no words for this...
from my anthology of must read (a)merican poems
Adrienne Rich
Our Whole Life
Our whole life a translation
the permissible fibs
and now a knot of lies
eating at itself to get undone
Words bitten thru words
meanings burn-off like paint
under the blowtorch
All those dead letters
rendered into the oppressor’s language
Trying to tell the doctor where it hurts
like the Algerian
who walked from his village, burning
his whole body a cloud of pain
and there are no words for this
except himself
*
Our lives move, with a steady but accelerating pace, away from an explanation of life to life itself. My living, according to Rich, begins with interpretation and explanation, but the use of language only approaches reality – never finds it. We move from “permissible fibs” to “knot of lies” to “[w]ords bitten thru”. Language, built by dead letters, is always incomplete and frustrating – and removed from reality.
Rich’s use of “oppressor’s language” appears to focus on politics, and that, no doubt, is present in the poem, but I read, on a much deeper level – language as a violent intrusion on reality. To describe, then, is to destroy. Perhaps that intrusion is necessary, but, in the end, it will never be satisfying. All writers must know this, must learn this, must accept this.
As for the poem’s powerful ending... Here are words that describe the moment. Here’s my idea of the moment. But the truth is – there is only the moment.
4 comments:
I love her so much. This is a haunting piece. One of my favorite poems ever is her "Storm Warnings," which is in my personal anthology.
Storm Warnings
The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky
And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.
Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.
I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.
Sam - this is so poignant: "To describe, then, is to destroy. Perhaps that intrusion is necessary, but, in the end, it will never be satisfying. All writers must know this, must learn this, must accept this."
I feel I am in the midst of this struggle now and have been for many years. As you probably know, O'Hara is one of my major influences, and if you consider (or believe) that "writing the present" is not actually living the present, then O'Hara (and my) entire struggle to build a poem as a time capsule of a present experience, you have only succeeded in destroying the very "present-ness" of that experience. What I am slowly coming to terms with is that I cannot create "the present," I can only create the potential for an experience. Which means, to me, if I approach a poem as an opportunity to create an experience, it does not exist without a reader and therefore, creates a different kind of "present" when being experienced by the reader. And I wonder if in terms of capturing a moment, that's the best a poem can do.
Wonderful and inspiring Rich poem. The first full length volume of poems I ever had was "Atlas of the Difficult World" a gift from my early undergrad mentor, Judy Baumel, who knew me then FAR better than I knew myself. She's a terrific poet as well.
"Storm Warnings," Collin, is a strong, strong piece, and must surely rank near the top of all Rich's works - along with "Diving into the Wreck". I'm so fascinated with the impossiblility of "Our Whole Life," and that's what draws me to it.
Melissa, I understand your focus on the moment. As for me, I think the "different kind of present" is the best the writer can hope for. Atlas is marvelous -- also Diving into the Wreck and, especially, The Dream of a Common Language.
Thanks to both of you for the read.
Sam – I’ve always always said that the most destructive thing created by man is the “label.” When we name something we always capture less than what it truly is. Only when we dispatch with words can we begin to know truth. This is a great piece. I think your comments are right on. And I agree, Rich’s poem is as deep as you’ve taken it here.
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