The Mercy Poems

by LEVINE, PHILIP

• ISBN13: 9780375701351
• ISBN10: 0375701354
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2000-10-24
• Publisher: Knopf

Summary

Philip Levine's new collection of poems (his first sinceThe Simple Truthwas awarded the Pulitzer Prize) is a book of journeys: the necessary ones that each of us takes from innocence to experience, from youth to age, from confusion to clarity, from sanity to madness and back again, from life to death, and occasionally from defeat to triumph. The book's mood is best captured in the closing lines of the title poem, which takes its name from the ship that brought the poet's mother to America: A nine-year-old girl travels all night by train with one suitcase and an orange. She learns that mercy is something you can eat again and again while the juice spills over your chin, you can wipe it away with the back of your hands and you can never get enough.

Author Biography

Philip Levine was born in 1928 in Detroit, where he was formally educated in the public schools and at Wayne University (now Wayne State University). After a succession of industrial jobs, he left the country before settling in Fresno, California, where he taught at the university there until his retirement. He has received many awards for his books of poems, most recently the National Book Award in 1991 for <b>What Work Is</b>, and the Pulitzer Prize in 1995 for <b>The Simple Truth</b>.

Table of Contents

I
Smoke	3	(2)
Flowering Midnight	5	(1)
After Leviticus	6	(2)
Drum	8	(1)
Orphans	9	(1)
The Communist Party	10	(2)
And That Night Clifford Died	12	(2)
The Three Crows	14	(2)
Photography 2	16	(1)
Reinventing America	17	(2)
The Cafe	19	(2)
Salt and Oil	21	(6)
II
Joe Gould's Pen	27	(4)
The Search for Lorca's Shadow	31	(2)
The Sea We Read About	33	(1)
Sundays with Lungo	34	(2)
The Unknowable	36	(2)
I Caught a Glimpse	38	(2)
Night Words	40	(1)
Once	41	(2)
Philosophy Lesson	43	(1)
``He Would Never Use One Word Where None Would Do''	44	(2)
The Mortal Words of Zweik	46	(3)
Little Apple of My Eye	49	(6)
III
Clouds Above the Sea	55	(1)
The New World	56	(2)
After the War	58	(2)
Black Stone on Top of Nothing	60	(1)
The Dead	61	(2)
The Evening Turned Its Back Upon Her Voice	63	(1)
These Words	64	(2)
Cesare	66	(1)
It Was Autumn	67	(2)
The Return	69	(2)
Northern Motive	71	(2)
The Mercy	73	(4)
IV
The Secret	77	(4)
Notes	81

Excerpts

The Unknowable

Practicing his horn on the Williamsburg Bridge
hour after hour, "woodshedding" the musicians
called it, but his woodshed was the world.
The enormous tone he borrowed from Hawkins
that could fill a club to overflowing
blown into tatters by the sea winds
teaching him humility, which he carries
with him at all times, not as an amulet
against the powers of animals and men
that mean harm or the lure of the marketplace.
No, a quality of the gaze downward
on the streets of Brooklyn or Manhattan.
Hold his hand and you'll see it, hold his eyes
in yours and you'll hear the wind singing
through the cables of the bridge that was home,
singing through his breath--no rarer than yours,
though his became the music of the world
thirty years ago. Today I ask myself
how he knew the time had come to inhabit
the voice of the air and how later
he decided the time had come for silence,
for the world to speak any way it could?
He wouldn't answer because he'd find
the question pompous. He plays for money.
The years pass, and like the rest of us
he ages, his hair and beard whiten, the great
shoulders narrow. He is merely a man--
after all--a man who stared for years
into the breathy, unknowable voice
of silence and captured the music.

The Return

All afternoon my father drove the country roads
between Detroit and Lansing. What he was looking for
I never learned, no doubt because he never knew himself,
though he would grab any unfamiliar side road
and follow where it led past fields of tall sweet corn
in August or in winter those of frozen sheaves.
Often he'd leave the Terraplane beside the highway
to enter the stunned silence of mid-September,
his eyes cast down for a sign, the only music
his own breath or the wind tracking slowly through
the stalks or riding above the barren ground. Later
he'd come home, his dress shoes coated with dust or mud,
his long black overcoat stained or tattered
at the hem, sit wordless in his favorite chair,
his necktie loosened, and stare at nothing. At first
my brothers and I tried conversation, questions
only he could answer: Why had he gone to war?
Where did he learn Arabic? Where was his father?
I remember none of this. I read it all later,
years later as an old man, a grandfather myself,
in a journal he left my mother with little drawings
of ruined barns and telephone poles, receding
toward a future he never lived, aphorisms
from Montaigne, Juvenal, Voltaire, and perhaps a few
of his own: "He who looks for answers finds questions."
Three times he wrote, "I was meant to be someone else,"
and went on to describe the perfumes of the damp fields.
"It all starts with seeds," and a pencil drawing
of young apple trees he saw somewhere or else dreamed.

I inherited the book when I was almost seventy
and with it the need to return to who we were.
In the Detroit airport I rented a Taurus;
the woman at the counter was bored or crazy:
Did I want company? she asked; she knew every road
from here to Chicago. She had a slight accent,
Dutch or German, long black hair, and one frozen eye.
I considered but decided to go alone,
determined to find what he had never found.
Slowly the autumn morning warmed, flocks of starlings
rose above the vacant fields and blotted out the sun.
I drove on until I found the grove of apple trees
heavy with fruit, and left the car, the motor running,
beside a sagging fence, and entered his life
on my own for maybe the first time. A crow welcomed
me home, the sun rode above, austere and silent,
the early afternoon was cloudless, perfect.
When the crow dragged itself off to another world,
the shade deepened slowly in pools that darkened around
the trees; for a moment everything in sight stopped.
The wind hummed in my good ear, not words exactly,
not nonsense either, nor what I spoke to myself,
just the language creation once wakened to.
I took off my hat, a mistake in the presence
of my father's God, wiped my brow with what I had,
the back of my hand, and marveled at what was here:
nothing at all except the stubbornness of things.

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Excerpted from The Mercy: Poems by Philip Levine
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