I’ll start this with an ending, or something
like an ending,
at least there’s tension and fading
light. In the back field, our neighbor
Lee’s long field behind us,
we were sliding
along the muddy pasture road
—the dogs, the boy and I all out
for a walk at dusk—
when a coyote,
bright as tomorrow, opened and shut
and opened again the woods’ dark doors
stilled to stand and look at us.
The dogs trembled and communicated
with a quickening of every muscle
I tried just to read the animal’s
face. But all I got was the starkness
of form: that which hunts before me,
that which is not dark in the darkness.
Tried and True Ways to Fail
Cut the tree with a bent bow saw.
When the blade
bucks and sticks in the heart
of the fallen pine, try to free
it with your gloveless hand. Seek art
the wind’s wrestling the trees. Decide
what your children will think about something,
like difficult art up
in the pines.
Or imagine them always happy and running.
Brace your strength with a foot on the trunk
the left of the buried blade; pull
with everything in you. When you fall,
unbalanced, notice the maples are full
of color —or filling up, like a glass
of water. Everything you can see
is filling or full. The boy
to crawl. The saw is still in the tree.
Plants for Sale
Moon in the clear-cut, the neighbor’s acres;
trespassing to explore the light.
Night birds call and call and I get
to where I can’t split out what’s
beside me and what’s in the still-standing
trees, what sort of spirit’s come
me, or at least to visit
this place. And if the dead do run
among us, it’d be in a dark like this—
one not really dark at all,
the just full moon so ripe you’d keep
it in a jar if you could. The small
growth, shy in this wasted place
(cut for little money and pulp wood),
clutches the bright ground; nothing
reborn is really understood.
-from Nine Acre, selected by Guest Editor Mark Jay Brewin
is the author of Nine Acres (American Poetry Review, 2011), which won the 2011 APR/Honickman First Book Prize.
His poems and translations have appeared recently in
American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review, Gettysburg Reviews, Bat City Review, and elsewhere. He is the editor of the Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review and lives
with his family in rural southside Virginia.
Nathaniel Perry is the author of Nine Acres. His poems and translations have appeared recently
in American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review, Gettysburg Reviews, Bat City Review, and elsewhere. He is the editor of
the Hampden Sydney Poetry and lives with his family in rural southside Virgina. - See more at: http://www.thecommononline.org/bio/nathaniel-perry#sthash.cS0Uki65.dpuf
Nathaniel Perry is the
author of Nine Acres. His poems and translations have appeared recently in American Poetry Review, Cincinnati Review,
Gettysburg Reviews, Bat City Review, and elsewhere. He is the editor of the Hampden Sydney Poetry and lives with his family
in rural southside Virgina. - See more at: http://www.thecommononline.org/bio/nathaniel-perry#sthash.cS0Uki65.dpuf
of Nathaniel Perry's Nine Acres by Lynda Fleet Perry, first published by Blackbird
“Should we love each other / only at our
loveliest, or speak / of stars just on the darkest nights?” asks Nathaniel Perry in Nine Acres. The poems
in his debut collection consider what it means to be faithful—as husband, father, neighbor, and as steward of land,
poultry, orchard, and garden. Written entirely in the same received form of rhymed quatrains, they confront the passions,
tedium, graces, and sweat labor of such fidelities both thematically and structurally.
The fifty-two poems all take their names from the chapter titles of horticulturalist M.G. Kain’s 1935 book
on small-farm management, Five Acres and Independence, yielding poems called “Green Manures and Cover Crops,”
“Essentials of Spraying and Dusting,” and “Small Farm Fruit Gardens.” Exactingly faithful to
his task, Perry even named the book’s final poem from a chapter omitted from subsequent printings of Kain’s
book, which he discovered as a “ghost print” in his own 1940 edition.
