Wendell Berry is a conservationist, farmer, essayist, novelist, professor of English and poet. He was born August 5, 1934 in Henry County, Kentucky where he now lives on a farm. The New York Times has called Berry the "prophet of rural America."
Charming Agrarian poems, Berry writes of things some might consider old fashioned but are as such more relevant now. It seems humanity is insistent on losing its way, and the simple life described by Berry, still full of immediacy and passion, serves in some way as a clarion call to a more natural form of living. Favorites here include: A Purification, To What Listens, A Meeting, and July, 1773.
“As before the beginning, nothing is there. Human wrong is in the cause, human ruin in the effect -but no matter; all will be lost, no matter the reason. Nothing, having arrived, will stay. The earth, even, is like a flower, so soon passeth it away. And yet this nothing is the seed of all- the clear eye of Heaven, where all the worlds appear.”
This was my first foray into Wendell Berry's vast catalog. A meditator on the natural and spiritual, Berry writes with an intimacy that goes beyond simple musings about the color of leaves or a distant God. These poems have a rich, living feel that can only come from someone who has spent a lot of time in honest contemplation and physical experience. After 20 pages, I found myself pining for a (surely romanticized) small farmstead bordered by an old forest hiding streams and surrounding hills, envisioning myself in a rocking chair on the front porch, coffee in my calloused, worn hands. A complete rural fantasy, but an appreciated one even if it only challenges me to think about my natural environments and small yet important place in a big Creation. I'm looking forward to reading more of Berry and everything it offers.
This poetry collection offers a great sampling of Wendell Berry's work, from pages-long narrative poems to short pieces of a single stanza.
I love the layers of some of these poems, rich and deep, like this one:
The Hidden Singer
The gods are less for their love of praise. Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing but its own wholeness, its health and ours. It has made all things by dividing itself. It will be whole again. To its joy we come together--the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten, the lover and the loved. In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then, not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire, but as a little bird hidden in the leaves who sings quietly and waits and sings.
Reading Berry's works in chronological order, one soon notices that he presented his gifts to the world in a pattern of book-of-essays, book-of-poems, book-of-essays, book-of-poems...so on. Reading them this way, one soon notices that the one amplifies and magnifies the other. And vice versa.