W. S. Merwin Books

HAHA guys

What is this........... eh, not quite sure, but, slipped so easily into the unknown without PREJUDICE, completely into the author's syntax, thoughts and, yes, dreams.

This author waved to the onlookers as he descended to the hard, craggy Mississippi Rocks that he LOVED. Not a particular story many people in the press want to hold above THE LAUREATES and Fakes that permeate our Poetry industry. A truly strange trip through the head of an albatross in flight....

I love ROCKS.

the main point of criticism of this poem is its hyper-personal self-referential content. i have to say, however, that i have never felt so comforted, so saddened nor so delighted by any work of art or literature or film as i have by these songs no matter how little i know about what he really means or is talking about. i don't even want to know the specifics or the origins behind every line.
this is the most jarring and successful work of experimental anything i've ever encountered in my life. berryman had such a command of language; vernacular, colloqialisms, meter, form, internal rhyme, schizo pronoun shifts, multiplicity, this masterpiece has it all. 'the dream songs' take language and poetry to its limits and does so succinctly, with meter and rigid sonnet form berryman devised for the work.
the fact that the beats overshadow people like berryman and john barth and william carlos williams is simply a crime. i honestly feel that this work surpasses 'leaves of grass' and is probably the most amazing achievement in american poetry.
this is not to say that i think berryman is america's finest poet (more than likely our most erudite, but not our finest). on the contrary, i think he was a marginal writer who caught fire like no one ever has. this is what art is; one person's fractured assemblege of all the shattered pieces of everything in an epic confession where he is in fact three people and is killed and raises from the dead and cheats and lies and is mistreated and is wrong, all in heroic fashion. to want to know where it all came from is wrong and selfish and diminishes the work. to be consoled or bored or outraged is what must be done.
i re-read this beast about once a year, last time through 191 was probably my favorite. like all masterpieces, you appreciate something different every time.
buy this book, steal it, whatever you have to do.

At first, I didn't find much to rejoice about in this collection of poems. The expectation Berryman sets up with his title is deceptive. I found little evidence of "dream." What I mean is that I found this writing highly literal, straight-forward and self-conscious, i.e. the antithesis of dreamy. Secondly, "songs" troubled me. One of the thing that distinguishes poetry from prose is poetry's musicality. And having "songs" in the title of a collection hints that there may be lyricism within. However, I found the diction flabby, the tone impotent and therefore lacking any semblance of lyricism. Perhaps what Berryman meant by "songs" is this: Perhaps these poems are loose ballads (without the envoi and without the predicable rhyming scheme). Ballades address an important person (Henry, in this case) and sums up the point of the poems.

It's terrible to sum-up a collection of poems (or is The Dream Songs considered one poem in parts?), but here goes: Basically, in each section we have the protagonist, Henry, in various situations, or in mere contemplation. The forward for this book is interesting in that, along the lines of Pound and Eliot, Berryman has made a concerted effort to inform his readership that this is, indeed, a persona poem, and therefore, not to be confused with a biographical poem. Perhaps what Berryman has produced here is an eclogue. An eclogue is a poem "written in the form of a monologue or dialogue in which the speaker tells us what he feels about a particular theme (and why) and why others ought to feel that same way (from Handbook of Poetic Forms)." When I approach these poems as bucolics (or, eclogues), Berryman's craft and the poems' meanings open up for me. Otherwise, these seem banally idea-driven and terribly discursive in that they're sometimes laden with private references. For example, the opening few lines: "Huffy Henry hid the day,/ unappeasable Henry sulked./ I see his point,-- a trying to put things over."

The best way to enter these poems, then, is to embrace Berryman's eclogues as a means to engaging with the main character, Henry. Because these poems are character-driven, the language is conversational, idiosyncratic, and at times, pedestrian (like how most of us are just plain boring in our impromptu conversations). In this sense, these poems have an immediacy to them; the reader can almost hear Henry's diatribes straight from his mouth. However, Henry is not without pithy insight. In part #28 Henry displays his humor and resign: "If I had to do the whole thing over again/ I wouldn't." At times these sections begin with such intrigue, they reel-in the reader. Part #44 begins: "Tell it to the forest fire, tell it to the moon." And at times, the readers are reminded of the fact that Henry's merely a character in Berryman's head. These last two lines of part #74, "Henry mastered, Henry/ tasting all the secret bits of life." And that's just what we get from these Dream Songs, bits of a Berryman character in all his intricacies, both commonplace and celebratory.