If the titles seem prosaic, the poems themselves certainly do not. Images spiral and accumulate, incrementally,
each one complicating the previous one. In “Figures Don’t Lie,” a field full of hay bales under a night
sky yields a startling comparison to stars:
Nights we notice the field hinged
to stars, or to the field the stars
are set on.
In our earthly field,
hay is still baled and waiting far
in the distance, and so I say the stars
are fire baled.
Nine Acres encompasses the narrative arc of a year spent
tending a garden and young family. Its neatly shaped quatrains remind this reader—no relation to Perry, by the way—of
intensively planted vegetable and herb beds, typically laid in four-by-four-foot plots “like soil squared / and
measured into beds by a man // sweating through his shirt with effort”. Burgeoning and mysterious as any bountiful
garden, the poems comprise sixteen lines in four stanzas of four lines each. Moreover, almost every line contains four
In mythology and literature, the number four
symbolizes stability, order, and the earth itself. Perry’s four-square poems serve as fitting containers for his
subjects of rural life and growing a family, affirming critic Helen Vendler’s words that “a writer’s
true ‘vision’ lies in the implications of his or her style.” An old-fashioned sensibility
permeates this work—a reaction to our times, perhaps, Frost’s “momentary stay against confusion.”
Like Frost, Perry stakes the rural landscape as the territory of formally written poems that confront the natural world
in plainspoken language. Writing in the Winter 2010 issue of The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, which he edits,
Perry has asserted:
the modern world has
grown out of touch with nature and most everything else important, and poetry. . . can provide a needed
and often urgent reminder that the world is more than the world we make. Poems traffic in mystery, and the world (especially
the natural world) is mysterious.
reveals his fealty to form and its mysteries and foreshadows some of his recurring themes and characters in the frontispiece
poem, “Introduction.” The poem opens cinematically, announcing itself as a made thing, in the first stanza:
I’ll start this with an ending, or
like an ending, at least there’s tension and fading
light. In the back
field, our neighbor
Lee’s long field behind us, we were sliding
The speaker, out for a walk with his son and dogs, encounters
a coyote at the edge of the woods. It is dusk, a liminal time. The coyote, “bright as tomorrow, opened and shut
/ and opened again the woods’ dark doors / then stilled to stand and look at us.” This trickster figure of
Native American mythology typically delivers surprise, sometimes a lesson. Perry writes:
just to read the animal’s
face. But all I got was the starkness
of form: that which
hunts before me,
that which is not dark in the darkness.
Here the coyote is the form itself, opening and shutting the “dark doors” of the writer’s subconscious,
teaching where to go, bringing out of the darkness, “that which is not dark.” There’s a Grimm’s-fairy-tale
quality to the notion of forest doors that open and shut, adding to the mysteries that form can invoke. The rational
layers of mind can easily slip away, walking in the woods. Encounters with wild creatures can take on qualities of the
totemic, as seemingly happens in “Live Stock”:
Thrushes, in handfuls, candle up
into the pines and ask what wonder
it was I wanted.
of writing in form, of having to fit words within a tightly prescribed pattern, can often create surprising images that
jolt themselves out of the writer’s deep-buried places.
I’m lost in the pattern of walking this field,
where nothing grows the same each year,
though even that is a kind of yield.
In the same way, the constraints of marriage, of parenthood, of tending a garden can open into their own graces,
mysteries, and tenderness. “Seeds and Seeding” begins with the act of “shaking seeds into their furrows”
on a cloudy day that turns into a thunderous night—“the rain, the wildness, doing / and undoing, slow hands
unpinning”—made erotic, “where the part / we’re meant to play is a mystery, / and everything
is about to start.” Other poems encounter marital undertows, such as when, in “Frost Damage Prevention,”
“Our old fights / float down from the same events the way / frost bows autumn beans in the night”, as well
as in “Capital”: “joy, / a little drummer rocking around / the dogwood, or just a little boy.”
