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Mercy, by Lucille Clifton

Last post 10-02-2006 12:31 PM by Jane Hoogestraat. 0 replies.
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  • 10-02-2006 12:31 PM

    Mercy, by Lucille Clifton

    Cover image of Mercy, Lucille Clifton

     

    Mercy

    Lucille Clifton

    BOA Editions, 2004

    Reviewed by Jane Hoogestraat

    Professor of English

     

    Recently, a former student referred me back to Lucille Clifton.  We talked about how her aesthetic is accessible, although not simple, and how because of the former, her work may be underrated.  In Mercy, Clifton articulates a social consciousness with a clearly spiritual underpinning—her work is not about easy forgiveness (or forgetfulness), but there is a certain gentleness to poems such as “the river between us,” which reads (in part):

     

    in the river that your father fished

                my father was baptized.   it was

                their hunger that defined them,

     

                one, a man who knew he could

                feed himself if it all came down,

                the other a man who knew he needed help.

     

                this is about more than color.  it is

                about how we learn to see ourselves.

                it is about geography and memory.

     

    American poetry has not developed a sufficient vocabulary (yet) for talking about the forms that underlie free verse (poetry not written in traditional meter or rhyme.)  I do not have a theory to account for Clifton’s use of the lower case or her experiments with syntax and punctuation, except to say that things are more complicated than they seem.

     

    Notably, Mercy contains the fine sequence “september song a poem in 7 days.”  In a poem dated the third day, Clifton writes:

     

                the firemen

                ascend

                like Jacobs ladder

                into the mouth of

                history

     

    There are more references in Clifton to the various names of God than I had remembered, more surprising turns on the spiritual than I had seen before.  My former student referred me even more specifically to Clifton’s long poem “the message from The Ones,” which includes the haunting lines:

     

                the angels have no wings

    they come to you wearing

                their own clothes

     

                they have learned to love you

                and will keep coming

     

                unless you insist on wings

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