A Scattering of Saltsby James Merrill
In this, his first new book of poems in seven years, Merrill is at the top of his form. His unrivalled poetic use of the private life is brilliantly evident. The stuff of autobiography is transfigured becoming a medium for the profoundest truth, couched in a language that draws on both rueful wit and elegant slang. From "Nine Lives," an Athenian fable, through… See more details below
In this, his first new book of poems in seven years, Merrill is at the top of his form. His unrivalled poetic use of the private life is brilliantly evident. The stuff of autobiography is transfigured becoming a medium for the profoundest truth, couched in a language that draws on both rueful wit and elegant slang. From "Nine Lives," an Athenian fable, through "Volcanic Holiday," with its euphoric helicopter ride, to "Family Week at Oracle Ranch," set in a New Age rehab center, his vivid glimpses of the real world widen into surprising and meditative visions that touch us all.
- Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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- 5.81(w) x 9.26(h) x 0.41(d)
Read an Excerpt
for Peter Hooten
Our helicopter shaking like a fist
Hovers above the churning
Cauldron of red lead in what a passion!
None but the junior cherubim ask why.
We bank and bolt. Shores draped in gloom
Upglint to future shocks of wheat.
Your lips, unheard, move through the din of blades.
A Mormon merman, God's least lobbyist,
Prowls the hotel. All morning
Sun tries to reason with the mad old ocean
We deep down feel the pull of. And in high
Valleys remote from salt and spume
Waterfalls jubilantly fleet
Spirit that thunder into glancing braids.
Thunder or bamboos drumming in the mist?
Tumbril or tribal warning?
Pacific Warfare reads the explanation
For a display we'd normally pass by:
Molars of men who snarled at doom
Studding a lava bowl. What meat
Mollifies the howl of famished shades?
Crested like palms, like waves, they too subsist
On one ideareturning.
Generation after generation
The spirit grapples, tattered butterfly,
A flower in sexual costume,
Hardon or sheath dew-fired. Our feet
At noon seek paths the evening rain degrades.
Adolescence, glowering unkissed:
The obstacle course yearning
Grew strong in. Check to cliff face, sheer devotion. . . .
To be loved back, then, would have been to die.
Then, not now. Show me the tomb
Whose motto and stone lyre complete
With this life-giving fever. As it fades
From the Zen chapel comes that song by Liszt.
Is love a dream? A burning,
Then a tempering? Beyond slopes gone ashen,
Rifts that breathe gas, rivers thatvitrify,
Look! a bough falters into bloom.
Twin rainbows come and go, discreet,
As when together we haunt virgin glades.
Moments or years hence, having reminisced,
May somebody discerning
Arrive at tranquil words for . . . mere emotion?
Meanwhile let green-to-midnight shifts of sky
Fill sliding mirrors in our room
No more eruptions, they entreat
With Earth's repose and Heaven's masquerades.
From the Hardcover edition.
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