I am not very knowledgable about Berryman and his work. I certainly have not read the poems with the time and intensity of a number of the reviewers on this site. I have an impression of Berryman and his work. It is of something vaguely likeable occaisionally able to provide a line which hits home. It is of a very variable voice in which the disorder and the breakdown somehow make the text too mixed- up.
Perhaps this is unfair. Bellow thought Berryman the best, and among other poets he too was understood as one of the best of his time.
Perhaps then I should let his lines , lines of one sonnet at least speak for themselves:

These lovely motions of the air, the breeze,
tell me I'm not in hell, thojugh round me the dead
lie in their limp postures
dramatizing the dreadful word 'instead'
for lively Henry, fit for debaucheries
and bird- of- paradise vestures

only his heart is elsewhere , down with them
& down with Delmore specially, the new ghost
haunting Henry most:
though fierce the claims of others, coimedela crime
came the Hebrew spectre , on a note of woe
and Join me O.

'Down with them all!'Henry suddenly cried
Their deaths were theirs. I wait on for my own,
I dare say it won't be long,
I have tried to be them, god knows I have tried,
but they are past it all, I have not done,
which brings me to the end of this song.

Berryman's dream song sequence demonstrates how to create a series of related poems, without rigid constraints beyond trying to maintain a certain length. Some are self-standing like #28 "Snow Line" while others require some knowledge of the series characters Henry and Mr. Bones. Everything seems topical: relationships, politics, writers, and even the everyday. Berryman frequently inverts syntax for striking effects. Most of the dream songs make a strange statement and build off of it such as "Life, Friends, is boring. We must not say so." (#14) or "Bats have no bankers and they do not drink." (#63) I admire the scope of topics such as work, love, and writing that are still relevant today and the seemingly matter-of-fact way Berryman writes, which often produces hilarious results, such as the case of the two previously mentioned poems. In one of the later songs he even takes on himself "The only happy people in the world/ are those who do not have to write long poems." (#354) The Dream Songs are crucial for anyone interested in 20th and even Contemporary Literature.

This book plays with reality, is beautiful, is provocative (in certain ways), and encourages revisits.

So different, so wonderful, so thought-provoking. This book of photographs is amazing. Each photo tells a story, or many stories, or creates an emotion that's hard to pin down. This is a large bound book, of high quality. I'm astounded at the price. This is truly a book to keep for life. I took it to work, and people lined up to look at it, one co-worker offered to buy it from me for $10 more than I paid for it :) (no way!)

Recently on PBS, I saw a small clip of the collaboration work of the photographer (who is also the subject in the photographs) and his painter wife. The artistic creation of staging and dark room manipulations were something no one produces but these two. Results are reminiscent of a strange dream or turn of the century photography of catastrophic Earth events. I had to find a book of their work. The first books I found were $300. but fortunately found a much better priced one. I not only wanted it for myself and friends, but also to hand it down to one of my grandkids. Thank you Mr/Mrs. ParkHarrison for your unusual vision and I hope to see your future productions.

This is one of the weirdest photography books I have ever read...and enjoyed looking!

The author drives the reader through an interesting dream-like world created meticulously just for the shots in this book.

All these stupendous images generate lots of meditations and new ideas not only related to the topic of photography but to the way we experience life.

Wow. That's how I'm going to start this off. My first inkling was to give the book four stars, you know, seem objective to the reader, maybe have a bigger influence. The truth is objectivity has nothing to do with this book. It is full of magic, suprise, wonder: nothing but true subjectivity. That is where its beauty lies, like a receiving a small bit of mail from an unknown sender, each page is a tale for you to tell, as well as ParkeHarrison. By far my favorite photography book, second only to Rocky Schenk, Photographs. Highly Recommended, also beautifully bound and LARGE. Take it from this poor college student, well worth the money.

Of the half dozen or so plays I've read in Oxford University Press's "Greek Tragedy in New Translations" series, this is the best.

An excellent synopsis and analysis of the play precedes a beautiful translation, smoothing the way for students. The play is one of the keys to understanding the Trojan War -- in addition to recapping the beef the Greeks have with Troy, there is much foreshadowing of what will happen ten years down the road.

