Through the Forest: New and Selected Poems, 1977-1987

by David Wagoner

Poems explore a variety of themes including love, nature, war, and family and depict the author's experiences

Genres: Poetry

223 pages, Paperback

Published January 1, 1987

Reviews

[Cheryl · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love some Wagoner poems: I memorize them, dream in their imagery, have them on my lips when I wake. This deep dive into his poems I have been doing has been frustrating, the magic too obscured or awkward as I read them, and I finally had to start reading them out loud, and that is all I needed to do to unlock them. I have never had this problem with poems before, so grateful I could find the key here! I did an experiment also, pandemic’s gifts, where I condense them into paragraphs and then broke them into how I read them, my cadence, and I hopefully would not offend the poet by doing that, you can decide if that makes them more “readable.”

My eyes and this time my mouth unerringly find the nature poems that speak of finding ourselves in the forest, the wilderness, the sky. You can find a multiplied version of yourself there, which is a necessary beacon for the continued treasure I seek, treasure of who I am and who I can be. Others may take a walk in the woods, but every walk I take is into me, and Wagoner understands that, amplifies the songs he hears, and encourages us to never stop seeking ourselves internally and externally, in our inner landscapes so richly imagined.

TAKING OUR BEARINGS (original)

To find out where we are, we gaze at the sunset
Then the moon and stars.
We bring their images down to touch the sea,
And there we are; there,
At a certain time where straight lines intersect
On a chart-that’s you and I
In all the emptiness, the only two
In the world existing
Our way in this place. We can put our fingers
Surely on our uniqueness,
Call where-we-are what-we-are, letting it go
Finally that simply,
Saying again it’s only the beginning
Again, it’s only
The beginning of everything we always wanted
To do and know and be.

(my version)
To find out
where we are,
we gaze at the sunset
then the moon and stars.
We bring their images
down to touch the sea,
and there we are;
there, at a certain time
where straight lines intersect
on a chart-
that’s you and I
in all the emptiness,
the only two in the world
existing our way in this place.
We can put our fingers surely
on our uniqueness,
call where-we-are what-we-are,
letting it go finally
that simply,
saying again
it’s only the beginning
again,
it’s only the beginning
of everything
we always wanted
to do
and know
and be.

FINDING THE RIGHT DIRECTION

Those times when too much stands between you and the sky-
Tree crowns and clouds or mist- when the hidden sun
Makes nothing of your shadow,
To guide you south, you turn to stones, to slopes and trees,
To flowers, even to birds for your directions:
Cutting across bedrock,
The scars of glacial drift all point the same hard way
And gouging abrupt drop-offs, tumbled them over and over,
And left them strewn like markers, blunt in smooth fields,
While it melted south
On one straight, glittering journey which you may follow now
Rejoicing toward the end of your own ice age,
Sunbound and shrinking…

(paragraph form)
Those times when too much stands between you and the sky-Tree crowns and clouds or mist- when the hidden sun makes nothing of your shadow, to guide you south, you turn to stones, to slopes and trees, to flowers, even to birds for your directions: cutting across bedrock, the scars of glacial drift all point the same hard way and gouging abrupt drop-offs, tumbled them over and over, and left them strewn like markers, blunt in smooth fields, while it melted south on one straight, glittering journey which you may follow now rejoicing toward the end of your own ice age, sunbound and shrinking…

(my version)
Those times when too much stands
between you and the sky-
tree crowns and clouds or mist-

when the hidden sun
makes nothing of your shadow,
and to guide you south,
you turn to stones, to slopes and trees,
to flowers, even to birds for your directions:

cutting across bedrock,
the scars of glacial drift
all point the same hard way

glaciers gouging abrupt drop-offs,
tumbling them over and over,
and leaving them strewn like markers,

blunt in smooth fields,
as it melted south
on one straight, glittering journey
which you may follow now
rejoicing
toward the end of your own ice age,
sunbound and shrinking…

GOING TO SEA

Since we’re setting out to sea, everything in our world
Has suddenly one of two clear, separate names:
What We Leave Behind
And What We Take With Us. We have no need to rehearse disasters.
Like being wrecked and stranded, to choose our cargo.
We were born marooned,
Have been castaways all our lives, practicing the survival
Of our fittest, and now we know what’s necessary;
Relics of our bodies and souls, what’s left of our minds, remnants of our hearts
And something more weatherproof than our bare skins…

(paragraph)
Since we’re setting out to sea, everything in our world has suddenly one of two clear, separate names: What We Leave Behind And What We Take With Us. We have no need to rehearse disasters. Like being wrecked and stranded, to choose our cargo. We were born marooned, have been castaways all our lives, practicing the survival of our fittest, and now we know what’s necessary; relics of our bodies and souls, what’s left of our minds, remnants of our hearts and something more weatherproof than our bare skins.

