December is over, and I’ve done my best in the time I’ve had to highlight just a few favorite poems from The Best American Poetry 2009. I hope to review a couple more even though the new year has begun, starting with Kevin Prufer‘s “war” poem “On Mercy” (originally printed in Field):
Knowing he was soon to be executed the condemned man asked if first he might please have something to drink, if first he might be drunk. So the soldiers brought him a drink and because there was no hurry, another, and one for each of them, to. Soon they were all very drunk, and this was merciful because the man probably didn't understand when they put him to the wall and shot him. + I'll marry the man who can prove this happened, the dying leaves said in their descent. I'll marry the man who looks through that window, the waiting grasstips said. But the sun went on with its golden rays like a zealous child and the camera-eyed bees jittered mercifully in the distant branches + The man slept on the floor and the little mouse in his head also slept. The soldiers didn't know who would drag him away or where they should hide him so they laughed nervously and one offered the body a drink, Ha ha, a toast! then left him by the rich lady's liquor cabinet where she'd find him when she returned from the hills. + I'll marry the girl who kisses the lips and brings a breath to them, the starving horses said from their fields. I'll marry the man who pounds the chest and starts the heart, the caved-in houses said. And the window let the light in until the sun failed in the branches and, like mercy, darkness smothered the town. + Later in the story, her grown son wrapped him in a parachute and dumped him in a neighbor's yard. Later, that neighbor, who understood bad luck, dragged the man to another's lawn. And so he traveled, yard-to-yard, to the edge of town where at last he slept by a little-traveled road in a merciful ditch while bombers unzipped the sky. And when the town burned, he missed it, and when the treetops bloomed and charred, he missed it. I'll marry the man, the grasstips said in the hot wind, I'll marry the girl, the horses said, running from their burning barn, aflame, their bodies glowing bluely in the dusk. + And no one proved it happened, which was merciful for us all, the road forgotten, the man gone to root and weed, to marrow and tooth. + And if it had-- Who would find his jawbone in the loam? Who would pick out his bullet shells and fillings, like glitter in the new wood? And if a man should string them like words on a golden chain and make from them a charm, and give them to his wife, wouldn't that be mercy, too?
I’ve seen just enough of Prufer’s poems to recognize the broken lines, such as one would see in dramatic dialogue persisting a meter; these force a slightly longer pause, giving a different body to the shape of the poem. The poem itself is regulated by an undertone of Nature’s incanted whisperings as a man is executed, and his body dumped from one location to another, until the town itself is destroyed by fire bombing.
What really caught me in this poem was its quick narrative style and sharp language. Prufer’s simple, accurate phrasing of descriptions smacks of realism without getting tangled in useless details. The diction walks the line between useful recognition and cliche, or even empathy and sentimentality. Many of his descriptions are personifying: the grasstips wait, the sun is “like a zealous child”, there are “camera-eyed bees”, houses and horses alike speak, “bombers unzipped the sky”.
The most remarkable anthropomorphizing is the reference to the corpse as “the man”, where most would use “body” or at least add the adjective “dead”. This drew my attention to usage of nouns to describe the dead, and I thought of how friends and family of the dead refer to them as if they were still alive, by title (“dad”) or by name (“Nate”), and often in the present tense. We rarely grant this privilege to strangers, using nouns as far removed from the person as possible, like “police found the girl’s body” or “we’ll take a tendon from a cadaver”, etc.
By using “the man” rather than “the body”, “the corpse”, or “the man’s body” the poet is being conscientiously compassionate to the man, and this is a kind of mercy. In general, the poem’s personification of various limbs of Nature would be uncomfortable if not for their contrast with the humans’ actions, which seem less thoughtful and only merciful by accident. The soldiers, probably out of duty more than mercy, grant the condemned man’s last request and give him alcohol. This is as much a chance for them to get drunk themselves as it is born of any mercy for the condemned. They did so “because there was no hurry”, then:
...another, and one for each of them, to. Soon they were all very drunk, and this was merciful because the man probably didn't understand when they put him to the wall and shot him.