After reading Iphigeneia at Aulis, it's difficult to cut any of those Greek heroes any slack. If the situation weren't so horrible and tragic, the interactions and reactions of some of the characters would be funny: Achilles, for example, extremely annoyed that Agamemnon would take his name in vain when tricking Iphigeneia into coming to Aulis; if Agamemnon had asked him for his help first, then tricking the girl into coming to be sacrificed would have been okay. Or Menelaos, coming around to Agamemnon's way of thinking (that it would, after all, be wrong to kill Iphigeneia), and suggesting that only he, Agamemnon and Kalchas the priest know about the need for a sacrifice to get a fair wind to Troy, and that Kalchas won't tell: "Not if he's dead."

This play, and this translation, are probably one of the best introductions a student could have to Greek tragedy.

This ancient Greek play by the famous playwrite Euripides is a diatribe on war and the foolishness of pride. The play is often thought to be an incomplete work, but as Dimock points out in the introduction, recent discoveries suggest that IPHIGENEIA AT AULIS isn't as incomplete as once thought. This edition includes a fine introduction, several detailed notes on the text, and a glossary of proper nouns. The book is not too difficult to read and can be useful for students of the theatre and/or ancient Greek culture.

This play contemplates the question of how many wars would be fought if the first to die were the children of the leaders themselves. The translation is quite readable but not strict, as a comparison of Greek with English line numbers quickly shows. The introductory essay and concluding notes on the play are especially helpful, placing the play in its historical context (the Peloponesian War) and explaining various allusions to mythological or historical events in the play itself.

Of the half dozen or so plays I've read in Oxford University Press's "Greek Tragedy in New Translations" series, this is the best.

An excellent synopsis and analysis of the play precedes a beautiful translation, smoothing the way for students. The play is one of the keys to understanding the Trojan War -- in addition to recapping the beef the Greeks have with Troy, there is much foreshadowing of what will happen ten years down the road.

After reading Iphigeneia at Aulis, it's difficult to cut any of those Greek heroes any slack. If the situation weren't so horrible and tragic, the interactions and reactions of some of the characters would be funny: Achilles, for example, extremely annoyed that Agamemnon would take his name in vain when tricking Iphigeneia into coming to Aulis -- if Agamemnon had asked him for his help first, then tricking the girl into coming to be sacrificed would have been okay. Or Menelaos, coming around to Agamemnon's way of thinking (that it would, after all, be wrong to kill Iphigeneia), and suggesting that only he, Agamemnon and Kalchas the priest know about the need for a sacrifice to get a fair wind to Troy, and that Kalchas won't tell: "Not if he's dead."

This play, and this translation, are probably one of the best introductions a student could have to Greek tragedy.

Finding first rate translations can be a hit and miss affair. However, this it definitely a "hit". Merwin's translation of Euripides' tragedy is masterful and deserves the glowing reviews it has received here as elsewhere. Readers of this review might be interested to know that it is part of a series called "The Greek Tragedy in New Translations". And while it is out of print, good used copies are freely available in the Amazon marketplace -- which is where I secured mine.

Merwin has rendered a taut, readable version in modern English. And the volume is supplemented with an extremely interesting introduction by George Dimock -- with which I am not sure I entirely agree -- though he does a fine job of fitting the play within the context of the Peloponnesian War.

For me, the riveting aspect of this work is the treatment that Achilles gets (Agamemnon, of course, gets a good drubbing, which is satisfying -- but hardly unexpected!). We see him at Aulis, a young man as yet unbowed and unbloodied by the years of warfare at Troy. Dimock makes a rather startling remark when he asseverates, "The one thing that his [Achilles] speeches do not contain is simple human feeling such as Paris might entertain: it does not seem to have occurred to him that a young girl is about to die." And he is rather critical of Achilles for this (I might even say that his introduction is suffused with "pro-Trojan" sympathies). But for me, isn't this rather the whole point? Of course Achilles is like this, it took TEN years of warfare and the death of Patroclus for him to learn (and recall that he ALONE among the Greeks appears to have absorbed the lesson) how to be "human" -- on this see Bernard Knox's introduction to Robert Fagles' brilliant translation of the Iliad. I prefer the General Editor's view on this when he says, "the play enacts the heroic education of Achilles." Well, at least it enacts the very early stages of it!

Merwin is a wonderful poet -- and I would also recommend his translation of Dante's Purgatorio and Paradiso. For readers in search of other top notch modern translations, see Stanley Lombardo's truly astonishing translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey. See also Nicholas Pevear's translation of Aias.

