Posts Tagged ‘W.S. Merwin’

The Shadow of Sirius

Monday, January 5th, 2009

by W.S. Merwin
Copper Canyon Press 2008
Reviewed by Jason Bredle

9

Speak, Memory

merwin cover

W.S. Merwin has written, translated and studied a lot of poetry during his lifetime, and his newest collection, The Shadow of Sirius, undoubtedly demonstrates the payoff of that work. While deceptively simple, the poems effortlessly pursue themes lying at the core of human experience: childhood, impermanence, mortality and memory. They’re beyond poignant and possibly even beyond his best work. They’re essential.

Sirius is divided into three sections loosely separated but also linked thematically – the first a recollection of youth, the second a series of ruminations on death, and the third a less definable hodgepodge of observation. The focus of sections one and two allow them to resonate a little more powerfully than three as actual “sections,” but all remain effortlessly lyrical and all convey a general message that when one sits and reflects upon everything in old age, these are the most important things in a lifetime. Simultaneously, age seems to have transcended time for Merwin. In “Still Morning,” he writes:

It appears now that there is only one
age and it knows
nothing of age as the flying birds know
nothing of the air they are flying through
or of the day that bears them up
through themselves
and I am a child before there are words

What proceeds in section one is quite a phenomenal display of memory and poetic expertise combining to result in simple, profound moments. In “The Pinnacle,” Merwin writes of a friendship he had with a teacher he once admired, and of the impermanence of that relationship:

she was beautiful
in her camel hair coat
that seemed like the autumn leaves
our walk was her idea
we liked listening to each other
her voice was soft and sure
and we went our favorite way
the first time just in case
it was the only time
even though it might be too far
we went all the way
up the Palisades to the place
we called the pinnacle
with its park at the cliff’s edge
overlooking the river
it was already a secret
the pinnacle
as we were walking back
when the time was later
than we had realized
and in fact no one
seemed to know where we had been
even when she told them
no one had heard of the pinnacle

and then where did she go

I could quote most of section one here and it would be equally as powerful, but I’ll refrain. The poet captures the general essence in “A Likeness,” in which he writes “I have only what I remember.” Moments from childhood, things we remember of people we’ve known, these are what ultimately resonate as important in our lives, and these things are typically remarkably simple, enhanced by a sight, smell or sound.

The book turns more specifically to ideas of impermanence and mortality in the more compact section two. “By Dark” works as a metaphor for the act of dying itself:

When it is time I follow the black dog
into the darkness that is the mind of day

I can see nothing there but the black dog
the dog I know going ahead of me

In “Dream of Koa Returning,” a consideration of the loss of an animal results in the consideration of impermanence:

I looked out to the river
flowing beyond the big trees
and all at once you
were just behind me
lying watching me
as you did years ago
and not stirring at all
when I reached back slowly
hoping to touch
your long amber fur
and there we stayed without moving
listening to the river
and I wondered whether
it might be a dream
whether you might be a dream
whether we both were a dream
in which neither of us moved

I don’t really know what I can say about that passage other than the fact that it deserves ten billion enthusiastic thumbs up. It’s quite a revelatory moment in a brief period of text – the speaker sitting, thinking of his dead pet, then regarding both his own and his pet’s impermanence – and isn’t this what poetry is supposed to be about?

As I mentioned, section three seems more a mixture of daily meditations. It’s not quite as focused as the first two, but reverberates quite well. In one of the most powerful pieces in the section, “Shadow Hand,” the speaker thinks of a roof repairman he once knew:

yesterday after all these years
I learned he had suddenly
gone blind while still in his sixties
and died soon after that while I
was away and I never knew
and it seemed as though it had just
happened and it had not been long
since we stood in the road talking
about owls nesting in chimneys
in the dark in empty houses

Again, a revelation found in a brief moment, another revelation leading to a reflection on the impermanence of all things. Ultimately, “Worn Words” summarizes the essence of this book the best:

The late poems are the ones
I turn to first now
following a hope that keeps
beckoning me
waiting somewhere in the lines
almost in plain sight

it is the late poems
that are made of words
that have come the whole way
they have been there

As such, The Shadow of Sirius acts in itself as a collection of late poems. They are made of words that have come the whole way, that have been there. In a world of so many poetry projects with so many complicated agendas, this collection both reemphasizes and illuminates the importance and relevance of good poetry.

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Spanish Ballads

Wednesday, September 17th, 2008

by W. S. Merwin
Copper Canyon Press 2008
Reviewed by Melinda Wilson

7

Tradition!

merwin cover 2

In his 1961 introduction to Spanish Ballads, translator W.S. Merwin writes, “The romances were a kind of universal poetry, remembered, repeated, and composed by unlearned and by literate poets alike.” It is for this poetic tradition of “bards and minstrels” that Merwin attempts to revive and preserve these “romances” with this 2008 reissue of his 1961 translations.

The job of the translator is complex, and his priorities must be chosen carefully. Merwin has proven himself a wise and talented translator throughout Spanish Ballads, maintaining some of the form of the romances while opting for content in English rather than the rhyme and assonance of the Spanish. Merwin also notes in the original introduction that he has, wherever possible, retained the verb tense of the Spanish, though he offers little explanation for this choice, saying only that in upholding the verb tense “the translations were brought a shade closer to the Spanish poems.” 

Contrary to Merwin’s assessment of the maintenance of tense, on several occasions the English verb tense does cause confusion in the voice of the poems. The time of the events of the poems versus the time of the telling becomes blurred, only partially communicating meaning. However, the poems are largely composed of dialogue, which lends itself to a consistent use of present tense.

Outside of dialogue, the present tense can be difficult to digest. Its use is unsubstantiated. For example, “The Enchanted Princess” is mostly in past tense with the exception of the dialogue until inexplicably the present tense is used near the end of the poem. It seems as though the inconsistent tense may be merely a product of oral error, that is, until we see the effect in the poem to its end. The effect is a disruption of time and a great sense of confusion. While this is frustrating upon a first reading, ultimately the effect is useful for the poem which is filled with anxiety, poor decision-making and finally, death. Inconsistent tense is, interestingly, consistent with the tone and mood of the verse.

So, how is this edition different from its predecessor? The foreword is the only thing that is entirely new to the book; however, Merwin’s focus here seems to be more of the same. In the foreword, he comments on Ezra Pound’s advice to him to try to “get as close to the original as possible” and ends by saying that the original poems contained something that “was worth trying to suggest in English, something that would be worth listening to and remembering.” To print these poems again is to pay tribute, to distribute or make available a dying tradition. Merwin’s careful translations preserve the many significances of these poems, some of which may not feel so dated.

Conservation of these poems is culturally important. The poems are fragments of oral, traditional epics that document “experiences of war, love, captivity.” These are things we can still learn from, and many of these poems are becoming relevant again. Despite the fact that the poems are timeworn, many still hit on vital issues. For instance, the first in the collection, “La Cava Florinda’s Fatal Immodesty,” references an illicit sexual encounter between one young maiden called La Cava Florinda and King Rodrigo. The poem ends:

  Florinda lost her flower,
  The King suffered his punishment;
  She said he forced her to it,
  He said she gave full consent.
  As for which of those two
  Was more blameworthy,
  Men will tell you it was La Cava,
  And women, Rodrigo.

This is the classical opposition of the sexes, but it is also made new by our modern lens. We are living in a society in which “date rape” and “consensual sex” are common facets of our sexual education and growth, common to our sexual experience. It is evident in this particular poem that both Florinda and Rodrigo were seeking a sort of forbidden pleasure—but when the pleasure is over, there is still the guilt to deal with. We are still searching for a foolproof way to deal with such complex issues; therefore, the poem adds to this debate, continues to inform. Not all poems in the collection are so malleable. 

Merwin made some excellent choices regarding the poems he included in this collection, though many of the poems deal with the same issues. Most of the redundancies are dramatic love stories of passion, lust and greed. This is the case in “Fair Melisenda,” wherein the young Melisenda is told  by her mother to seek “pleasure” and romance while she is young because if she waits too long, “not a boy will desire” her. The poem’s origins are in a time when women were commodities. Having a woman was like having a horse, only valuable while youthful. It is important that we, especially women, remember these times always.

The battle of the sexes is primary throughout Spanish Ballads, and male chauvinism is prevalent. Again in “Fair Melisenda,” we see an attitude that conveys the believed superiority of men over women when the Count answers Melisenda’s offering of herself and her body:

  ‘I have made an oath,
  I have sworn on a prayer book,
  Never to deny my body
  To any woman who should demand it,
  Except Melisenda
  The Emperor’s daughter.’

How noble of him. This is clearly a man that is not afraid of sacrifice. Nevertheless, we should note the cunning and manipulative nature of Melisenda. To ignore her intent in this scheme would be unfair to the poor Count. He has been tricked into sexual intercourse with the very woman he has vowed never to touch. Thinking that he shall have to die for his sin, he visits the Emperor to come clean and to meet his fate; however, contrary to the supposed temperament of the Emperor, he suggests that the Count marry his daughter. The Count is overwhelmed with joy, for he will be privileged enough to marry Melisenda. Perhaps he is so joyful simply because he has avoided death, but it is difficult to understand how the Count can ignore the dangers in spending his life with such an adroit femme fatale. Good for him. 

Perhaps one of the sentiments in these poems best able to weather time comes in a poem titled “Constancy.” The speaker lists some of the typical hardships of a human life, but in the end notes their worth. The narrator’s motivation is a woman that he loves, and he says, “…for you, my lady / All must be borne.” If nothing else, the reprinting of these translations reminds us of the things that move us; whatever our individual concerns may be, they are valid because they cause us to act, internally or externally. They may provide us with courage or discipline; they cause us to grow and ideally to grow together.

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