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 a plain sight
it is the late poems
that are made of words
that have come the whole way
they have been there
W.S. Merwin was 80 years old when he published this magnificent book of poetry and it could really serve very easily as the perfect career capper. It won him his second Pulitzer Prize and, in the aftermath of all the acclaim for this book, he was appointed the Poet Laureate of the United States. He would go on to live another eleven years and release two more books of poetry, so it isn’t quite the poetic final chapter it might appear to be. But still, it is Merwin at his most beautiful and transcendent, writing about the past and loss, but also about the present and the things that remain. It isn’t dour or somber; Merwin rarely has been. Even as Merwin meditates on all the things lost over a life of eight decades, he can’t keep himself from being inspired by the beauty he still sees around him and the inherent power of those things that have survived. It’s a beautiful piece of writing where almost every poem really lands. It genuinely does land, in my opinion, very high up on the list of his works, on that very top tier along with The Folding Cliffs & Feathers from the Hill. It has all the weight of a life lived, but all the lightness of a life that is still seeking beauty. 4 stars.
tl;dr – a truly late career triumph and one of Merwin’s most beautiful, emotional and transcendent books of poetry; melancholy without being somber, beautiful in its sadness and its hope. 4 stars.