All afternoon the wind complained, and the willows
would have come to blows—but yielded
(being willows), swimming along the air.
Thick with purposes, the same wind—squealing,
rocketing down my narrow veins,
taking the corners fast—
spun out into a hurricane in my heart
and made of my will a weather-vane—
reading every gust—
that shifts at the wind’s direction and, too willing,
hoarse on its hinges, bats in vain
and croaks and spins, not getting anywhere.
The poem, however, reads with the light ephemerality too common in modern writing - witty, immediately moving, and immediately forgettable. Still, it knows its place. Like Warren's willows that yield "(being willows)," so too do her quiet tercets stay quietly affective. The words themselves "squeal" and "rocket," but are nearly silenced by Warren's controlled contemplation in the last two stanzas. This impuissance, however, functions very congruously with the last lines, which, despite their croaking and spinning, are "not getting anywhere."
1 comment:
Somehow, I am drawn to this poem because I like the image of the wind and the willows that “come[s] to blow (being willows).” The poem is disturbing because that wind, that idea of sublime suggested in the first and second stanzas becomes, in the third stanza, a more internalized image that “spun out into a hurricane in my heart,” indeed. This is beautiful. Now, you imagine how tormented might be this “heart” In this lyric, neither the speaker nor the reader goes anywhere, because that of wondering is an undeniable human state. That is, we believe we are going somewhere, but we are not really aiming at anything different from that sense of grief that goes with our days making our will only a “wheater-vane.”
I am playing for poetry, tonight! I got the translation. I cannot wait to give it to you. I’ll see on Sunday!
Post a Comment