There is temptation to conflate poetry with the utterances of the oracular, or with things like prophecy. Prophecy is man-being-spoken-through, in a voice that others can hear, in words that may retain traces of what said the thing initially, yet those words must ultimately be aimed at those of us in the world, and must be spoken using a human mouth. Poetry and the prophetic hallucination share qualities of otherworldliness, and there are ways of sliding the feeling of hallucination back into the words one hears. But not every utterance with a firm grasp of the not-human is oracular.
William Stanley (W. S.) Merwin (1927-2019) is a genius and a remarkable American poet who is something of a voice of the void. As a child he wrote hymns, as a younger poet he wrote from the classical forms (per Vernon Young in American Poetry Review, “Biblical tales, Classical myth, love songs from the Age of Chivalry, Renaissance retellings; they comprise carols, roundels, odes, ballads, sestinas, and they contrive golden equivalents of emblematic models: the masque, the Zodiac, the Dance of Death”), and in later work jumbled, corrupted, explored, and found new ground in form.
He was a tutor to the son of Robert Graves in Majorca, and a prolific translator of Spanish, Old English, and Italian. He lived on a pineapple plantation and restored it to nature. Toward the end of his life he dictated poems to his wife Paula as he was going blind.
I will not comment on the use of the word “totem” here except to note that it derives from Algonquian (likely Ojibwa) -doodem, in odoodeman “his sibling kin, his group or family,” ie., “family mark,” from ca. 1760.
Words From A Totem Animal
Distance
is where we were
but empty of us and ahead of
me lying out in the rushes thinking
even the nights cannot come back to their hill
any time
I would rather the wind came from outside
from mountains anywhere
from the stars from other
worlds even as
cold as it is this
ghost of mine passing
through me
I know your silence
and the repetition
like that of a word in the ear of death
teaching
itself
itself
that is the sound of my running
the plea
plea that it makes
which you will never hear
oh god of beginnings
immortal
I might have been right
not who I am
but all right
among the walls among the reasons
not even waiting
not seen
but now I am out in my feet
and they on their way
the old trees jump up again and again
strangers
there are no names for the rivers
for the days for the nights
I am who I am
oh lord cold as the thoughts of birds
and everyone can see me
Caught again and held again
again I am not a blessing
they bring me
names
that would fit anything
they bring them to me
they bring me hopes
all day I turn
making ropes
helping
My eyes are waiting for me
in the dusk
they are still closed
they have been waiting a long time
and I am feeling my way toward them
I am going up stream
taking to the water from time to time
my marks dry off the stones before morning
the dark surface
strokes the night
above its way
There are no stars
there is no grief
I will never arrive
I stumble when I remember how it was
with one foot
one foot still in a name
I can turn myself toward the other joys and their lights
but not find them
I can put my words into the mouths
of spirits
but they will not say them
I can run all night and win
and win
Dead leaves crushed grasses fallen limbs
the world is full of prayers
arrived at from
afterwards
a voice full of breaking
heard from afterwards
through all
the length of the night
I am never all of me
unto myself
and sometimes I go slowly
knowing that a sound one sound
is following me from world
to world
and that I die each time
before it reaches me
When I stop I am alone
at night sometimes it is almost good
as though I were almost there
sometimes then I see there is
in a bush beside me the same question
why are you
on this way
I said I will ask the stars
why are you falling and they answered
which of us
I dreamed I had no nails
no hair
I had lost one of the senses
not sure which
the soles peeled from my feet and
drifted away
clouds
It’s all one
feet
stay mine
hold the world lightly
Stars even you
have been used
but not you
silence
blessing
calling me when I am lost
Maybe I will come
to where I am one
and find
I have been waiting there
as a new
year finds the song of the nuthatch
Send me out into another life
lord because this one is growing faint
I do not think it goes all the way
(W. S. Merwin, 1969)
Three things of the many one might appreciate within this poem:
“I stumble when I remember how it was / with one foot / one foot still in a name” The term for when a sentence is draped across several lines is “enjambment.” Here, it hastens the feeling of urgency, of breath caught in flight. One is running while looking over one’s shoulder. Here the sentences pour off the lines like rain running off of tree branches.
“I dreamed I had no nails / no hair / I had lost one of the senses / not sure which / the soles / peeled from my feet and / drifted away” Is this a man dreaming he is an animal, dreaming he was a man, or the other way round? Man and animal revolve oneirotically around one another and are confused. The words we know (“nails” “hair”) used to interchange with those of their animal counterparts.
“Maybe I will come / to where I am one / and find / I have been waiting there / as a new / year finds the song of the nuthatch” In this translation of a vision, the end becomes the beginning. The brevity of the breaths in the first four lines sags out in a rush with the last line of this stanza.
Here is how the poem appeared in its first printing in the Atlantic, in 1969. One races around the page, in breathless simultaneity: