Waterfall at Journey's End begins the book, reminding us that notions of linear time are as artificial and fallible as the very language we use to represent time. Here as readers we begin, despite being told it is "journey's end"; here language is both a window to look through as well as an object of artistic devotion itself. "Yet another metamorphic / swimming hole, waterfall / where language fails," Shepard explains, telling us that we “can hear nouns metamorphose to verbs,” words like "gnarl, shiver, split" (3). The poet describes the primacy of this place and its ways of knowing as "the place of pre- / delight, before the light // blinked on in our fore- / brains and pained us with fore- / knowing" (3). But he does not allow us to get lost in the dizzying desire of linguistic entanglement. He acknowledges that "words can sink // their cleats, pitons, / grappling hooks" into the "high walls / of journey's end" (4), albeit tenuously. Yet the very thing that ultimately must fail him is also the thing that offers some degree of hope. The tongues that allow us to form words are surreally transformed into something "pre-human":
And Shepard's poems are filled with these very things: box turtles, ovenbirds, black-and-white warblers, phoebes, sunflowers, fiddleheads, cottonwoods, chokecherries, and blackflies. His landscapes are populated with the flora and fauna one might expect from a poet living in rural Vermont. Yet Shepard's poems are not provincial: settings as exotic as the Acropolis or Montpellier, France, are used to great effect, as well as the lives of other writers, like Hayden Carruth and Gerald Stern, ghostly mentors that move behind the lines, creating textual density and intertextual play. To this end, This Far from the Source is divided into six sections, and, while at first glance the rather distinctive content of the poems may appear to create a dissonance, eventually it is a beautiful harmony we hear, a finely layered and intricately woven selection of multi-tiered poetry. On one level we have philosophy drawn from nature (My Thesis Is Nature's Progress, Hunger, and Romanticism in Virginia); on another, an aesthetic created by movement away from the comfort of homeground (Sunflower Sutra, The Red Stick: White like Me, and Youthful, I fell Off the Temple of Apollo). Then there is the relationship between a father and a son and the son's struggles to grow out of his father's shadow (The Secret Lives of Birds, Weed Whacker, and Teenager: 19). Other poems establish a kind of familial structure for filtering the unwieldy experience of a husband and a wife, as well as a return to the primacy of desire in the form of a daughter's birth and the ensuing bond between father and daughter (The Language Tree, Amniocentesis, Night Feeding, and Prayer for My Daughter). The book fittingly concludes by revisiting the earth, the local, suggesting an acceptance of rootedness and passion in "trusting the land's pure curve," as Shepard names it. It is the culmination of these lives and deaths--the father that has gone before, the writers who have done the same, the present moment in which Shepard finds himself as husband and father--that frame an aesthetic of acceptance and celebration. Yes, this volume offers complaint at times: against the ridiculously absurd proliferation of commerce, against the harm we do to each other and to the earth. But, as he says in his elegy, On the Occasion of Paul Carriere's Death, he hopes this neighbor-farmer, who he knew "passably enough to know the depth of our differences" is traveling...
It's this kind of peace, or hope for peace, that Shepard's book has been negotiating all along, one that is hard-earned yet never fully gained. What a gorgeous journey it is, and how glad I am we have Shepard's verse to remind us, to cajole and exhort us, as he does in the volume's final poem:
Shepard's poems really live and in doing so allow us to see the possibility of the same.
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