Amazon.com Review
Merwin's new book of poems is expectedly dazzling and profoundly of a piece. It is concerned with the people and the countryside of the relatively unknown part of southwest France with which he has been associated for many years. Part lyrical, part narrative, these poems are the work of a master.
From Publishers Weekly
Here is a memoryscape of days spent in a remote part of France: gardens and woods recalled in rich detail, mist which has "found/ its way without sight into the hoofprints of cows," changes of season whence arise a transcendent fox, a snake reclaiming its skin, an old woman with a safebox of ash. Merwin, now 68 (his first collection, A Mask for Janus, was published in 1952), outgrew his need for punctuation about three decades ago. Periods and commas, he has said, "staple the poems to the page." And, indeed, freed of pauses and built from long lines that flow seamlessly into one another, these pieces soar with a polished dreaminess that returns to itself in the shape of a worn millstone "...carved long before in the form/ of a fox lying nose in tail seeming to be/ asleep the features worn almost away where it/ had gone around and around grinding grain and salt/ to go into the dark and to go on and remember." The present is stitched tight onto the past, the poems are at once pastoral and narrative, and none comes to a definitive end. Instead, each dissipates, the way a complicated flavor dissolves on the tongue.
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