{"id":134596,"date":"2019-03-18T13:58:22","date_gmt":"2019-03-18T17:58:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=134596"},"modified":"2019-03-18T17:28:15","modified_gmt":"2019-03-18T21:28:15","slug":"poem-for-merwin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/03\/18\/poem-for-merwin\/","title":{"rendered":"Poem for Merwin"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Merwin\u2019s Garden (Photo: Matthew Zapruder)<\/p><\/div>\n

There is no poet whose work has meant more to me than W.\u2009S. Merwin. Last December, I went to Hawaii for a series of conversations with Lewis Hyde, author of\u00a0<\/em>The Gift. The trip was organized by the Merwin Conservancy, an organization dedicated to the ongoing preservation of the poet\u2019s writing, ideals, and now legacy. They also work on maintaining and preserving the palm garden in Maui that he built, along with his late wife, Paula. When you go there, it feels more like a forest, filled with palms of so many different varieties, many of them rare. It\u2019s an unexpected, completely singular place. I hope it will survive and continue to thrive now that he is gone. I got to see Merwin, and sit and talk with him and his editor, Michael Wiegers, and Lewis, on the lanai overlooking the garden.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Toward the end of his life, Merwin lost his sight, though he was completely aware of what was going on around him. This is a note I wrote in my journal right after:\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

At one point there was a bird in a tree and I knew if I described it carefully enough he\u2019d be able to tell us what it was, so I looked for a while and then said, what is that bird with the grey feathers and orange beak and a little bit of red in its tail and a crown, and he said, that\u2019s a female cardinal, and I think she is about to have babies, so if we put a blueberry on the railing of the lanai her mate, the red cardinal, will come and get it. Merwin put two blueberries on the railing and the red cardinal came.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Long before the trip, I had begun a poem for him, but couldn\u2019t seem to finish it. It was only after visiting the garden, and then sitting with him, that I was able to. Indeed, I finished it that same day, right after we sat together on the lanai. In the garden is Paula\u2019s gravestone, where Merwin will also be buried. On it is the inscription \u201cHere We Were Happy,\u201d which, along with many other thoughts and things said during this trip, made its way into the poem.<\/em><\/p>\n

Poem for Merwin<\/strong><\/p>\n

for a long time you planted one every day
\nand now the garden is a clock on forest time <\/p>\n

forest time where we were happy
\nfor a few translucent hours moving
\ninto the ghost houses
\nno longer there<\/p>\n

and the shade houses
\nthat are
\ntheir myth of air<\/p>\n

and the places where people used to gather
\nby the stream that is now a dry bed
\nto eat and sing
\nwe cannot almost hear them<\/p>\n

then out along the narrow paths
\nover stones I kept forgetting
\nlike years you had placed<\/p>\n

and the dead clock face painters
\ncovered in radium could not convey
\ntheir messages to us
\nhere in the permanent shade<\/p>\n

the palms with their very different leaves
\nand seed pods seem to say<\/p>\n

you who think nothing can be repaired<\/p>\n

you who will not ever
\nbe able to describe our shapes
\nand say I love to no one<\/p>\n

or today I was born<\/p>\n

you burned astronomers
\nlook at our wet leaves
\nmaybe you were not even born
\nfor knowing your own planets<\/p>\n

you were not born for knowing
\nbut saying<\/p>\n

a piece of wood burned next to the little jade statue
\nmeans no matter how many times we leave
\nwe will keep returning<\/p>\n

it means no matter how many times we go
\nout where they sell executions<\/p>\n

we will come back here
\nwhere the black gravestone
\nis a window in love with the beloved<\/p>\n

on it is written here we were happy
\nwhich is true<\/p>\n

reading it I would like to remember
\nwhat I am feeling now
\nthat I would like not to be
\nthe mechanism<\/p>\n

a blade angled in reason<\/p>\n

I too would like to lay down
\nin my own sort of field
\ngreen with potential love<\/p>\n

today I know I was born
\nto try to remember
\nthe name of the simplest leaf<\/p>\n

from the tree of my childhood<\/p>\n

I have always known that god all along
\nand that we were each born
\nthe shadow of reality upon us<\/p>\n

so be not easily angry
\npick up the small rose book
\nwith its disappearing house on the cover<\/p>\n

enter its doorway
\nget lost for a while<\/p>\n

forget we were born to carry our names<\/p>\n

until it is our turn with nothing to say
\nexcept maybe we were born to love<\/p>\n

and move further on<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read some of our favorite W.\u2009S. Merwin\u00a0poems in our archive.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

Matthew Zapruder is the author, most recently, of <\/em>Why Poetry (Ecco, 2017) and<\/em>\u00a0Father\u2019s Day (Copper Canyon,\u00a0 fall 2019). He teaches at Saint Mary\u2019s College of California and is editor at large at Wave Books.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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