barely knew. It was made for a specific time and place; is it "out of time" now? Tea time as time travel. I travel, I create, but am well aware of my mortality.
I find myself puzzling over the meaning of this poem.
In a way, the narrator seems to be transported, almost into a sort of wondering ecstasy, being both in the world, and outside of it. He says the outside world does not affect his inner world, and yet, could he have this inner life without the one outside being what it is? It is the last line that makes one wonder. Is his inner world a true and mysterious place, but so strange he cannot recognize himself? Hasn't anyone ever felt that way about the outside world too, especially at twilight/in the "loneliest air"?
Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.
What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?
Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:
I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
by Wallace Stevens
What is also thought-provoking is how the narrator, though dressed up in the finery of twilight, thinks it makes him no more or no less what he is: "not less was I myself". Are we supposed to be more than ourselves? Can we be?
Another way that I read this poem is to think about how we we become so busy with our self-important lives that the amazing beauty of our world fades into the background and turns into minutiae. We need to look outwards. And yet, perhaps a rich internal world can be just as amazing and beautiful. Maybe that can be very strange indeed.
I imagine a tea at the palaz as something very European, Spanish or Italian, but I live in the north, and my "tea room" is more cosy, with views of lacy trees, befriended by ice fog. And I too, find myself, more truly, and more strange.
My Sunday teatime is a quiet time for me today, but I am not as centered as I would like to be. Still, I make the most of my little moments. I have this vintage bubble glass tea set that I like to get out and use every now and then. It reminds me of childhood and grandparents I barely knew. It was made for a specific time and place; is it "out of time" now? Tea time as time travel. I travel, I create, but am well aware of my mortality.
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