"Something higher".
Middleton, David
A Vertical Mile by Richard Wakefield
(San Jose, CA: Able Muse Press, 2012)
Richard Wakefield is a poet whose subjects are both the common
experiences of humankind throughout the ages and also special concerns
that have emerged in modernity. Wakefield grew up in rural Washington
State and has lived and taught college English there all his life. His
knowledge of the history, geology, geography, seasons, weather, and
flora and fauna of his native state is extensive.
Writing in metrical verse that almost always rhymes (there is
little blank verse), and especially favoring the interlocking
abab-rhyming pattern, Wakefield meditates on themes that themselves
quite often interlock or exist in dramatic tension. In form and style,
the poems, which are usually brief narratives, may be described as
simple in the best sense of that word: lucid, direct, memorably phrased,
and filled with wisdom. Wakefield is a master of end rhyme, enjambment,
and the laying out of sentences over the rhyme scheme. His titles are
carefully chosen and his literary allusions deftly appropriate and
neatly woven into the argument of the verse. The poems move through
themselves with an ease and grace that undoubtedly come from great labor
in composition and revision.
A number of the poems address philosophical or theological issues.
The tension between faith and doubt is strikingly presented in the
sonnet "Even the Disciples." There, the poet finds solace in
pondering how in spite of having witnessed such miracles of Christ as
his reviving a dead child and walking on the water and after having been
present at a profound epiphany--the Transfiguration--the disciples still
remained capable of doubt: "There's comfort, then, for us who
are unsure,/if those who climbed Mt. Hermon's slopes and saw/the
Lord transfigured in a light as pure/as God's own vision, stumbling
back in awe,/were still unsure, for all that they had seen, / just what
this 'rising from the dead' might mean."
Another fine poem by a poet walking the razor's edge of doubt
and faith is "Signs and Wonders," quoted here in full:
That shooting star last night
inscribed its sudden arc,
an autograph of light,
and left a darker dark.
Men used to think such things
were signs of dawning ages,
perhaps the death of kings,
interpreted by sages.
But now we know it's grit
ignited by descent,
no message borne in it,
no purpose, nothing meant.
And yet we long to think
that moment's random fire
significant, to link
our lives with something higher.
This yearning to believe in "something higher"--a
transcendent yet also immanent Creator God (the Logos) who has filled
the cosmos with beauty and symbolic significance, what C. S. Lewis,
thinking of the medieval picture of the Ptolemaic cosmos, called
"the discarded image"--is opposed by an honest and honorable
skepticism. This dramatic balance makes Wakefield's theological
speculations a kind of dialogue or debate within himself, sometimes
transposed, in the language of Christian theology, to things of the
natural world.
Complementing these poems on philosophical and theological matters
are poems on mutability and death the human experience of which is all
but inseparable from religious belief. In "Like Gods in the
Machine," cattle are drawn by the motor of a truck filled with
bales of hay to feed them: "We were to them like gods come to
dispense/communion, the hay a host that we bestowed." In time, of
course, the godlike men will come again: "They couldn't know
how much [we were] like gods, to give/ the stuff of life, but takers of
life as well. / Surveying our supplicants we could foretell/the ones to
be sacrificed, the ones to live."
Quite often Wakefield makes good use of his detailed knowledge of
Washington State for descriptive and symbolic purposes. "Successive
Yellows" describes the opening, each in due season, of a number of
yellow flowers: first daffodils, then the tansy, Saint John's wort,
goldenrod, monkey flowers, bird's-foot. And though in autumn the
leaves in the trees are of many hues, any one of them can be held up
against the sun so that we might see the common color of death:
"the last of summer's color, thin and frail, /... the remnant
yellow, now grown pale."
Perhaps the best poem on death is, appropriately, the last poem in
the book: "Terminus." There, a salmon makes its way up a
mountain stream to spawn and die. In the poem's closing lines, the
salmon's death is linked to the human observers: "The gill
slits stir up rapid clouds of silt, / then slow, then stop. The silver
fades to gray / and disappears beneath a pall of milt./The mountain sun
has been so hot today// that even now, with twilight coming on,/the
spray the salmon casts against its death / to give the stones a
moment's gloss is gone /--all in one unhurried human breath."
The shortening of the final line from ten to nine syllables to imitate
the shortening breath of human beings who "gasp in mountain
air" is nicely done.
Another of Wakefield's important concerns is the limit of
communication between human beings and creatures or even among the
creatures themselves. In "Midnight Colloquy," the poet hears a
single hound dog baying, then other dogs joining in. In the final lines,
deftly echoing Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Arnold, and Frost, the poet
wonders whether colloquy of any kind has, in the end, an ultimate
significance: "And what's this sound and fury signify? /I
listen hard to these confused alarms, / the curs' expostulation and
reply, / a night's prolonged and pointless dialogue. II wonder if
there's nothing to express, / and if somehow this sleepless,
mindless dog/is pointing to that greater pointlessness."
Some communication is, however, possible at times, as in
"Something Scrawled across a Field" where, while the poet is
reading his fate in the words of headstones in a graveyard, a
"domestic dog" chases a coyote from a farmer's yard. But
the dog will not follow the coyote back into the wild from which dogs
came. Rather, the dog reads a message the coyote left in the language of
his tracks: "... the dog stood gazing on / the message that the
coyote scrawled / across the field, growing dim /in morning sun, but
something he / could read in words as clear to him / as what was on the
stones to me." The use here of the tetrameter line, often employed
in writing epitaphs, is most appropriate.
The border between the natural and human worlds is not only a
matter of communication but of different kinds of ordering.
"Invasive Weeds" is about the tansy ragwort that can overtake
hay and grass in fields and cause cattle to become ill or perish. A boy
hired to pull up these weeds learns a hard lesson about life: "...
Fie ponders how no borders keep / the tansy out, no pasture can be
fenced/so well that something toxic can't creep through: / amid the
green a yellow cast appears. / And what is true of weeds he'll find
is true/in other fields he works in later years."
Wakefield is particularly moved by scenes in which the woods have
taken back a house or town. In "This blouse, These Grounds,"
the observant poet finds everywhere signs of abandonment: "... the
inside walls still bearing squares / of whiter white where photographs
were tacked," a water pump "arthritic with rust," an
orchard whose fruits are "blown/into ungainly tangles with every
gust," and "... in the shed a tractor, stripped, its frame/the
bruised red of wounds that never healed[.]" And, though silent,
these images tell their tale: "If parting words were spoken, none
remain; / a backward glance and then a shrug instead. / And yet an
hour's looking makes it plain / that nothing ever really goes
unsaid."
In "Things That Cannot Be Kept," the poet thinks of
bulldozers that are making a trail into a highway beside the woods. He
knows that such doubters as he are seen as "merely obstructions in
a world / that lives for fast arrivals, and damn the journey." He
thinks of a deer that may be frozen in the headlights of the traffic,
then hit and killed. May it die, he pleads, the more dignified death of
being shot by hunters: "Let it be gone before what we must
accept./The winding trail today becomes a road. / Some things cannot be
stopped or even slowed. / Today we learn that some things can't be
kept."
Other poems in A Vertical Mile are about human
relationships--sometimes humorously presented. In "Old Words, New
Context," the poet posits adulterous lovers who might lie in the
afterglow of passion in a city hotel room when an earthquake strikes,
threatening to bring down their building and expose their affair:
"Each will pray, 'God, don't let me die here/to be found
naked in the rubble with her, with him!'/They won't die,
exactly, but think of all they've said: /'This is bigger than
both of us,' and 'It/ just happened,' and 'My heart
overruled my head,'/ and 'Against such force, what could I do
but submit?' / Strange, how the world sometimes creates a
new/context where suddenly all our lies come true."
