The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

I don't claim to know much about interpreting poetry, especially the poetry of the elite, as Dr. Sexson would say. However, as I read The Snow Man and thought more about it, I had some ideas as to it's meaning.

My friend Jake and I often talk about "truth", and the variety of conflicting "truths" that people ascribe to. Often times, it is very apparent that people follow, believe, or think one thing despite the fact that conflicting truth, backed by evidence, reason, logic, or any combination of the three, says another thing. People willfully deny truth for the sake of such things as religious and ethical views, and often times the deeper attachment to the issue is founded in some kind of emotional connection to the issue.

At the end of our conversations, one of us will usually shake his head and ask, "If truth is the goal, then why would people willfully deny it and believe something they know is false?"

Now, to be fair, neither Jake nor myself think ourselves the bearers of all truth to humanity. In fact, I am certain that I am wrong much more often than I am right. That last sentence was one of those rare instances when I happened to be right.

But as I read Wallace Stevens, I can't help but think he, Jake, is like the snow man, and I myself am like the snow man. We, like all other people, know to some extent what we should think and do, what is right and wrong. In light of all of this, though, people are still given over to their emotions and, though emotions are not bad, defy truth for nothing.

 ...

The poem is about a cold man. His "mind of winter", he cares not for what emotions the snowfall in the forest might arouse. He thinks neither romantic thoughts, nor thoughts of "misery". He thinks of but one thing: truth. Further and further he goes into the barren wasteland. He is not searching for anything, simply going from one place to another, as a ship sailing from one coast to another. Eventually, after long travel and toil, he comes to a place where he is surrounded by nothing but a barren, white, wasteland. The snow swirls around, and he can barely see. The wind blows, whistling in his ears like a train setting out on some journey. And in this moment, the man becomes vaguely aware of something. As he looks, and as he listens, and as he watches the snow swirl, and the snow fall, and sees nothing but white, he finds himself lost in the nothingness, and thinks himself nothing. And he is aware that nothing is in this place; no reason, no truth, no fact. But, then, from this nothingness, something stirs in him. It stirs. What stirs? He knows, he reasons, and he thinks. But this...this...feeling, it suddenly becomes everything for him. He does not care what he knows, he wants this. It was once nothing to him. But now, now...it is everything.