Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Thinking About Merwin's Poems Today


I was listening to Fresh Air again on the way home and caught a rebroadcast of a conversation with W.S. Merwin. He won his second Pulitzer Prize for poetry on April 20 for The Shadow Of Sirius.

In the interview, he read from a poem about a photograph of his mother, taken when she was young, which had faded and was deteriorated and all he was left with was his memory. From there it led to a discussion about memory itself, and whether we should document our lives with photos and journals and such and involve ourself with preserving the details of the "past," or focus our efforts on the "now."


During my younger years I saved everything. I preserved photos, videos, scrapbooks, and enough journals for someone to publish my whole sordid life in a multi-volume boxed set should they choose to do so in the future after I am famous or dead. I also spent five years tracking down the family history...gathering photos, articals, obits, death certificates, old letters and anything I could to try to document where I came from.


Now as I'm getting older I do it less. Pictures for the past 5 years sit in boxes or drawers willy nilly mixed in with all my other junk. My journals have been hit or miss too, with weeks, and even a whole month gone by with nothing really to show for myself. I like to spend time outside in the garden, or reading, or spending time with friends or my pets. Writing gets put off.


Merwin read from another poem he wrote about what it felt like to be in his parents' house after both of them had died. It dealt with the grief, and trying to remember conversations, and also the task of sorting belongings. His father had been minister, and had requested all his sermons be burned. I can relate to that. Part of me wants all my own journals burned. My writings, my personal thoughts. Because they are unpolished, carelessly worded. Easy to misinterpret.


The last line of the poem grabbed me because of it's simplicity, yet deeper meaning. In that house, that space occupied by his parents who were no longer there, suddenly it occurs to him.


"I can do anything I want."


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