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.