When I did my last section of Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," for last week's journal assignment in Creativity, I came up with something kind of interesting, so I thought I'd post it here. This is an extension (in different points of view) of a slightly varied form of
"Icicles filled the long window with barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird crossed [the window], to and fro. The mood traced in the shadow an indecipherable cause."
Icicles filled me, top to bottom, with their barbaric glassiness. The blackbird crossed me, to and fro. And its shadow lent an air of suspicion. What was the bird about to do? What were her plans? "Careful, bird," I said. "For I am littered with barbaric glass!" The bird crossed again, as if she couldn't hear a thing.
As the blackbird crossed the window, to and fro, she pondered on the cold, barbaric glass shield that protected it. A moment's pain and coldness, and she could be safe inside, to enjoy the warmth of the house. But what if the glass did not break? Would she survive? She shivered. Would she survive if she didn't try? That was the indecipherable question. She paced again, to and fro, and when a cold blast of air took her breath away and pushed her away from the window, she raised her wings and flew straight into the glass.