About the Author:
James Merrill was born in New York City on March 3, 1926, and lived in Stonington, Connecticut. He was the author of twelve books of poems, which won him two National Book Awards (for and Mirabell), the Bollingen Prize in Poetry (for Divine Comedies) and the first Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry awarded by the Library of Congress (for The Inner Room, 1988). The Changing Light at Sandover appeared in 1982 and included the long narrative poem begun with "The Book of Ephraim" (from Divine Comedies), plus Mirabell: Books of Number and Scripts for the Pagaent in their entirety; it received the National Book Critics Circle Award for poetry in 1985. In addition to the one-volume edition of his narrative poem The Changing Light at Sandover, he also issued two selected volumes: From the First Nine, Poems 1946-1976 (1982) and Selected Poems 1946-1985 (1992). He was the author of two novels, The (Diblos) Notebook (1965, reissued in 1994) and The Seraglio (1957, reissued in 1987), and two plays, The Immortal Husband (first produced in 1955 and published in Playbook the following year) and, in one act, The Bait, published in Artist's Theater (1960). A book of essays, Recitative, appeared in 1986, and in 1993 a memoir, A Different Person. His last book of poems, A Scattering of Salts, was published in 1995, following his untimely death on February 6 of that year.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
VOLCANIC HOLIDAY
for Peter Hooten
1
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.
2
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.
3
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?
4
Crested like palms, like waves, they too subsist
On one idea--returning.
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.
5
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
6
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 that vitrify,
Look! a bough falters into bloom.
Twin rainbows come and go, discreet,
As when together we haunt virgin glades.
7
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 Trade Paperback edition.
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