In one of my classes last week we looked at an excerpt of Inger Christensen’s book-length poem, Alphabet, a favorite of mine, and, I think, an interesting poem to consider alongside The Shadows of Sirius and Andy’s suggestion that Merwin is a “proto-ecopoet.” I must admit I’m not too sure of myself when it comes to the history of that term or Merwin’s self-or-other’s-proclaimed relationship to it (which is why you should start with Andy’s background)–but! I wanted to think about the ways in which Merwin approaches physical space/earth/nature/growth, or the absence of that space/earth/nature/growth. Probably, Christensen is another example of a proto-ecopoet. In Alphabet she lists in exquisite, elaborate, meticulous, and mathematical detail the elements of the “ordinary” natural world that exist. The long poem begins:
1.
apricot trees exist, apricot trees exist
2.
bracken exists; and blackberries, blackberries;
bromine exists; and hydrogen, hydrogen
3.
cicadas exist; chicory, chromium,
citrus trees; cicadas exist;
cicadas, cedars, cypresses, the cerebellum (“)
Christensen catalogs proper names of flora, fauna, mythology, and trauma in order to expand, word-by-word, our perception of the world. She employs a gradually intensifying natural form–the Fibonacci sequence–which mimics the growth and slow-turn of a spiral. By the end of Alphabet, the reader experiences an ever more frantic, panicked, prescient, and mesmerizingly measured chaos of event, process, and vision.
Merwin’s approach to the natural world, on the other hand, occurs through his attempt to focus on one object or idea for a very long time (a lifetime?). His attention is not wild, explosive, or chaotic, but direct, powerful, patient, (“concave”), and uncertain. He does not create documents or taxonomies of primary names, existences, or associations–but instead his poems listen to or notice the ways in which the natural world transforms over time (often in perilous ways), even as we remain fixed on the same points of reference. From “The Mole”: “See where we have walked/ the earth has risen again/ out of its darkness/ where it has been recognized“” From “Youth of Grass”: ““this spring all at once is over/ it has come upon us again taking us/ once more by surprise just as we began/ to believe that those fields would always be green.” And, from “A Momentary Creed”: ““there is no place I know outside today/ except for the unknown all around me“”
Merwin questions the (same) seasons, the (same) land, the (same) details of the natural world over and over again, reaching after their (still) unknown or unobservable mysteries. In “A Letter to Su Tung-p’o” he writes about this concentration:
Almost a thousand years later
I am asking the same questions
you did the ones you kept finding
yourself returning to as though
nothing had changed except the tone
of their echo growing deeper (“)
This repetitive and careful attention relates, in my mind, to the conversation Zach and Darcie began in the comments section of Zach’s last post. I agree that Merwin’s diction can feel comparatively limited, narrow, simple, static. And he acknowledges this repetition throughout The Shadows of Sirius: “This is not something new or kept secret“”, ““it never seems quite the same/ no one else remembers it“”, “Even the right words if ever/ we come to them tell of something/ the words never knew“”, “One old man keeps humming the same few notes/ of some song he thought he had forgotten“”
This speaks to me of a dedication to “true” or “honest” obsessions–(and what good obsessions aren’t life-long? why must we move on? use different words? abandon mysteries? have more than one question?)–as well as the repetitive/cyclical trends of nature. Also, this limited, or “core vocabulary” invokes the “basics,” the “sturdy” words, and a commitment to “re-use” (or–a yucky metaphor, I know!: “recycle”) language.
Question: Can we keep writing poems with “bones” and “shirt” forever?
Because, for Merwin it is: “darkness” and “still” and “river” and “stars”“
Do the words (the same words) alter themselves? (As the river, the same river, re-routes?)
And yet: I also think that this tendency is what Darcie is–understandably–responding to as a sort of preciousness, or “whittling down.” How long can we worry one question? Does repetition become a form of suffering? A tethering to, after all, creates orbit–but, aren’t we also just imprisoned? Repetition creates a sense of claustrophobia, even when pushing ever gently toward that further interior idea (digging slowly at the same hole)–which in contrast to Christensen (ever moving outward through the spiral) could reduce the power of autonomy in motion.
There are so many more relevant questions…
Do you notice the effects of environmental trauma in The Shadows of Sirius?
Does this, to you, have a relationship to Merwin’s use of repetition?
Might we be leaving in our wake fewer and fewer natural environments, and therefore fewer and fewer words with which to express them?
***
Inspired by Tyler’s post, I’ve included two ideas/exercises. Poem One: walk outside and pick a section of land/space approximately the size of your body. Spend 3 days watching, listening to, and observing this small space. List each tiny, trivial, minuscule detail. List absolutely EVERYTHING that EXISTS in this space. Do not forget anything. Then: arrange via natural/mathematical/scientific form.
Poem Two: go back outside. Find a new space. Choose one element to observe: a tuft of grass, a stone, a can, some trash, a tree, or gravel. Begin writing only about that one thing. Come back every day for a week and notice what has changed, if anything.