"to recall, to praise" - The Art of James Merrill

America has produced few artists of the formal virtuosity of
James Merrill, who has been justly called the American Mozart.
The Contemplative considers his work to be of dazzling beauty,
wit and divine play.  See for example, "A Dedication":
-----
Hans, there are moments when the whole mind
Resolves into a pair of brimming eyes, or lips
Parting to drink from the deep spring of a death
That freshness they do not yet need to understand.
These are the moments, if ever, an angel steps
Into the mind, as kings into the dress
Of a poor goatherd, for their acts of charity.
There are moments when speech is but a month pressed
Lightly and humbly against the angel's hand.
-----

The merging of the divine eros between two vulnerable people
is among the most perfect expressions of this human longing/
need that has ever been written.  Among the last poems that
James Merrill wrote is, "Christmas Tree" which gives full voice
to his illness and art.

"Christmas Tree"

by James Merrill

To be
Brought down at last
From the cold sighing mountain
Where I and the others
Had been fed, looked after, kept still,
Meant, I knew --- of course I knew ----
That it would be only a matter of weeks,
That there was nothing more to do.
Warmly they took me in, and made much of me.
I could assent to that.  For honestly,
It did help to be wound in jewels, to send
Their colors flashing forth from vents in the deep
Fragrant sables that cloaked me head to foot,
Over me then they wove a spell of shining ----
Purple and silver chains, eavesdripping tinsel,
Amulets, milagros: software of silver,
A heart, a little girl, a Model T,
Two staring eyes.  The angels, trumpets, BUD and BREA
(The children's names) in clownlike capitals,
Somewhere a music box whose tiny song
Played and replayed I ended before long
By loving.  And in shadow behind me, a primitive IV
To keep the show going.  Yes, yes, what lay ahead
Was clear: the stripping, the cold street, my chemicals
Plowed back into the Earth for lives to come ----
No doubt a blessing, a harvest, but one that doesn't bear,
Now or ever, dwelling upon.  To have grown so thin.
Needles and bone.  The little boy's hands meeting
About my spine.  The mother�s voice:  Holding up wonderfully!
No dread.  No bitterness.  The end beginning.  Today's
Dusk room aglow
For the last time
With candlelight.
Faces love lit,
Gifts underfoot,
Still to be so poised, so
Receptive.  Still to recall, to praise.

1995

James Merrill, Collected Poems.  (Alfred A. Knopf: New York,
2001).  Written during the early part of the New
Year as James was dying of AIDS: d. 2/6/1995.