(my version)
Since we’re setting out to sea,
everything in our world has suddenly one of two clear, separate names:
What We Leave Behind And What We Take With Us.
We have no need to rehearse disasters.
Like being wrecked and stranded, to choose our cargo.
We were born marooned,
have been castaways all our lives,
practicing the survival of our fittest,
and now we know what’s necessary;
relics of our bodies and souls,
what’s left of our minds,
remnants of our hearts and
something more weatherproof
than our bare skins.


READING THE SKY (original)

Look, love, the sky is full again, as full as our sails.
Not being weather-wise, we read the baffling
Language of that sky
Slowly and doubtfully. Some skillful mariner might know
The signs like the palms of our hands and tell us
What we must do today
To be ready for tomorrow, but we murmur the names
Of clouds as if they were friendly enemies
Not meant to be trusted
To go where they should go or not to disguise themselves
Suddenly in different masks and colors.
The sky reminds us
Of our unpredictable minds…
We can pay it honor:
We know its blues and reds, like our bodies, are born of dust,
Its whites and grays mere vaporings, its blackness
Concealed by dazzle,
But all this broken beauty of cloud-shapes, the endless
Promises and the unrepeatable gestures

Of light, omens, high masses,
Each shred, each smattering of each flamboyant sky-scape
Have numbed our language into a mawkish grandeur….
Let others people it
With hosts of maladroit gods, benign or vengeful,
Flinging stones or manna:
What it really is is gift and weapon enough. Though Heaven
Be lost or strayed or stolen, we have the heavens
Instead to venture beneath
From beginning to end, and though we come to the end of the earth,
The waterfall of the vanishing ocean, the dropping off place,
We bear those heavens with us.

READING THE SKY (my version)

Look, love,
the sky is full again, as full as our sails.
Not being weather-wise, we read the baffling language
of that sky slowly
and doubtfully.
Some skillful mariner might know the signs
like the palms of our hands and tell us
what we must do today to be ready for tomorrow,
but we murmur the names of clouds as if they were friendly enemies
not meant to be trusted to go where they should go
or not to disguise themselves suddenly
in different masks and colors.
The sky reminds us of our unpredictable minds…
We can pay it honor:
we know its blues and reds, like our bodies, are born of dust,
its whites and grays mere vaporings, its blackness concealed
by dazzle, but all this broken beauty of cloud-shapes,
the endless promises and the unrepeatable gestures of light, omens, high masses,
each shred,
each smattering
of each flamboyant sky-scape
have numbed our language
into a mawkish grandeur….
Let others people it with hosts of maladroit gods,
benign or vengeful, flinging stones or manna:
what it really is
is gift and weapon enough.
Though Heaven be lost or strayed or stolen,
we have the heavens instead
to venture beneath from beginning to end,
and though we come to the end of the earth,
the waterfall of the vanishing ocean,
the dropping off place,
we bear those heavens with us.

THE RESTING PLACE

We’ll find it at the edge of the forest
Where moss and ferns, no longer overshadowed
By trees, will yield to grass, where hills sliding
Will make its way among hills, where hills sliding
Like cross-waves into valleys (more pale
As they give in to distance) will turn to mist
Under the jutting folds of mountains
Whitened against the sky or steepened to blue
As far as blue-white clouds. And we’ll rest there.

At our feet, the water will move in a grave dance,
Dissolving its stones downstream and honoring
Each one in its way for paying an easy tribute.
Nearby, a thrust of rock will remind us
Of the hard start of the earth. The weeds and wildflowers,
The bushes and brambles rooted for lost seasons
Will lose their names in the flourishes of the wind,
And our two natures, lost in thought,
Will give themselves away and become nameless.

We’ll find an end to sitting and thinking,
Even to holding still, though stillness will be
That end in itself. Our reclining bodies,
Our longing and belonging shapes, will need
Nothing, will have nothing to wait for,
But will share the sun with other surfaces
Out of their depth, our eyes and fingers
Catching the sky as it falls and scatters
Around us, against us, its extravagant light.

