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I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz
Read poems about / on: journey, strength, moon, wind, night, rose, angel, change, friend
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Click here to write your comments about this poem (The Layers by Stanley Kunitz)
Joanne Lehman (4/7/2008 9:04:00 AM)
This poem may have caught my attention initially because of the photo of Stanley Kunitz on the opposite page of my textbook. He appears in the photo much as he appears in the poem—a wise elderly man who is reflecting on a lifetime of experiences.
The poem creates a reflective mood that is a bit morbid early on, yet ends with a more hopeful conclusion. What sounds straightforward at the start sets up the mood of a lifelong quest for…what? I have walked through many lives, /some of them my own, (huh? Is he speaking of friends or is he talking about the way he’s changed over the years? Already he’s got me thinking…) though some principle of being/abides, from which I struggle/not to stray. (Now I believe he is likely talking about himself) .
I found the image of milestones dwindling/toward the horizon an interesting idea. “Milestone” usually has a connotation of looking back from whence we’ve come—but Kunitz’s milestones are dwindling toward the horizon. The word dwindling is interesting by itself but becomes more so here.
The following images again build on common connotations and somehow manage to create entirely new ideas through their juxtaposition and because of the topic:
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites (I can see the smoky fires, perhaps on a prairie as the pilgrim moves onward.)
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings (The picture I see is something like a vulture, yet I can’t discount the word “angels” Kunitz again creates this odd mixture of cliché images that are much more than the some of their parts.
Now he “layers” on the next one using the word tribe to describe his affections. With campfires and scavenger angels, the image of a tribe continues in the vein of primal images being used to describe an inner struggle in regard to the aging process. Once more, he uses incongruity to talk about a feast of losses.
In talking of the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face we again hear the primal music of Kunitz’s imagery that fits into the ongoing sub-text of the poem (perhaps hints of a failed and flawed manifest destiny?) .
At this point the poem turns—and turns us with this exact word. Despite all the losses of his past, Kunitz, the wandering pilgrim, hears a voice telling him to live in the layers not in the litter. The astounding use of commonplace—almost cliché imagery—in this artful way seems brilliant to me. The phrase “Live in the layers, not on the litter.” Is the sort of wisdom nugget one might find at an AA meeting. Kunitz seemingly lifts all the “litter” of a life strewn with mistakes and failures and the odd love affairs with people and things that surely come and go for everyone and end up being a source of questions—grief and at times bliss—he lifts all this wealth of experience and loads it into this short poem to remind us that at this stage the next chapter/in my book of transformations/is already written. Again, the poet draws on the old cliché of life being a book with chapters, yet it feels quite different when the “life” we might expect is instead a “transformation(s) ”.
As I read the poem aloud, I noticed how easily the poet could have created stanza breaks where there are none. I decided he used the lack of breaks as a way to create a feeling of “traveling through” a lifetime of experiences. The common idea that “life is a journey” is certainly part of this poem, although he goes beyond that idea to explore the parts of our lives that we sometimes question in retrospect.
By the end of this we come to realize that the poem itself is a kind of “layered” metaphorical journey. (Reminds me of English Trifle with is many-layers of ingredients) . What a rich poem this is—what appears deceptively simple language and imagery, turns out to be artistically, quite complex. |
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