ON READING W. S. MERWIN in the NEW YORKER
I was reading a poem by W. S. Merwin in the New
Yorker the other day and as usual I was feeling pretty intimidated by all those long lines he always writes and of course all the stuff that was going to be in there about how things look in New England especially in the fall and maybe even trout fishing and what it all means to the human soul on a universal level because Fall in New England is always dynamic and everywhere else is parochial but I decided to read his poem anyway because I thought maybe I could just stand it and he started in by talking about a barn door and some stones on a hillside and an old man hoeing the dirt which seemed allright to me even though it was as usual Fall in New England because I really liked the imagery he made which is something I always like because it puts pictures in my head even if I am parochial and never even seen New England in the Fall when he started in to saying as to how all this imagery really felt to him which also meant how his personal feelings were all about what the universal condition of man is and I got to thinking about how glad I was I wasn't in some English class again because those last five or six lines about universal New England consciousness are always the ones your freshman English instructor wants you to write a six page double-spaced paper on and I hate it when that happens James DeFord |