The soldiers’ drunkenness spares them from terrible anticipation of and guilty conscience after their act, but like Cain realizing what they have done must hide the body, and thus dump it in a civilian’s house. The “rich lady’s” son:
wrapped him in a parachute and dumped him in a neighbor's yard. Later, that neighbor, who understood bad luck, dragged the man to another's lawn. And so he traveled, yard-to-yard,
None of this passing of the corpse is done with any intention of mercy; rather, it is the method by which each household passes responsibility for or connection to the dead away from themselves. In context of war, if the town itself was occupied by the enemy, the condemned man was likely one of their own, but discovered and captured and therefore not to be associated with for fear of reprisal by the occupiers. If the town is in a defensive position, we can guess the man was an enemy, or, perhaps worse, a traitor.
The passing of the body is a fascinating action, however, one that forces each to at least look upon, even touch the man’s body. Though they take no responsibility for the man, the townsfolk are sharing the news of his death from house to house, like gossip. The passing of the body inadvertently requires each household to share in the burden of disposing the corpse, and for a moment I wonder if the people might not fulfill nature’s first requests: “I’ll marry the man who can prove this happened”. Yet to no avail, for the bombers soon come and wipe out the town, and the man is forgotten.
What of the man’s “bullet shells and fillings” strung “like words on a golden chain”, given as “a charm” for “his wife”? It’s difficult for me to guess what the poet intends here, and I range from a abdication of human intention based on love, to an accusation of human ignorance to the past. This closing asks the read “wouldn’t that be mercy, too?”, suggesting the idea that the poet–and the reader–is not certain of what mercy means. I have defined “mercy” implicitly here to mean a kind of conscious compassion, a leniency linked to a degree of forgiveness for one who has done wrong, and this is supported by the poem. But there’s more to it, and I think the poet composed the images and actions with the intent of disrupting some of our assumptions about the meaning of mercy. We believe that humans are capable of mercy; animals are not, primarily because mercy’s core distinguishing feature is defined by positions of power–one can not be merciful if one has no power to enact a change in condition.
The theme of “mercy”, then, becomes confusing in light of Prufer’s personifications of the dumb plants and animals as yearning for compassion and order, and the portrayals of humans as callous and entrapped in themselves. This personification was difficult for me, but I’ve concluded that this may be Prufer’s way of saying that sometimes mercy comes without conscious thought or overt action (as with the soldiers’ drinking), through the functioning of Nature (the alcohol’s effect, the whisperings of the natural observers), or as the unintended consequences of an act of love (the man’s stringing together of fillings and shells for his wife). It’s hard to accept that these are the only ways mercy can be accomplished, and indeed the bargaining whispers and urgings of the plants and animals claim that there is a more active mercy that can be achieved. But why do none act on it in the poem?
I don’t believe this sort of active mercy is so rare as to be unrepresentable in the poem; rather it didn’t fit the poet’s narrative intent, or by making it elusive the poet teaches us to regret inaction, and anticipate opportunities to act for mercy in the future.
This is why the final stanza begins with “And if it had–”. Curious! This question suggests the entire poem is supposition, not history. This confounded me at first: why “if”? What good does “if” for the meaning of the poem, except disturb the narrative? I think Prufer gives us “if” only to propose to the reader that these things have happened, yes, just as the poet has described them, but it’s not just history; it’s also the future, and we can speculate as to what we might do when faced with either the dead man’s body, or the ruins of the town.
I still have many questions about “On Mercy”, not the least of which is the persistent offering to “marry” the merciful actor, yet the poem is satisfying, and the nagging of these questions will likely keep the poem in my mind after I’ve closed BAP 09, and return my thoughts to not only the theme of the poem, but something of this poet’s craft, too.
P. S. Another mild curiosity, the pluses (+) provide an addition to the stanza breaks, like the whisperings, urging “more” — this rings familiar, as I know Prufer has used somewhat unusual characters in the past to separate stanzas, but I also wonder what other poets, if any, have used specifically the +?
