Mercy

What a novel can do in three hundred pages, a good poem can do on one. Lucille Clifton does it in less than twenty lines, which is exactly what readers can expect from Mercy, a col­lection of 49 poems.

On Feb­ruary 13^th, it will have been two years since the loss of this extra­or­dinary poet. Her pro­lific career was marked by the pub­li­cation of numerous poetry col­lec­tions and children’s books. Clifton’s many honors include Chan­cellor of the Academy of American Poets and Poet Lau­reate of the State of Maryland. She died of cancer at the age of 73. From Lucille Clifton, a descendant of slaves, we inherit a legacy of work that examines gender, race, and family ties.

Clifton’s poetry has a rep­u­tation for deliv­ering moments that take flight on small-​​boned verse. As Clifton nav­i­gates the land­scape of loss, she brings expe­ri­ences to life in a series of concise por­traits. Among other things, Mercy is a tes­tament to hardship as endured by the cancer victim, the young woman coming of age, and a nation, as found in her poem, “September’s Song , A Poem in Seven Days: praying together safely/​warmed by the single love/​of the many tongued God.

Clifton con­sis­tently proves that less is more, as in her depiction of near-​​death in the poem, “out of body.” It is not a grand exposure of life flashing before one’s eyes, but a series of images that draw attention to the fragile beauty of a passing world: the words/​they fade/​i sift…you must listen/​with your /​hands/​with the twist ends/​of your hair/​that leaf /​pick up/​the sharp/​green stem/​try to feel me feel you/​i am saying i still love you…This is what the Clifton moment is–sharp, weightless, yet profound.

Clifton’s verse makes just as much impact, if not more, through what is left off the page. These poems invite our own expe­ri­ences to engage with the voices of Mercy. Each reader will enter the col­lection bringing some­thing dif­ferent, and exit car­rying a message that is uniquely theirs. In this mutual rela­tionship between reader and poem, one may just dis­cover that shared memory is the mercy that follows loss.