"THANKS" BY W. S. MERWIN

Today is Sunday.  I usually go to church, but today we did not.  My back kept me home.  The idea of hopping in the car in the cold, getting to early service on time, then up and down, sitting, standing and kneeling, wasn't a happy thought.  Staying in has been good. 

 
Sitting by the fire with a heating pad and cups of tea, I reread a poem that, although written nearly forty years ago, is timeless.  Well, good poetry is, isn't it.  "Thanks," by W. W. Merwin (1927-2019) is amazingly prescient of today, a day in which the Ukranians, the Israelis and Palestinians, we ourselves, and many others across the globe are suffering.  Suffering, yet want to give thanks and prepare for the Holy Days of whatever faith is ours.  

"Thanks" was published in 1988, but it could have been written yesterday. Merwin's depiction of gratitude goes far beyond the usual, but I suspect that we can identify with the need to broaden our thankfulness in in the midst of tragedy, violence and chaos.  We almost have to, if we're going to be thankful at all.

The poem begins with a word any speaker might say: "Listen . . . ."   The first stanza isn't too surprising.  As night falls and we look at the water, we give thanks (S1).  But after that, the details change, and thankfulness becomes more challenging.  The reality of our weaknesses and strengths are parsed.  

                 

Thanks
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is 
(1988) 

The poem overlays realistic detail with the generosity of unconditional thanks, an old-fashioned praise poem of tribute or gratitude. But here we are grateful not only when running out to look at the sky with mouths full of food(S1), but also after funerals and hospital visits and muggings (S2). One of the most powerful lines is "in a culture up to its chin in shame / living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you." (S2) How did the poet foresee our dysfunctional government, the violence against Jews and Muslims both, the necessity for #Me Too and #Black Lives Matter, the war against trans children?  

In S3 he says that we remember beatings on stairs, the police at the door, and wars and say "thank you."  He writes, "[W] ith the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable / unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you."  With the forests being stripped and the earth covered in asphalt (S4) we say thank you.   

I don't think we are meant to feel foolish for saying thank you midst injustice--illness, muggings, political shame, environmental destruction.  Rather, it is in our nature to find the good and praise it.  Didn't we all just find gratitude in our hearts this Thanksgiving?  And will again during Advent and on Christmas.  We are thankful for those who heal us and for teachers, for surviving natural and human-caused catastrophes, for our soldiers, for those who visit us in our valleys, for hostages returned and prisoners freed, and finally for the burial of the very bodies we love.   That we find something for which to be thankful in these situations, I think is what the poem means. 

So, this Sunday was good.  Poetry, serious thoughts, a worthwhile way to spend a day. I hope you have days that feel that way too.  Best wishes, Nina Naomi