Poetry Review: “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” by James Wright (Copy)

By: Clark Wu

“Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.”

I hold much fondness in my heart for the image of a butterfly. Perched on spring daffodils and snowdrops they flutter their wings ever-so-slightly but with incredible constancy. The bronze butterfly is often characterized in Mongolian myths as the sign of a new life or a fresh start.

In this poem, we start with such a fragile creature both at rest and in motion. In my mind, the butterfly is swaying in the soft wind, perhaps a mirror image of poet James Wright in his hammock. Immediately the oddly dark color palette brings out the meditative mundaneness.

“Down the ravine behind the empty house,

The cowbells follow one another

Into the distances of the afternoon.”

Now it’s really feeling like a prep spring narrative, isn’t it? It’s also from this point onwards where you notice the restrained and lulling vowel and consonant combinations in this piece. One could probably read this softly in a guided meditation.

The cowbells also intrigue me. The word certainly appeals to my ears and adds some clarity and ringing brightness to the poem. I took the meaning of cowbells (if there were any, to begin with— the poem up until now feels like the mindless ramblings of a student trying to make up for observational journal entries) in two ways.

Firstly, cattle ranchers use cowbells to locate their herds, so the bells may be symbols of ownership and boundaries. In this scene, fading cowbell sounds paint an idyllic picture that sends me Sound of Music meadow vibes, adding to the meditative mood. However, some professional farmers find that the sound of cowbells bothers the cows themselves. Suddenly the bells become a stark reminder of the poet’s self-indulgence; his pleasant afternoon may be built upon another’s misery. But such is all of our own pleasure. Perhaps we’re playing a zero-sum game; pleasure always comes at a cost.

“To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,

The droppings of last year’s horses

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.”

In comparison to the ordinary afternoon views in the previous excerpts, Wilson uses quasi-mythical language here. He compares horse droppings to “golden stones” and describes a vagabond “chickenhawk,” a species with a majestic name. The earthliness of this poem is still there, but we’ve seemingly reached a climax, a fleeting moment of extraordinary.

We’re reading Frankenstein in my English class, in which Mary Shelley suggests that nature is a healing and nurturing force. To be able to “observe outward objects with any kind of pleasure,” to “perceive that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shade [your] window” is a true privilege. Nature is forgetful of ambition because all human ambition is but a speck of dirt in the passing of time.

“I have wasted my life.”

Yes, this is the last line of the poem. I hope this was a saucy twist for you.

Wasting one’s life is (hopefully) an overstatement that carries with it a mix of emotions.

First, a pinch of regret. Wilson, like many of us in the evenings of Exeter, probably wishes he had better employed his time. Did he enjoy his rest on that hammock? Maybe. But was he preoccupied by his work and obligations during his rest, or fully immersed in the natural beauties? We have no idea.

Or perhaps his observations made him realize that he’s wasted his life pursuing his dreams and passions when (I’m sorry about this cliché) beauty could often be found right before us. We find appreciation in the unexpected niceties that melt our hearts. Last Monday, when I was sitting on the Academy quad I watched a plane draw out two lines of cotton candy steam in its path, glowing a cantaloupe-silver color as it reflected the setting sun. If I hadn’t looked up to the sky, I may have well forgotten that time.

Wilson must certainly also feel a little nostalgic. Oh, I’ve wasted my life. How unfortunate. He doesn’t take pride in the “waste,” or ask for pity, but rather finds it unfortunate that he recognizes his ill-spent time. When in our childhoods have we felt we’ve wasted our lives? I would hope not often. It’s because we weren’t exposed, just yet, what a “good life” meant. When there is no good option, there is no waste. Back then, we didn’t care about the meaning of life. We didn’t care if we had a purpose. That was a time when your productivity didn’t affect your self-esteem when play was just play and nothing else.

I miss that so much.

And finally, I believe Wilson experiences transcendence. Does he care that he’s wasted his life? The very open conclusion to the poem itself suggests there is no definitive manner in which our lives become empty and meaningless. We determine whether our lives hold meaning.

I wonder if the poem is a commentary on poetry. We take note of and appreciate the minutiae of life, perhaps over-interpret its every detail to find meaning in their presence only to understand and reflect ourselves. I had a conversation with an English teacher about what poetry really looks like. I think needless to say words are vessels. They carry whatever you choose to put in them. Good poetry makes you feel, but no two people feel in the same way. Therefore poetry cannot be controlled by the poet; the poet is merely one who takes the time to build the dock for people to board the vessels and experience their own beyond.

Is that a waste of time? I don’t know, you decide.