Perry’s poems often come to a sonnet-like turn
or volta, a moment of truth. In “Small Farm Fruit Gardens,” a nod to the eclogue, this volta
becomes a literal hinge in the middle of the poem, an insomniac moment: “I / am left in shadow’s shadows
to stand // too still and figure all the turnings / turning us, or where we’ll turn.” Ultimately,
the speaker addresses the moon, begging in a litany of endearments: “Come back little moon— / dark night’s
noon, heaven-raker, / cloister-maker, buttonhole, bloom.”
These turns often create aphorisms. “It’s not that we get what we want exactly, / but that want,
if we want it, is all we get,” concludes “Compost,” a meditation on desire. “In dirt is one life
we can choose / to make,” the speaker asserts in “Soil Surface Management.” “The
sweetness of decline—fall’s little / ditty, where mercy rhymes with fate,” the speaker avers in “Selection
of Tree Fruits.” The ending couplet of the last poem in the book, “The Farm Library,” takes on the
weight of the author’s entire project, in life and work: “That in seed and land we find an anchor, / and in
language we weigh out our courage.”
the dangers, complexity, and toll of modern agricultural practices in Nine Acres, but delicately, with real respect
for the farmers who practice it. “Lee’s putting poison on his corn. / Though I’d never raise the issue,
I try / not to think what else is in his creek,” the speaker begins in “Essentials of Spraying and Dusting.”
This speaker would not impose his viewpoint on someone whose family has been farming their land for generations, who
lost and bought back their land, who “told me he can’t / farm it alone anymore.” No one ever said farming
was easy. “The ground shows little of what we’ve done, / but insignificance, I guess, // is still a signal
of some kind; / our secrets, hidden and so unharmed, / we’re sure will soon transform us.” “When we were new, or smaller-hearted, / we did not care at all
for the few // things that matter to us now,” Perry writes in “Vegetable Crops to Avoid and to Choose.”
The payoff may not be material. But there are other rewards to consider, contrary as they may seem in
today’s culture of consumption: “to see this place filled / by something that is not us, our every / acre
ringed and shrouded and still.”
An Interview with Nathaniel
Perry by Matthew Huff
Huff: Each of these poems shares a strikingly similar setting as well as a strong continuity from the speaker(s)
of each poem: rural farmland, forestry, and a young and rather apprehensive voice. I'm curious how much of the inspiration
for these poems is derived from autobiographical experience and how much is imagined?
Nathaniel Perry: The poems borrow quite a bit from "real" life. I suppose everything
is fictional to a degree once it is put on the page, but the poems were written during the first year or two of my oldest
child's life, when we had just moved to the nine acres in rural Virginia where we live now. So much of that time, as is
presumably clear in the poems, was spent learning how to be parents, preparing new ground for growing vegetables (we grow
about a sixth of an acre of food for the family every year - everything from squash to sesame). So I suppose reality does
provide an element of continuity in the poems - but doesn't it always in a way? The speaker in these poems is the part
of me that was and is still interested in finding sustainable ways to be - whether that means not using chemicals in the
ground, remembering to be kind, learning the names of local plants or what have you.
MH: "Introduction" feels like a "thesis poem" for your collection, Nine
Acres. I think that, aside from the title, this sentiment is drawn from the opening lines: "I'll start this with
an ending, or something / like an ending. At least there's tension and fading / light." This creates a really interesting
paradox. It also feels like a "thesis poem" in that you do a great deal of work with light-or the absence of light-in
these poems. Can you talk to us about how these elements play into this poem and how this poem interacts on a broader scale
with the rest of Nine Acres?
