When I was a young poet at the University of Texas in the early '80s, I, and everyone else, had W.S. Merwin shoved down our throats in anthologies. He was the ultimate favorite of the Academy, and remained so, right up until he just now died.
But did he mean anything to anybody? Today's elegies in the New Yorker tout him as an "environmentalist" and "anti-war activist," which is bullshit when it comes to being a poet (there's nothing bold or brave about adopting the trends of one's times).
I'll grant him this one mildly good poem:
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And then shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
==========================
Though, come to think of it: Even with this grand topic, Merwin is mediocre over nearly half of the lines (though I love "And bowing not knowing to what").
No comments:
Post a Comment