Stanley Kunitz, Revisited

THE ROUND
by Stanley Kunitz

Light splashed this morning
on the shell-pink anemones
swaying on their tall stems;
down blue-spiked veronica
light flowed in rivulets
over the humps of the honeybees;
this morning I saw light kiss
the silk of the roses
in their second flowering,
my late bloomers
flushed with their brandy.
A curious gladness shook me.

So I have shut the doors of my house,
so I have trudged downstairs to my cell,
so I am sitting in semi-dark
hunched over my desk
with nothing for a view
to tempt me
but a bloated compost heap,
steamy old stinkpile,
under my window;
and I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still-wet words I scribbled
on the blotted page:
"Light splashed ..."

I can scarcely wait till tomorrow
where a new life begins for me,
as it does each day,
as it does each day.

[from THE COLLECTED POEMS]

Every time I visit Cape Cod, I chase the spirit of those writers and artists, living and dead, who love this place, define it in their words and images: Thoreau hiking along the sandy coast in June, 1857: “That solitude was sweet to me as a flower. I sat down on the boundless level and enjoyed the solitude, drank it in, the medicine for which I had pined, worth more than the bearberry, so common on the Cape.” The spirit of Edward Hopper, the solitary quiet of his sun-lit,shadowed white house and beach paintings to be found around Truro and Wellfleet. And driving up to Provincetown for a day, my hope to ‘accidentally’ run into the poet, Stanley Kunitz, walking the streets, or perusing the shelves of local bookstores.

I’m not sure what I would say to Kunitz if I finally met him face to face. Probably, “Thank you,”…for all the poems, the love of nature and gardens and life itself…the simple cultivation of words to art, bringing feelings to blossom with such abundance.

Kunitz is not a household name in American culture, as “Yankee” and “European” as he may be. I doubt the average English major in college today knows his name or any of his work

“He decided in the fourth grade that he wanted to be a poet when his teacher had the class read a poem by Robert Herrick with the lines, "Whenas in silks my Julia goes, / Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows / That liquefaction of her clothes." Young Stanley Kunitz loved that word, "liquefaction."

“His great breakthrough as a writer, he thought, came when his mother and sisters had all died, and he said, "The disappearance of my family liberated me. It gave me a sense that I was the only survivor and if the experiences of my life ... were to be told, it was within my power to do so."

If you are unfamiliar with the man, I would suggest THE COLLECTED POEMS OF STANLEY KUNITZ. Also a brand new book, something truly beautiful, especially for those with a love of both gardening and poetry: THE WILD BRAID: A POET REFLECTS ON A CENTURY IN THE GARDEN:

“This book is the distillation of conversations-none previously published-that took place between 2002 and 2004. Beginning with the garden, that "work of the imagination," the explorations journey through personal recollections, the creative process, and the harmony of the life cycle. A bouquet of poems and a total of twenty-six full-color photographs accompany the various sections.
In the spring of 2003, Kunitz experienced a mysterious health crisis from which, miraculously, he emerged in what he called a "transformed state." During this period, his vision of the garden-constant source of solace and renewal-propelled him. The intimate, often witty conversations that followed this time are presented here in their entirety, as transcribed. Their central themes, circling mortality and regeneration, attest to Kunitz's ever-present sagacity and wit. "Immortality," he answers when asked. "It's not anything I'd lose sleep over." 26 color photographs.”

Stanley Kunitz was 100 years old on July 29, 2005. Still writing. Still gardening.
Still in love, in touch with it all:

Touch Me
by Stanley Kunitz,

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

[from PASSING THROUGH]

[Sources: Writer’s Almanac, ALA, personal]