The poems borrow all their titles from another book - Five Acres and Independence by M.G. Kains. That book is a
small-farm handbook/manual from the 1930s that I became entranced by (it is a marvelous book - both for growing things and
just for reading). But, anyway, I borrowed each of that book's chapter titles as the titles of my poems. So it only made
sense that the poem called "Introduction" would be one and would come first. Also, it is meant to suggest an
introduction to the coyote in the poem, and as you suggest, to the world the poems occur in - the world of changing light,
of dirt paths that wash out and reform, of the wild things within us and around us. As it happens, the woods where I saw
that coyote were cleared just a few weeks later...Also, as a side note, the poem "introduces" the idea of form
as a concept - that poetic form and the "forms" through which we view and understand the world are not that far
is filled with these really beautiful but eerie images and language such as, "a coyote, /bright as tomorrow, opened
and shut /and opened again the woods' dark doors /then stilled to stand and look at us." I really like these lines
because of their starkness of language and strong visual representations but also because of the mythical qualities presented
in these poems. Can you talk to us a bit about intertwining the literal qualities with the mythic in your poems?
NP: I'm writing
here about the doubleness of any interaction with another creature - we have this bizarre human impulse to either elevate
an animal to some sort of supreme nobility, or to dismiss it (or even worse, hate it and want to kill it). And then on
the other hand, it is just another being, no different than us. We say -"Hey, one of those animals..." and the
coyote thinks "hey, one of those animals..." Elizabeth Bishop, I think, understands this most profoundly - she
and Frost and his friend Edward Thomas as well. But Bishop's "The Moose" gets to the crux of this problem. The
animal is indeed "mythic" but we still don't get it. We're stuck in our own animal skin, and they in theirs,
but they maybe understand how to be inside that skin more completely.
MH: I really like "Tried and True Ways to Fail" and "Plants for Sale," but
I struggle a bit with how the titles work with the poems that follow. I understand you borrowed the titles from Five
Acres and Independence, but how do you see them playing into your reader's understanding of these poems and how did you
settle on each title.
NP: Once I got
deep into this project, I had to find ways to use the various chapter titles that remained. So "Plants for Sale,: for
instance is a reference to the logging that has occurred prior to the nocturnal rambling of the poem (the "clear-cut"
in the first line). "Tried and True Ways to Fail," then, is just that - a list of ways to fail at growing things,
at parenting, at managing one's days, etc.
Returning to "Tried and True Ways to Fail," this poem takes a bit of a risk by employing and 2nd person directive,
a move some readers have a strong aversion to. Why take the risk of throwing off readers by drawing them into the narrative
and/or the impending "failure" with this technique? Talk to us about taking risks, in general, in poetry. Why
take them? Why not take them?
chapter in Kains' book is hilarious - it is full of the reasons these newly minted depression-era back-to-the-landers will
find their idealist visions poorly met. It warns against buying a place with shallow soil, about bad varieties of seed,
about mineral deficiencies, about the almost sure material poverty of the farming life, about the unwillingness to truly
work, about the coldness of winter. So my poem with that title was meant as a metaphorical riff on these kinds of failures
- sort of: here's how to fail at the rest of your life. All of the imperatives, until you get into the middle of the third
stanza or so, are sort of bad ideas.... As for "risks" in poetry. I guess I don't think about that much. The
goal of art, as Geoffrey Hill recently put it in an interview (and he was paraphrasing, appropriately, someone else), is
expressiveness, not self-expression. So with that as a sort of recent motto, I just do what seems fit craft-wise.
MH: This poem also has a rather circular pattern. Toward
the middle of the poem the reader is told to imagine what their children would do or think. Then, toward the very end, there
is the image of the boy crawling. What is going on here and who is this child?
NP: The child is my child, our first. We now have three. So this feeling of newness seems long
ago to me at this point, but the image of the crawling child was meant to summon up the shock of that moment when you realize
that the child you have caused to exist is actually something apart from you - something independent and wild, like a tickseed
sunflower in September, or a groundhog on the run.
"Plants for Sale" revisits this prominent use of light used in "Introduction." This time, however, the
light is referred to in rather grey terms where nothing is particularly distinguishable aside from the moon (that line is
brilliant by the way). Tell us a bit about how you use light here in contrast with how it's used in "Introduction."
NP: This is a nice observation.