Here is a sample of Merwin's translation (from the Chorus's reaction to a speech of Agamemnon's):

"O Cyprian,
most beautiful of the goddesses, keep
such wild flights from me.
Let me know love
within reason and desire within
marraige, and feel your presence
not your rage.
The natures of humans
are various, and human ways of acting
are different,
but everyone knows what is right,
and teaching
inclines them at last to virtue."

This book received excellent reviews from the New York Times and other leading book reviewers because of its moving story. This is an intense little book, very easily read in an evening, about a year in the life of one of the last Eskimo Curlews in existence.

This book takes you on the migration journey of the Curlew and vividly illustrates its struggle for survival. It also showcases historical notes about the slaughter of the curlews in the late 1800's and the notes of alarm raised by scientists that unfortunately did not initiate conservation measures to help this species.

I had read one other book like this about the Passenger Pigeon, that told the story of a species and its struggle to avoid the slaughter of the market hunters of the 1800's. This book though is the best of the type as
Bodsworth is a skilled writer and is able to show the life of the Eskimo Curlew in heart-wrenching detail without anthropomorophism.

I would encourage everyone to read this and pass it around for others to read as it is quickly read but has powerful impact. To have some emotional concern or motivation to help protect threatened species of life on this earth you need empathy and this book is a masterpiece at producing that empathy.

A sad story of human greed and destruction, but one we all should read and learn from.

This is a wonderful, heart-wrenching short book, a fictionalization of the migration of a lone Eskimo Curlew from the arctic to South America and back.

The Eskimo Curlew was once a plentiful shorebird that was highly sought after by hunters because of the succulence of its flesh and the ease with which it could be taken. Usually flying in dense swarms, a score or more birds could be brought down by a single shotgun blast. In some cases so many were killed, that the hunters left those that could not be transported to market in massive piles. And so it came to pass that by the late 19th-century, the Eskimo Curlew population declined rapidly, to the point where it was virtually extinct at the time Bodsworth wrote the book.

Although a work of fiction, this is a book that should be read by everyone who has an interest in Nature and the environment.

This is a Classic and recognized as one of the finest Natural History books in North America as well as abroad.First published in 1955 it has been re-issued ,probably as many as 20 times over the years. Suffice it to say ,anyone with any interest in nature,birds, extinct species,conservation,preservation of species,would find this an excellent read.As a matter of fact,I would go so far as to suggest that after reading this book,one would probably agree it is the best natural history book they have ever read.Just look at the other reviews.
The main reason for my writing this review is to tell you that after reading 'The Last of the Curlews'you might want to read some of Bodsworth's other lesser known but also excellent works.
"The Strange One"
"The Sparrows Fall"
"The Atonement of Ashley Morden"
and,
"The Pacific Coast"

Another excellent thing about 'The Last of the Curlews' are the superb scratch board illustrations by T M Shortt,one of Canada's finest artists;so make sure they are in the edition you get.
With regards to my title...for several decades the search has continued without success.There have been a few reports of sightings,but none confirmed.There is a lot of territory in it's range,between the tip of South America and the Arctic Circle where there may be survivors...there's always hope.

I still see Fred on occasion;so let's hope we see another book from him soon.

Bodsworth is brilliant in his capacity to provide the reader with an emotionally arrousing text, supported by fascinating technical details of bird migration. I cannot imagine that anyone having even a remote interest in birds, nature or life, would not be moved by this great piece.

This book is a great intro to Mr. Qabbani's poetry. Everything about it is well done. Cover art, binding, paper stock. All excellent. This volume will have the reader searching for more of his work.

So powerful, so sensual, so incredible. His poetry is earth shaking and primal.

I had thought your love would end my estrangement
but you passed like water between my fingers

~Nizar Qabbani

In my eternal search for poetry infused with images of water and passion, "On Entering the Sea" appeared on the Amazon horizon. How I love this site and the ability to locate life-enhancing selections of great beauty.

The poetry of Nizar Qabbani requires atmosphere and an imagination willing to travel beyond the daily drudgery of existence into longings for home, passionate encounters and the mysteries of sensation. At times his poems have echoes of ancient works that intertwine themselves with modern complexity. His work celebrates the love of country, women and sensuous images of coffeehouses and Andalusian experiences.

I write
to save the woman I love
from the cities of no poetry,
of no love
the cities of frustration and gloom
I write to make her a misty cloud

Only woman and writing
Save us from death.

