President Obama has Rita Dove going all the way in his Scarriet Poetry Tournament office pool.
Rita Dove will have to defeat M.S. Merwin in the South/Midwest Bracket’s semi-final to make it into the Elite Eight. Her Penguin 20th Americna Poetry anthology has been the centerpiece of this year’s Scarriet March Madness Tourney—stretching its excitement and thrills into June. Dove has three poems in her own controversial Penguin anthology and has barged into the Sweet 16 by knocking off young black poets. Trashed by critics Helen Vendler and William Logan, Dove stands proud thanks to the success of her poems in Scarriet’s Tournament. But she’ll have to beat the distinguished poet W.S. Merwin to advance. Merwin brings this poem (from Dove’s anthology) to the table:
FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY DEATH
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
We always feel slightly miffed at Merwin’s lack of punctuation—for whom does it serve? Does Merwin (like a child) feel no punctuation adds poetic mystique to his work?
The idea of Merwin’s poem is an interesting one—the unknown anniversary of one’s death—and he gives it a fairly cursory treatment. We are not thrilled by this poem, but we don’t dislike it, except for the reason mentioned above.
Rita Dove picked the following poem of hers for inclusion in her Penguin anthology of poems of the 20th Century:
AFTER READING MICKEY IN THE NIGHT KITCHEN FOR THE THIRD TIME BEFORE BEDI'm in the milk and the milk's in me! ...I'm Mickey!
My daughter spreads her legs
to find her vagina:
hairless, this mistaken
bit of nomenclature
is what a stranger cannot touch
without her yelling. She demands
to see mine and momentarily
we’re a lopsided star
among the spilled toys,
my prodigious scallops
exposed to her neat cameo.
And yet the same glazed
tunnel, layered sequences.
She is three; that makes this
innocent. We’re pink!
she shrieks, and bounds off.
Every month she wants
to know where it hurts
and what the wrinkled string means
between my legs. This is good blood
I say, but that’s wrong, too.
How to tell her that it’s what makes us—
black mother, cream child.
That we’re in the pink
and the pink’s in us.
This is a lovely poem, but we have no idea what “That we’re in the pink/and the pink’s in us” is supposed to signify. Except for the charm of a mother and young child glimpsed, we have no idea what this poem is trying to do. Is it pleased with itself that it is somewhat risque’ in content? We are baffled.
Sorry, Mr. President! You lose the office pool!
Merwin 88 Dove 69