I suppose I just always turn to light when I need some help in a poem. Sometimes it is illuminating, and sometimes it makes
things strangely darker.
MH: You use
a very specific form in each of these poems: four stanzas per poem, each composed as a quatrain where the 2nd and 4th verses
are rhymed. How did you arrive at this form and why choose to write an entire book in this manner?
NP: This stanza form is certainly not new, of course. It is a Sicilian stanza in the wrong meter
and with one blank pair (so XAXA). And basically, I wrote one poem using a chapter title from the Kains book in this form
(four quatrains of XAXA) and then it just sort of stuck. As it dawned on me what the sequence would be about, it seemed
that a regular form - like garden rows, like the row-work of tilling and hoeing, would be appropriate. The form, in my
mind, is like a sonnet (sixteen lines of four feet, as opposed to fourteen lines of five), but with a little more loose
dirt between its toes.
All of the poems are in iambic
tetrameter. I follow Frosts' and Keats' playbook with iambic meter and allow myself whatever substitutions I need, but
for most part the lines will scan. As for the naturalness of the cadence and rhythm - I actually would argue that meter
is what allows poetry to sound most natural. A lot of the free verse I read quickly descends into the plodding morass of
syntactical melodrama. Not all of it - there are some really accomplished poets working in free verse out there, but I
can almost guarantee you they could all write a line of regular verse if you made them...But for me, meter is what cracked
open my understanding of English and the way it can sound. As for the tetrameter specifically, the underlying simplicity
of the endeavor here - sustainable growing, sustainable being - seemed more appropriate in the four foot line, with its
references to hymn and song, than in, say, the weightier climes of pentameter.
MH: What sparked this interest in form for you and would you consider yourself a formalist poet?
NP: Those school names and groups have always disturbed
me a bit. What does it matter, I always want to know? Lisa Jarnot, for instance, who is lumped into the "experimental"
crowd, has a marvelous sense of meter and rhyme. A.E. Stallings, who is often called a "formalist," (as if it
were some kind of fish you were only supposed to catch at certain times of year), is just plainly a good poet and often
pretty experimental. The same is true for Gjertrud Schnackenberg or Maurice Manning - both of whom work almost exclusively
in regular meter and often in rhyme as well. So, I guess, no, I'm not interested in being part of a movement or school
or trend. I'm interested in writing poems, and I'm still in my apprenticeship, figuring out where English-language poetry
has been and what it can do, and what small thing I might be able to do with it.
MH: Any recollection of what you were reading when you composed Nine Acres? How did they
influence this body of work? Which writers would you say have played a particularly influential role in your development
as a poet?
NP: Apart from the Kains
book, I had been deeply influenced by Eliot Coleman's landmark book The New Organic Grower, another book on growing
vegetables by Dick Raymond, and seed catalogs from Johnny's and Baker's Creek. On the poetry side of things, I was probably,
when I wrote the book, reading most deeply in Frost, as I've already mentioned, and George Scarbrough. Scarbrough is an
Appalachian poet that few have heard of, but more should seek out. His first three books Tellico Blue, The Course Is
Upward, and Summer So-Called are classics of American poetry, no joke. Also, I've always been deeply driven
by Geoffrey Hill - driven to think about poetry, driven to think about the world, driven to think. There are few better
books of poetry in English that I know of than his Tenebrae. Also, I already mentioned Bishop - there's a wit
and a leavening in her spirit that is unlike others. I think I must turn to her as a corrective against my melodramatic
impulses more often than not. And, though she is often lauded these days for her wise and careful free verse, her formal
work - "Sandpiper" for instance - is among the best we've had.
Thanks for these thoughtful questions, and for the interest in my work.
Click here to read an interview with Nathaniel
Perry at The American Poetry Review
Click here to read an interview with Nathaniel
Perry at Sonora Review
here to read an interview with Nathaniel Perry at Kenyon Review
Poems - Bio - Review - Interviews