THE RESTING PLACE (my version)

We’ll find it at the edge of the forest where moss and ferns,
no longer overshadowed by trees,
will yield to grass,
where hills sliding will make its way among hills,
where hills sliding like cross-waves into valleys
(more pale as they give in to distance)
will turn to mist under the jutting folds of mountains
Whitened against the sky or steepened to blue
As far {away} as blue-white clouds.
And we’ll rest there.

At our feet, the water will move in a grave dance,
Dissolving its stones downstream and honoring each one
in its way for paying an easy tribute.
Nearby, a thrust of rock
will remind us of the hard start of the earth.
The weeds and wildflowers, the bushes and brambles
rooted for lost seasons will lose their names
in the flourishes of the wind,
And our two natures, lost in thought,
Will give themselves away and become nameless.

We’ll find an end to sitting and thinking,
Even to holding still,
though stillness will be that end in itself.
Our reclining bodies, our longing and belonging shapes,
will need nothing, will have nothing
to wait for, but will share the sun
with other surfaces out of their depth,
our eyes and fingers catching the sky
as it falls and scatters around us,
against us, its extravagant light.

___________________________________________________

THEIR SHELTER

The spruce tree spoke all night to them out of the earth,
Out of the sky. It said the rain, said wind,
Said snow and ice, and deep and here. Their hearts
Were drumming against the night like the wings of grouse.
Their only fire was their hearts against the night.

STAYING FOUND

He stood alone on the almost washed-away road
By the rain forest, caught by its impossible
Greenness. He started walking toward it, bewildered
By a wilderness he’d only half imagined
Among the mills and ruined lakes of his childhood.

He walked on moss as deep as his strange shoes
More softly than he’d ever walked, more quietly
In a rain that fell without falling, through an air
Softer than water, on earth, on a resurrected
Earth whose fire was wildflowers, glistening

Suns and moons of berries, dawns of gold lichen,
And scarlet sporophytes like spearheads guarding
A nurse-log where young cedars rose from the graves
Of ancestors, once two hundred or more feet
Above his feet and theirs, where huge others
Had closed a sky between him and the sky.

THERE

When you haven’t looked yet, there, in that passage
Between cattails, past the darker inlet,
Do you see it? You can’t quite tell
What it is at first, and when you realize, finally,
How much of it is alive, it may seem the colors
Of death, an accident of commingled forms
And reflections, or there, beyond the reeds where the sky
Spills through the gray of a tattered season,
Do you see that shape on the shore as motionless
As the sand and the driftwood
At the rim of the dissolving mist? Or where the rush
Of the clear current has turned the light over stones
On the streambed to a wavering suppleness giving way
Like stems bent by a wind (but returning, returning)
Whose outlines are the water itself, do you see
There, if only for a moment, what you had almost
Forgotten you might still hope for?

AT SEA

We had always wanted to behave like the wind, moving
At its insistence slowly or quickly.
Obeying its impulse
Without regret under sails as full as clouds and taking
Gladly to heart its general direction.
The land disappears.
It sinks like an enormous ship. Even its mountains
Go back to where they began, like us: under water.
Now our horizon
Levels the world, the mountains are made plains…

LANDFALL

Love, remember not caring
Whether this was the end of us
When we set out, embarking on new lives with nothing
To lose but our names? Now all turns nameless again
For us who must love to learn
Once more how to point at the trees and birds and animals
We see around us, even our own hearts,
Naming, renaming them.

DOWNSTREAM

We give in to the persuasion of the river, floating
Swiftly downstream as well as the leaves beside us,
Ahead of us, with little choice
Which way it may be next
That we find ourselves
One boat-length farther along, taking the rough with the smooth
To the slackness of pools, down long, eddying riffles,
To the rush of spillways narrowing
And steepening suddenly
To white water
Where the river is leaving everything to chance and turning
Over and interrupting its own half-motions
Constantly in bursts and arches,
Mantling, spun into tendrils,
Its wild gestures
As memorable at a glance as marble, but dying, reborn
Only another glance away, as the center
Of our attention, shifting at random
Everywhere like the sunlight,
Is caught by the play
Of light on all these surfaces, churnings and interweavings,
Upheavals, blossomings, an impulsive garden
Where we search and search as if for answers
And see its one reply:
Nothing is the same
Ever. This intricate bewilderment of currents,
In its least ripple, is unrepeatable.
Love, another river, its bed channeled by seasons.
Our faces come near each other, mysterious
As water always. We cross a pool,
Translucent, the stones below us
Glimmering, remaining.

[Emma Richler · Rating 5 out of 5]

Just wonderful.