To This May
They know so much more now about
the heart we are told but the world
still seems to come one at a time
one day one year one season and here
it is spring once more with its birds
nesting in the holes in the walls
its morning finding the first time
its light pretending not to move
always beginning as it goes
W.S. Merwin
Present Company
Copper Canyon Press, 2007
There's something so gentle and rhythmical and profound about WS Merwin's poem. I hope you enjoy it. And once you have, try the following exercise:
1. Write out the poem leaving a free line between each one.
2. Write your own lines between each of Merwin's lines, and one at the end, that link to the one before and the one after. You might have to change some syntax, fiddle with tenses etc.
3. You should end up with an 18 line poem that makes some kind of sense!
4. Leave it to one side for a few days before looking back over it to see if you think there's a poem worth keeping. Or a poem that's asking to be released.
Write well.
Lynne
3 comments:
To This May
They know so much more now about
the building blocks of life
the heart we are told but the world
remains aloof - breaths
still seem to come one at a time.
Eternity delivers
one day one year one season and here
and now and forever
it is spring once more with its birds
pecking at our lives
nesting in the holes in the walls
of our understanding.
Its morning finding the first time
footfall on new moments
its light pretending not to move
casts shadows and builds a history
always beginning as it goes
with a blank canvas.
Thanks for posting your poem, Keith. It's really interesting reading it along side Merwin's, and how you've enlarged on his theme, fleshed out the ideas.
They know so much more now. About
My longings, though, nothing. The strainings of
The heart. We are told: ‘But the world
Is for laughter.’ Yes, but the sullen clouds
Still seem to come, one at a time,
Hanging above my bent head. I think:
One day, one year, one season, and here
Will come floating blossoms for me. After all,
It is spring once more with its birds,
And I see that the tulips stand strong. I, though,
Nesting in the holes in the walls
Of my hiddenness, do not see that
It’s morning. Finding the first time
For joy – ah! – a long, long search for
Its light. Pretending not to move
In case it wants to come silently, as
Always. Beginning, as it goes
Slipping from my touch again, like silk, to weep.
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