A number of Wakefield's poems address problems of the modern
world, modern technology, and the great underlying theme of the
complexity of experience with its opposites, balances, encirclings,
intertwinings, bafflements, and sudden changes. In "The Human
Race," appropriately written in tetrameter triplets that create a
sense of speed and relentless repetition of activity, Wakefield captures
the spirit of the age: "Along the brightly lighted hall / the timid
workers scurry all / the way all day to duty's call / that puts its
prod to everyone, / so back and forth the workers run/on errands that
are never done[.]" Such workers forget Christ's teaching about
the lilies of the field as "flowered fields are gone/ to build more
office buildings on/to house our morbid marathon." And yet their
crazy haste will only bring the workers to their inevitable end in a
graveyard: "Our race's pace accelerates, / But dead ahead,
mapped by the fates, / another flowered field awaits."
Yet not even graveyards have escaped the effects of modernity. In
the poem "In a Multidenominational Cemetery," the poet walks
among older graves with their "upright stone" looking for kin,
but then he gazes over the newer sections. There, the gravestones are
all flat so that the plots can more easily be mown over by mowing
machines, a process that saves time and also the money needed to pay a
caretaker to clip around standing stones. About these newer graves
Wakefield concludes, "No upward aspiration there, / or none
expressed in stone, at least,/as if the new-deceased have ceased / to
hope they're going anywhere / but here." Cemetery workers now
"... care for graveyards, not for graves" while prayers etched
on the flat stones "... whisper to me on my walks, / but this place
proves that money talks / so loudly even stones can hear."
Two poems on farming and one on walking up a mountain also deal
with life's complexities. In "Fall of Forty-one," World
War II has caused a dramatic rise in wheat prices that has led to an
unusually high profit for a farm family. Debts are paid, a truck bought,
and an indoor toilet installed in place of an outhouse hard to get to in
winter. The farmer's wife is somewhat troubled by their profiting
from war, but they have suffered deprivation in the past and can do
nothing for the soldiers doomed to die: "And thus they brought
their privy safe inside, / and if it seemed like profit out of war, /
the benefit could hardly be denied/compared to hardships they had borne
before."
In "Bumper Crop," the situation is reversed, and a large
wheat crop drives down prices, causing farmers to suffer from their very
success. A similar strange opposition is in the title poem where someone
is addressed who climbs high enough on a mountain that he comes to a
place where spring flowers still bloom, even though they have died in
the summer world below. This upward journey--with springtime blackflies
feeding on him--makes the climber aware of another season and what that
season means in his inevitable "ascent to fall" ("A
Vertical Mile").
A single poem does not always lie at the heart of a book of verse,
but if one does so here it would almost certainly be
"Transfiguration." This poem tells the story of a
daughter's memory of a painting her father made for their
church's vestibule. The scene is Christ praying in the Garden of
Gethsemane the night before his crucifixion: "Blue veins embossed
the savior's folded hands,/so real they seemed to pulse, though in
a while /that blood would spill upon the arid sands/ Of Golgotha,"
and there Christ's brow that "priests decreed/be pierced by
cruel thorns, so smooth and white, / immaculate but human, soon to
bleed/for others' sins, seemed bathed in holy light."
But the daughter knows what the parishioners will probably never
know. She remembers her father looking at himself in a mirror so that he
might use his own face as a model for that of Jesus, especially his
"... look of resignation and despair/he'd given to the
Lord." The poem closes by bringing together the human and divine
not only in Christ's own Incarnation but in the union of Christ
with all human beings, particularly, here, the artist: "... It was
for her to know / that in his image he created Him./And yet to her the
painting was no less/a miracle, and maybe more. She saw/in it how we are
blessed by what we bless / and made a part of what we hold in awe."
This special power of art to awaken us to wonder and the holy through
the artist's loving self-sacrifice to and total identification with
his subject--both acts coming from the discipline and sometimes even the
agony of the creative process--is the "transfiguration" of the
title. Such a poem surely reflects the way that Richard Wakefield has
transfigured his thoughts, feelings, and experiences, including a
yearning for "something higher," into an impressive new
collection of formal verse.
David Middleton is poetry editor of Modern Age.