As an introduction to Nizar Qabbani, On Entering the Sea presents his work in a pleasing arrangement by translator. While the introduction by Salma Khadra Jayyusi presents an overview of the book, how I wished for a section at the end to explain the details behind many of the poems. Would this enhance my enjoyment or do the poems speak of moments so profound, no other explanation is needed? It could be said that many of his poems have a universal appeal and need no further explanation.

While his words glow with a love for the female essence in life and in women, he also explores thoughts of protecting his home, lands he loves and a different perspective on war and loss. "Posters" may be shocking to some and yet it is a representation of how Nizar Qabbani sees the world and wishes for peace all while declaring war on pride. It is highly political and yet he delves into the heart of freedom for all people. Although, I think there are poems I have yet to read which apparently display a more revolutionary approach, although this is not foreign to poets the world over. I enjoyed reading Jerusalem:

Jerusalem, beloved city of mine,
tomorrow your lemon trees will bloom,
your green stalks and branches rise up joyful,
and your eyes will laugh...

He experienced so much pain and loss and was very controversial, especially in his hometown in Damascus where he challenged cultural taboos. Too often I think we as a society have condemned the erotic, all while longing for erotic pleasures of our own. Nizar Qabbani not only sets desire free in poems, he sets women free from oppression. In "Diary of an Indifferent Woman," he writes as a woman:

I want to escape from my own skin
from my own voice, from my own language
and stray like the fragrance of gardens
I want to flee from my own shadow
and from all addresses

By the end of the poem he talks about crystal bottles with dead butterflies and the images become revelations of eternal struggles for independence and for the freedom to love. During his teenage years, his sister committed suicide, because she could not marry the man she loved.

Time after time Nizar Qabbani displays an exceptional understanding of what it means to be female all while revealing what it means to be a man. Insatiable physical love and ecstasy from the sheer vision of a woman become spiritual expressions of love for God himself. "The Book of Love" is worshipful and timeless.

The name of my love.
I wrote it on the water.
I did not know
That the wind rushes by without listening,
That names dissolve in the water.

He also asks: "What is Love?" Then he humorously explains how he cannot change the woman he loves for she is "a storm trapped in a bottle."

Most of the poems are pleasing and passionate, but there are poems displaying private pain and horror as love is ripped from his hands by the ravages of terror. He perfectly describes his grief in an unusual moment where he is standing in the rubble of an attack and remembers his wife and the cadence of her name.

As he finds her handbag in the rubble, we are convinced no man has ever loved his wife this deeply, and yet the universal message makes us realize how many have loved and lost and longed for a woman like Balquis Al-Rawi. The vision he paints of honey, jasmine moons, rubies and roses will remain in my memory for as long as I love poetry. As in many passionate poems, the feelings of the poet flowed through me and appeared in tears. His poem about his mother's death is equally poignant and we are left with the scent of coffee, cardamom seeds and orange blossom water.

If you are a lover of world poetry, the poems of Nizar Qabbani are essential reading. Through his poems you feel the ancient longings of all people in all lands and in his uncensored thoughts, we can truly experience life through his eyes. I can only hope more of his work is translated in the near future. The exciting element of his poetry is often how he absorbs experience and then defeats his own inner tyranny by writing exactly what he thinks to display the beauty of truth. You will hear echoes in his writing and realize how many contemporary spiritual teachers and poets have been students of his poetry.

To peace...

~The Rebecca Review

These are the most passioante poems ever written. Some wail after unrequited love. Some bemoan the one that got away or an opportunity missed or ruined by thier own action. Many express devotion to the love that is present.

And then there are the political poems of longing for a lost land, agony for the end of a way of life and indignation at injustice. He was a great advocate for women's rights, but that work is not included in this collection.

I do not undestand why Qabbani is not better known in the US. In my opinion, he is far superior to Neruda (who was my favorite before I knew Qabbani). Less cliches, but more direct at the same time. And you hear what he has to say and reflect "that is exactly my feeling in this situation, why did I not think of that expresion...could it be said in any other way?"

I discovered him overseas, a few days before he died. I was so distressed to hear of his death, even though I only was familiar with his work a few days. In the Arab world, musicians of all stripes and capabilities attempt to use his poems as lyrics for their music. He has poems for every mood and every problem, each of them speak straight to the soul with emotion. Even people who can not normally appreciate poetry will become obsessed with Qabbani, when reading this collection.

