Who did I think was listening
when I wrote down the words
in pencil at the beginning
words for singing
to music I did not know
and people I did not know
would read them and stand to sing them
already knowing them
while they sing they have no names
-W.S. Merwin, from his newest book of poetry entitled The Shadow Of Sirius
winner of the 2009 pulitzer prize.
available from copper canyon press.
if you missed his inspiring interview with Bill Moyers on PBS, here it is.
Lefty peered up through the branches of the most gigantic of the pines. He was reverent about the woods like that- always studied a tree carefully before starting his back cut. Some of the other fallers thought he was foolish but Lefty had seen trees do strange things when they fell. Safety was part of it but I really think it was the look a good hunter shares with his quarry before each kill; a look of mutual respect….almost a love for the being itself.
While Lefty stood transfixed, a micro-burst from a distant thunder head blew down through a small notch in the ridge above us. The colossal ancient tree swayed causing a dead limb near the top to break loose from the trunk and ricochet through the branches. It dislodged a hornet’s nest on the way down. There was a soft innocent sounding pop as a dark grey object as big as a basketball flew through the air, bounced on the ground and rolled at Lefty’s feet. There was no time for Lefty to react. A cloud of angry hornets burst from the broken nest. Lefty dropped his chain saw as the insects swarmed his face and hands. He slapped at the swarm and turned to run toward the creek, but he never made more than a couple of steps.
We found lefty sprawled across a log several hundred feet from the water, his features swollen beyond recognition. The hornet’s nest was so riled that the crew had to wait until the sun went down to retrieve the body. The place where Lefty died seemed peaceful and tranquil with cool shady stands of old growth ponderosa pines and small ferns and wild flowers all the way down to Monument creek. Big boulders of black basalt lava rock pocked the hillside and bear sign was everywhere. We never allowed the company to log any more trees in that little valley. We called it lefty’s place and we left it alone.
Ellen scratched at her knee where the mosquito had bitten her. She stared at the mountains encircling the ranch and at Dexter who sat sleeping in his camp chair, his mouth wide open and snoring. The air was heavy and humid from the passing of the thunder shower.
“I hate this place.” Ellen said aloud to the border collie who looked up at her expectedly. The remains of her breakfast lay nearby. Flies were walking all over it and the congealed bacon fat on her plate kept the dog interested. A thin tendril of dust kicked up from the wheels of a 1977 Pontiac Bonneville coupe deluxe convertible as it careened and bounced wildly by the ranch on the only road out of here to Lewistown Montana. The neighbor’s radio blared an old Jimmy Buffet tune. Ellen cocked her ear to listen….
“all I know is Stosh asked Lee if he wanted a job helping him with the horses but Lee told Stosh he hated horses so Lee picked up his stuff and left town for parts unknown. Somebody said they might’ve seen a guy that looked like Lee logging for an outfit in Seeley Lake. Only this guy that looked like Lee had a beard and long hair so I don’t think it was Lee. Lee hated hippies.”
Gene looked across the bar and into the mirror. He seethed inside while looking back at himself- disgusted and bored. Gene listened to Pauline tell him again for the umpteenth time that she didn’t know where Lee was. Every time she told him there was a new twist where somebody said something and Gene just couldn’t listen to it anymore.
“Somebody, who?” Gene asked
“I don’t know. Just some guy who rolled into town all drunk and high.”
“what did he look like?”
“Like an asshole.” Pauline said. “He looked like an asshole- just like you and every other creep who comes in here. You all look like assholes to me. You want to know what he looks like? Look in the mirror. That’s what he looks like.”
Gene took another drink and glanced at the mirror. Pauline was right. He did look like an asshole.
Gene walked outside the Bonner Bar and lit a smoke. He wanted somebody to tell him it was going to be alright and that Lee was coming back to town with the money and he wanted to hear Lee tell everyone that logging was on the rise again but logging was finally dead and Gene knew it. The mill was closing down and Marvin Purvis at the bar last week said there might be work in Juneau but Gene checked that out and there was no truth to it. Gene sat down on the curb with his beer and his cigarette and watched the sunset across the dirt and gravel parking lot. A cut over hillside glowered across the gash of river that led into the valley of the Clark Fork River with its torn down dam and the rock face of the blast cuts from the dam builders creating a froth of brownish white just before the wood debris eddied out into a swirl of backwash.
Constantly Risking Absurdity
Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he’s the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence
intro to surreal politics - montana style!
It is exhausting work- this setting the template upon the earth,
drawn in a diamond array to explode rock loose for traction.
Stones so loose the foreman can proudly say that you need only back softly
up to the hillside and scoop it with your hands.
The dirt trails off in the wind and the diamond bit of the drill head
barely scarred brings up temptations
that the overburden once held safely beneath and stored up recriminations
buried alive but now free.
Nothing hauled to the end user is ever given freely. Payment is expected.
Imposing will upon matter leaves farmers poorer in the pocket and miners
rich but both thirst for the same immortality that eludes those forgotten
two weeks after they die unless their names are Jesus Christ or Shakespeare.
But who has time for immortality anyway?
the injustice done to you and libby residents in federal court yesterday by a system of law designed for letting rich white guys kill people for profit is a dis- Grace!
This is where the old man came in handy…
We liked to fish – he liked to drive his brand new cars and he liked to watch us fish.
So every Sunday he would drive over to that family he lost in the divorce
and he would pick us boys up in that brand new Chevy Impala
and he would drive us out to Dairy Creek.
We would pull our poles and creels and fish tackle out of the trunk
and we would run down to the creek and go fish.
The old man would pull out his easel and his oil paints and his charcoal pencils
and he would sit down on a stump somewhere and light a cigarette
and pull the tab off a cold can of Oly.
and he would watch us wander off into that cool dark green tunnel swirling through alder
and berry bushes and ferns and he would look at something we could not see
and he would try to draw something which we never saw
and now that I am older than he was then, I can see that we will never see what he saw
When he watched us fish on Dairy Creek.
