{"id":112128,"date":"2017-06-28T15:56:27","date_gmt":"2017-06-28T19:56:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=112128"},"modified":"2017-06-29T15:30:17","modified_gmt":"2017-06-29T19:30:17","slug":"carrying-away-his-last-sheep","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/06\/28\/carrying-away-his-last-sheep\/","title":{"rendered":"Carrying Away His Last Sheep"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

An illustration of Leopardi by Tullio Pericoli.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s Leopardi\u2019s birthday\u00a0tomorrow. Happy 219, Giacomo. In remembrance of the occasion, I think we\u2019d all better have a look at the following short poem by James Wright. I\u2019ve never seen it in any anthology. It\u2019s from\u00a0Shall We Gather at the River<\/em>\u00a0(1968).\u00a0<\/p>\n

In Memory of Leopardi<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have gone past all those times when the poets
\nWere beautiful as only
\nThe rich can be. The cold bangles
\nOf the moon grazed one of my shoulders,
\nAnd so to this day,
\nAnd beyond, I carry
\nThe sliver of a white city, the barb of a jewel
\nin my left clavicle that hunches.
\nTonight I sling
\nA scrambling sack of oblivions and lame prayers
\nOn my right good arm. The Ohio River
\nHas flown by me twice, the dark jubilating
\nIsaiah of mill and smoke marrow. Blind son
\nOf a meadow of huge horses, lover of drowned islands
\nAbove Steubenville, blind father
\nOf my halt gray wing:
\nNow I limp on, knowing
\nThe moon strides behind me, swinging
\nThe scimitar of the divinity that struck down
\nThe hunchback in agony
\nWhen he saw her, naked, carrying away his last sheep
\nThrough the Asian rocks.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

For readers who don\u2019t know much about Leopardi but are interested now that they\u2019ve read Wright\u2019s poem, I should point out that Leopardi did indeed suffer from some sort of severe spinal curvature disease. Also he was an atheist. Also his \u201ctonal register\u201d tended to be a little bit gloomy.<\/p>\n

Let me point out a few other things. The poem does that trick they loved in the sixties. It begins by establishing the voice of the poem as Leopardi\u2019s, but then it materializes later on that the voice is that of James Wright,\u00a0having\u00a0identified<\/em>\u00a0with Leopardi to a superheated degree. Wright judged himself as having a wounded\u00a0unlovely soul,\u00a0the moon (poetry) has left a splinter in him, too,\u00a0hence the identification. Good. But now we come to that last sentence, the grammar of which is devilishly ambiguous:<\/p>\n

Now I limp on, knowing
\nThe moon strides behind me, swinging
\nThe scimitar \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2014Wait, who\u2019s swinging that scimitar? \u201cMe\u201d or the moon?\u2014<\/p>\n

The scimitar of the divinity that struck down
\nThe hunchback in agony \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2014Which<\/em>\u00a0hunchback? Leopardi? Wright? Some other one?\u2014<\/p>\n

When he saw her, naked, carrying away his last sheep
\nThrough the Asian rocks.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Okay, I see two ways to understand the pronouns there. Way no. 1 is the way I understood it all my life. Way no. 2 is the way all or most of my poetry students understood it.<\/p>\n

Way no. 1<\/strong>\u00a0That scimitar belongs to a male divinity, who struck down a female hunchback when he saw that female hunchback stealing his sheep. She was naked at the time. This is not nice, but there is a kind of rough justice to it. Stealing is wrong.<\/p>\n

Way no. 2<\/strong>\u00a0That scimitar belongs to a\u00a0female<\/em>\u00a0divinity who struck down a\u00a0male<\/em>\u00a0hunchback who saw that female divinity naked (cf Actaeon). And not just naked but stealing his sheep. We\u2019ll call this the \u201cno justice whatsoever\u201d interpretation.<\/p>\n

Needless to say, participants on both sides of that controversy had to squeeze their brains to bits to even comprehend what the other side was saying. I\u2019m frankly amazed I was able to reconstruct way no. 2 from memory, there. It\u2019s just so counterintuitive to me.<\/p>\n

James Wright, it must be said, was quite comfortable with ambiguity. Look again at \u201cLying in a Hammock at William Duffy\u2019s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota,\u201d and its notorious last line: \u201cI have wasted my life<\/a>.\u201d You can say that line in any tone of voice ranging from jolly self-mockery to existential despair and it works just fine.<\/p>\n

Incidentally, \u201cIn Memory of Leopardi\u201d loses only a smidge of its doubleness if you (like one of my students) take the trouble to hunt up Leopardi\u2019s own \u201cCanto notturno di un pastore errante dell\u2019Asia<\/em>\u201d (\u201cNight Song of a Wandering Shepherd of Asia\u201d). In those 143 lines there is no sheep stealing nor killing of any kind of hunchback, but there\u00a0is<\/em>\u00a0a goddess: the moon. So who am I kidding. Clearly it has to be Leopardi\/hunchback\/shepherd who is slain. The reason way no. 1 seems so right to me is I\u2019m clinging to justice. Why would a goddess steal a hunchback\u2019s sheep? and naked? But Leopardi answers that question himself. It\u2019s because\u00a0qualche bene o contento avr\u00e0 fors\u2019altro; a me la vita \u00e8 male\u00a0<\/em>(\u201cperhaps it yields some kind of good or contentment to somebody else\u2014but, for me, life is bad\u201d).<\/p>\n

I was clinging to justice and mistaken in doing so. Happy 219, Giacomo Leopardi.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anthony Madrid<\/a> lives in Victoria, Texas. <\/em>His second book of poems is\u00a0<\/em>Try Never<\/a>\u00a0(Canarium Books, 2017). He is a correspondent for the\u00a0<\/em>Daily.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s Leopardi\u2019s birthday tomorrow. Happy 219, Giacomo. 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