“A hundred
and fifty years ago two armies slaughtered
themselves here.”
themselves here.”
Nothing
prepares us for this opening up into history, presumably the Civil War, and yet
it reads as though inevitable. In his essay on Dante, Eliot assures us that “genuine
poetry can communicate before it is understood.” Jackson’s poem communicates a
sense of something lost, something essential missing from the scheme. It’s an
elegy for the unnamed, perhaps something within the speaker not the landscape: “Aren’t our first words
for what we don’t have / or have lost? Don’t we want everything all at once?”
Including, of course, the elusive meaning of the poem we are reading. The hawk
in the third-to-last line recalls many passages in John A. Baker’s The Peregrine, also about a man alone
with another species: “Watching the falcon receding up into the silence of the
sky, I shared the exaltation and serenity of her slow ascension.”
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