Don't let the fact that his words have been translated from their original Arabic dissuade you from believing that somehow the work isn't as honest as it should be. Qabbani's work is so powerful it hardly matter shwat language it is in. In short, easily read dollops of wit measured out with a voice of quiet urging, he has given us work that transcends time and politics, while being above-it-all.

"If you know a man
who loves you more than I
guide me to him
so I may first congratulate
hom on his constancy
and later, kill him."

If poetry ever had a Luther Vandross, it was Pablo Neruda. If it ever had a Barry White, it was Qabbani.

Hopefully not to surpass his credentials, I must comment on how wonderful this poetry is. I love it. I keep these poems on the back of my mind at all times just to remember them and how I felt reading them. Merwin is so exceptionally good at copying the moment into our lives through himself, using the poetry of the spirit to communicate something beautiful deep inside of us all.

W S Merwin is a great poetic genius, & this book is my favorite of what I've read by him. He writes with uncompromising exactness & economy...& I don't think there's any punctuation in the whole book. The flaring experience of the first poems becomes a kind of alembic or magnifying glass focusing of the physical world into frictionless thinking in the journey to the last few blank pages. Poems such as the waltzingly elliptical "To the Spiders of this Room" & exponentially metaphorical "Flight of Language"...& all the rest...exhibit his lexical mastery; opening lines such as "Mist iridescent over the rice fields", the brilliant imagination. As a sidenote...is the poem "The Marfa Lights" in this book a hark back to James Tate's poem "Marfa"...?

This is one of the greatest books of modern poetry. It is a book for a quiet Sunday afternoon, sitting alone, let the words flow and guide one to the pervading essence. I can't begin to write as wonderful a review as Mr. Pipper wrote. I second everything he said and feel that as impossible as it may seem this poem makes one feel that you the reader are special for the reading of it and one wonders if there is another alien in the universe who can think or feel these words. The pupil is the poet, his childhood musings, not literal but as points of departure to create (what was that wonderful word Pipper used -- "capaciousness") -- yes that's it, a three dimensional experience of time and space. The entire book should really be read from cover to cover as the effect is transforming and accumulative.
Now if you think I said anything, you're as crazy as i am but to experience this poem is to make friends with yourself all over again.

The Pupil does for the brief, meditative lyric what Merwin's Travels did for the elegy and The Folding Cliffs for the historical narrative, and that is to live as perhaps the only examples of those forms to attain the stature of greatness and beauty in the last 25 years. I hope they presage a new possibility in verse, but I don't know of another living poet writing even close to this well out of a faith in the transparency of the word, except maybe some late Creeley. I don't mean this to say that Merwin is dated, more that it must somehow still be possible, since he does it, to write referential poetry and poetry with clearly stated ideas in it without being boring. He often seeems to me like a rarified, or purified, ghost of what used to be considered human to human communication, alive somehow in a space we more remember than encounter, where there were transpersonal signifiers that allowed us to understand something of each other even as we slip away from the understanding and from each other. The poems themselves sometimes function as an elegy for this belief, but I hope it's premature, not eulogy. That said, I find it difficult to write about Merwin, in that his poems seem to mean exactly what they say, to float ethereal and wraithlike in the mind's capaciousness, a loveliness one fears to touch or think about. You can't read these poems if you're nervous, or looking to find impressive things to say about them, or enter Derridean chains of substitution, and in that regard, they become so transparent, so self-evident, as to enter their opposite and become as opaque as reflecting onyx. As much as I hate to say so, they hint toward the belief, normally misguided, that poetry this beautiful has to come from a spiritually realized person. I'd rather just consent to the idea that the defining lines of The Pupil are from the Marfa Lights, about how it is the light, not the darkness, that everyone feels the need to explain, and so here is a collection of poems of darkness like that, the darkness glimpsed in a just opened mouth, the word spoken as music and its reference as perhaps a shadow music in near perfect unison. The only poems that seem to handle this kind of writing this well are Rexroth's meandering mountain and river poems of cloud and light (only with a deeper and quieter engagement with human transiency), and what I'm able to imagine of the great Sung and Tang Chinese masters through the layers of sensibilities, translations and my dictionary Chinese. When reading these poems one is brought into a quiet center, or shadow or seam, between sorrow and beauty that exists through these expressions but cannot be expressed. This poetry is exquisite. I'd strongly recommend you buy it, calm down, and let it work its magic.

