>>I was never very fond of Merwin, and this poem doesn't
cause me to change my mind.
Merwin's early stuff, from _The Lice_ is splendid, a sort of
surrealist aphorism. Maybe you'd like this one:
The River of Bees by WS Merwin
In a dream I returned to the river of bees Five orange trees by the bridge and Beside two mills my house Into whose courtyard a blind man followed The goats and stood singing Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes A long way to the calendars Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets One man processions carry through it Empty bottles their Images of hope It was offered to me by name
Once once and once In the same city I was born Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive But we were not born to survive Only to live
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