[DustinG]

I can't really say why this is my favorite. I really like Clampitt's style though and she is probably my favorite poet.


A Whippoorwill in the Woods

by Amy Clampitt



Night after night, it was very nearly enough,
they said, to drive you crazy: a whippoorwill
in the woods repeating itself like the stuck groove
of an LP with a defect, and no way possible
of turning the thing off.

And night after night, they said, in the insomniac
small hours the whipsawing voice of obsession
would have come in closer, the way a sick
thing does when it’s done for—or maybe the reason
was nothing more melodramatic



than a night-flying congregation of moths, lured in
in their turn by house-glow, the strange heat
of it—imagine the nebular dangerousness, if one
were a moth, the dark pockmarked with beaks, the great
dim shapes, the bright extinction—

if moths are, indeed, after all, what a whippoorwill
favors. Who knows? Anyhow, from one point of view
insects are to be seen as an ailment, moths above all:
the filmed-over, innumerable nodes of spun-out tissue
untidying the trees, the larval

spew of such hairy hordes, one wonders what use
they can be other than as a guarantee no bird
goes hungry. We’re like that. The webbiness,
the gregariousness of the many are what we can’t abide.
We single out for notice

above all what’s disjunct, the way birds are,
with their unhooked-up, cheekily anarchic
dartings and flashings, their uncalled-for color—
the indelible look of the rose-breasted grosbeak
an aunt of mine, a noticer

of such things before the noticing had or needed
a name, drew my five-year-old attention up to, in
the green deeps of a maple. She never married,
believed her cat had learned to leave birds alone,
and for years, node after node,

by lingering degrees she made way within for
what wasn’t so much a thing as it was a system,
a webwork of error that throve until it killed her.
What is health? We must all die sometime.
Whatever it is, out there

in the woods, that begins to seem like
a species of madness, we survive as we can:
the hooked-up, the humdrum, the brief, tragic
wonder of being at all. The whippoorwill out in
the woods, for me, brought back

as by a relay, from a place at such a distance
no recollection now in place could reach so far,
the memory of a memory she told me of once:
of how her father, my grandfather, by whatever
now unfathomable happenstance,

carried her (she might have been five) into the breathing night.
“Listen!” she said he’d said. “Did you hear it?
That was a whippoorwill.” And she (and I) never forgot.