I had read "The Carrier of Ladders" in a college class in the 1980s, and recall not being particularly impressed. Clearly, I wasn't ready for Merwin's supremely focused and near-mystical artistry. I purchased this collection recently after hearing a recording of Merwin reading "The Last One" from "The Lice." What is most remarkable is his ability to express the most complex thoughts in simple language, and often, in very short pieces. By that I mean, there are probably no words in any of these poems that would not be readily understood by an intelligent ten-year-old. Merwin's sentence structure and imagery, however, are of the highest order, and merit the most careful reading to fully absorb his meaning. The overall effect is so unique and astonishing, as to be akin to magic, especially in the later books when Merwin eschews punctuation. After reading these remarkable works, I have no doubt as to Merwin's place in the canon of great poets.

this book was like merwin pouring his heart and soul onto paper, evoked emotions and memories of long ago!

Merwin touches the universal with specifics. Merwin's book bears a simplicity lacking in much of what we do today. His word choice in these poems rarely indicates they were written in the 1970's, but the style is poignantly modern nonetheless. As subjects, Merwin takes nature, aging and friendships. He peppers these with haunting feelings of hollowness, biblical allusions, and the occasional phrase that I cannot reconcile to the poems containing it. With Merwin, though, I remains content and know that a little ambiguity at the edges will keep me returning to the poem year after year.

I suggest reading on, because I have a small but appropriate few sentences to write about Merwin. I first came across Merwin when I was assigned to find a poet I liked who was still living for a poetry class. That is to say, not living for my poetry class in particular, but, a poet still alive, so my known favorites, Solomon of the Superlative Song, William Morris, Eugene Fields or Henry W. Longfellow, writers of, among other things nursey rhymes from my chldhood, nor John Keats fulfilled this alive requirement. As a result, I found myself looking to the song lyrics of the 60s and 70s I'd listened to growing up, my father being a pseudo-hippie, him not knowing that I was actually listening to the words. I say this because it is precisely this music which encouraged me to look into poetry. Unfortunately, my professor was not about to accept song lyrics from Jethro Tull or Queen, though members of the bands might still be living, which was good for me, or I never would have discovered Merwin. It was the first time I opened a book of poetry and found what I was feeling written the way I thought. Suddenly whatever feelings merely drifting at the edges of my subconscious which I had no real way of dealing with were right there on the page before me as though someone had read my mind. It was not eerie, at all, either -- it was just like being an adolescent and literally feeling one's feelings being relayed by rock and roll, or any kind of music for all the world to hear, and glad someone finally understood and was on your side. And so you go out and buy the tape, becasue it's like hearing a good friend's voice, perhaps one that relieves you of tension, or helps you formulate thoughts on the order of the world and your place in things, a friend to reassure and support you. That's what these poems are like, friends that you can read again and again, and be reassured that there is someone out there who understands you, and who can voice what you are thinking when you can't, and these revelations you can keep to yourself, or more likely share with the world, for everyone should have such a friend.

Each aphorism is a statement from a knowing heart that has experienced peace and happiness from the inside. Read this and enjoy the nectar of a spare few words that say it all. Don't interpret what he says. Feel it.

Antonio Porchia (1886 - 1968) emigrated from his native Italy to Argentina where he became somewhat of an enigmatic poet, a poet while recognized during his lifetime is growing in popularity now, much to the superb translations by W.S. Merwin. Oddly enough Porchia's output was limited to one book, so becoming an avid fan of his thoughts placed so carefully on the printed page takes only a small book (127 pages) to absorb.

But what lines of beauty he created! Some examples:

Suffering does not follow us. It goes before us.
*
More grievous than tears is the sight of them.
*
Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?

Porchia's pregnant lines find a home in our minds, in our hearts, and give us encouragement and those particular words to share with our own psyches as well as the agonies of loved ones. He was a gifted writer and W.S. Merwin has done a fine job in reassuring us that his words remain alive. Grady Harp, November 06

Porchia never ceases to amaze; on the shelf next to Thoreau and Emerson, he fits perfectly. I agree with the first reviewer; buy ten and give nine to your closest friends.

Life is incomplete without certain things; this is definitely one of them.

wonderful to see this book back in print again. no one has read it, and everyone should. a classic of 'wisdom literature'; porchia was right up there, in his own quiet and modest way, with cioran and lichtenberg - i.e. he's one of the few writers actually worth committing to memory. buy ten and give nine away to your most thoughtful friends.

