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A review by sloatsj
The Shadow of Sirius by W. S. Merwin
4.0
[b:The Shadow of Sirius|3401950|The Shadow of Sirius|W.S. Merwin|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1267982341s/3401950.jpg|3442065]
I really love W.S. Merwin. He takes the most basic materials and finds their power, hammering them until they’re . . . until they’re what . . . something eternal. There’s nothing fancy about his word choices, no overly weird layouts on the page. He does forgo punctuation, but it somehow adds to his simplicity, as if he doesn’t want to disturb the train of thought, and that draws you into thinking along with him.
There’s no unnatural posing going on. Merwin relies entirely on the resonant power of language. He writes often of nature but it’s almost degrading to call him a “nature poet.” Has anyone done this? Desist. It also seems completely unnecessary to give him a Pulitzer Prize, like throwing a twig on the bonfire.
Whenever I think about the Nobel Prize committee complaining about how caught up American writers are with themselves and their culture - and I often agree with them - I want to shout “NOT W.S. MERWIN! Give HIM the Nobel Prize!” Really, he deserves it. I hope he lives long enough for them to realize it.
I opened the book pretty much daring Merwin to do it again. Surely there couldn’t be more he could say after "The Lice," "The Rain in the Trees," "The Carrier of Ladders," the translations, etc. He can’t make the tired spring or stone or river into something so deep again, can he? Yes, he can. But Sirius is the brightest, most searing, most serious star. It’s the one you can sometimes see in the daylight.
"The Shadow of Sirius" is largely concerned with memory, with time and the reflection afforded only by getting older (and nature, too).
As a footnote, I will say "The Shadow of Sirius" isn’t my favorite of Merwin’s collections. Of the later poems, I prefer the beautiful “The Rain in the Trees.” I went back and forth on four and five stars. I gave this four because it isn’t my favorite Merwin, but then I thought about some poetry books that I’ve given five stars to that could never approach his greatness. In the end, I have to judge him in his own separate category, so that although this seriously kicks the ass of some of the other books I’ve rated the same or even better, it doesn’t actually kick Merwin’s own ass.
I really love W.S. Merwin. He takes the most basic materials and finds their power, hammering them until they’re . . . until they’re what . . . something eternal. There’s nothing fancy about his word choices, no overly weird layouts on the page. He does forgo punctuation, but it somehow adds to his simplicity, as if he doesn’t want to disturb the train of thought, and that draws you into thinking along with him.
There’s no unnatural posing going on. Merwin relies entirely on the resonant power of language. He writes often of nature but it’s almost degrading to call him a “nature poet.” Has anyone done this? Desist. It also seems completely unnecessary to give him a Pulitzer Prize, like throwing a twig on the bonfire.
Whenever I think about the Nobel Prize committee complaining about how caught up American writers are with themselves and their culture - and I often agree with them - I want to shout “NOT W.S. MERWIN! Give HIM the Nobel Prize!” Really, he deserves it. I hope he lives long enough for them to realize it.
I opened the book pretty much daring Merwin to do it again. Surely there couldn’t be more he could say after "The Lice," "The Rain in the Trees," "The Carrier of Ladders," the translations, etc. He can’t make the tired spring or stone or river into something so deep again, can he? Yes, he can. But Sirius is the brightest, most searing, most serious star. It’s the one you can sometimes see in the daylight.
"The Shadow of Sirius" is largely concerned with memory, with time and the reflection afforded only by getting older (and nature, too).
As a footnote, I will say "The Shadow of Sirius" isn’t my favorite of Merwin’s collections. Of the later poems, I prefer the beautiful “The Rain in the Trees.” I went back and forth on four and five stars. I gave this four because it isn’t my favorite Merwin, but then I thought about some poetry books that I’ve given five stars to that could never approach his greatness. In the end, I have to judge him in his own separate category, so that although this seriously kicks the ass of some of the other books I’ve rated the same or even better, it doesn’t actually kick Merwin’s own ass.