clothed only in light...
from my anthology of must read (a)merican poems
William Dickey
On the White Road
On the white road
in dust of summer
someone’s arriving
apricots bend
from the wall-garden
welcoming summer
someone’s arriving
clothed only in light
his hands empty
his eyes full of islands
stroked by blue ocean
in the summer air
violent and singing
on the empty road
someone’s arriving
the white light
cherishing his step
and his naked stare.
*
Sometimes I’m drawn to a poem because of its ability to keep me off-centered – and by that I don’t mean not allowing me access. The strength of this William Dickey poem is its dream-like state: apricots bending in the wall-garden, someone arriving, the empty road and blue ocean. I experience this poem on emotional and psychological levels.
Word choice – arriving, bend, clothed, full, stroked, violent, singing – is essential to the poem’s success in its personification of summer. Echoes, either as image or as sound, enhance the work: dust of summer, summer air, white road, white light, empty road, hands empty … clothed, stroked, arriving, singing, welcoming. The language here is patterned to involve the reader.
I’m drawn inside – “eyes full of islands” – until I, as reader, become the “someone” who arrives. The “naked stare,” from inside the words, the poem, Dickey’s world, becomes my own outward gaze. At least one level of this work relates to some sort of archetypal journey – “cherishing his step / and his naked stare”. This is established by the images: wall-garden, island, ocean, air, road. “Clothed only in light” suggests a revelation or awakening of self.
“On the White Road” – the last poem in his final book, The Education of Desire – is a beautiful example of poetry that defies meaning. The reader perceives something, feels something – like a movement of shadow at the edge of one’s vision – like a scrap of truth that makes sense – like the self.
2 comments:
Between this poem by a poet who I've never read before, and the Forche poem below, you've given me alot to turn over and over and over. The Forche has special meaning for me because it was the first prose poem I ever read---and I fell deeply in love with the poem, the form and with Forche. I showed the Forche poem to my father who, being a rigid traditionalist, declared that it was not a poem. He ended up writing his own version of the poem, rhymed and metered in response. I still have that poem tucked in a book, the only poem written by him that I know of. And not half bad.
This White Road poem....well, I tend to write, oh hell, what's that word for an opposition in poetry?....contradictory responses to poetry---and the instant I read this last night, I saw a black road and fog and autumn and my father departing. It's a powerful poem, Sam. Thanks so much for sharing it. I couldn't find any of Dickey's work online. Might you email me another poem or two of his? I'm trying to decide if I should purchase his book based on this single poem of his.
Thank you for your amazing insights. Such a thoughtful thinker.
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