This is an excellent book of poetry by the Pulitzer Prize and 2006 National Book Review award winning American poet.
The book itself was in very fine condition and all that I hoped for in content and condition.

Winner of the National Book Award in Poetry, Migration: New & Selected Poems collects poems from fifteen different volumes written by W.S. Merwin, one of the most influential modern American poets. Eight of the poems are new, created circa 2004; the rest of this vast compendium offers works that span half a century, to as early as 1952. Experimenting with a wide variety of verbal form and function, the individual compositions of Migration range from momentary mirth to placid insight to storytelling. A solid best-of-the-best addition to poetry shelves. "Glimpse of the Ice": I am sure now / A light under the skin coming nearer / Bringing snow / Then at nightfall a moth has thawed out and is / Dripping against the glass / I wonder if death will be silent after all / Or a cry frozen in another age

At last there is a significantly large volume of the majestic poetry of W.S. Merwin. Not that all of his other volumes of poems published through the years by Copper Canyon Press have been minor: the length of the books does not begin to mimic the towering power of his work.

But here in MIGRATION: NEW & SELECTED POEMS we have enough of his life's work to truly appreciated the fact that he is an exceptional thinker, artist, involved human being, as well as a gifted man of letters. Winning the National Book Award in 2005 this volume belongs in the collection of everyone concerned with great literature and great poetry. Spanning from the past forty odd years of writing, the collection presents some of his finest older works as well as introducing some of the mystical new works that edge him toward Poet Laureate of America. Example:
Lark

In the hour that has no friends
above it
you become yourself
voice
black
star burning in cold heaven
speaking well of it
as it falls from you
upward

Fire
by day
with no country
where and at what height
can it begin
I the shadow
singing I
the light

This book is rich in such wonders. Highly recommended. Grady Harp, November 06

W. S. Merwin just goes on making these beautiful poems that sing of the journey of self into Self, past into present, love into the sublime. He speaks with an individual voice that calls forth our collective voice. These poems are archetypal and personal...the best you can hope to find.

W. S. Merwin has had a long time to develop his unique style of writing. And it's not the average lyricism that draws one to him as a poet; it's the haunting flow of the human voice that lies behind not only the structure of each poem but the meter as well. You won't find any punctuation in this book. Merwin lends us no helpful guide to reading. Unless you're tuned in to the flow of person-speak, it's going to be hard to comes to grips with what he's trying to accomplish. Besides his abilities at form, Merwin also gives us his long autobiographical poem "Testimony." "Lament for the Makers" is a medium length poem describing his poetical influences throughout his life. And since "A Mask for Janus" Merwin has been delighting us with his individualized sense of the poetic. He has not failed us with "The River Sound."

.... William Merwin opens "The River Sound" with songs of praise for the natural world in that familiar voice: his fluid, sonorous blend of elegy and ecstasy, sometimes tinged with bitterness about the earth's degradation at human hands. Like his earlier poems, these rejoice in beginnings--dawns, the freshly wakened spirit, "April with the first light sifting/ through the young leaves," the Hudson River before British explorers arrived. Then Merwin turns his attention to history and aging. As he contemplates the past that shaped him, the people and events he has known begin to resemble "the ancient shaping of water/ to which the light of an hour comes back as to a secret." It seems that the poet of mornings has made a new, personal peace with history and change.

The book is a dazzling collection of poems, wise and playful. "Lament for the Makers" is a series of affectionate, quirky eulogies for poets who influenced Merwin and who died during his lifetime, and a confession of his tendency to see himself (partly because of his early rise to literary fame) as "the youngest on the block." This self-image lasted, he wryly admits, long after "the notes in some anthology/ listed persons born after me." The glorious heart of the book is the moving 60-page "Testimony," a leisurely, often funny family history about reaching an age when "the open unrepeatable/ present in which [we] wake and live" becomes "a still life still alive": at last we "know/ what to do with it." The poet ends "Testimony" by bequeathing treasures (a walk shared, a river heard together, a whole Manhattan city block) to each of his life's companions.

Merwin's sentences often run together without punctuation but (as in other work) not merely to echo the rivers, the music, or the sympathetic imagination winding through his pages. His stream of language invites readers inside it as collaborators in its syntax, listening for the sounds of the phrases in the mind's mouth. This intimate sharing of speech is just one of the great pleasures of "The River Sound," written by a premier American poet at the pinnacle of his craft.