Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Robert Wrigley’s "First Person" is a layered, introspective exploration of solitude, nature, and mortality, presented through the lens of a contemplative speaker who revels in the peculiarities of language and existence. The poem employs the "false first person pronoun"—"one"—to create an ironic distance between the speaker and their musings, a choice that underscores the tension between personal experience and universal reflection. Through its rich imagery, philosophical asides, and playful self-awareness, the poem delves into the complexities of identity, creativity, and the human relationship to nature.

The opening lines establish the speaker’s use of the "false first person pronoun," immediately drawing attention to language as a central concern: "One lies on one?s back in the woods, savoring the sun, and for some reason one has opted / for what Fowler calls the ?false first person pronoun?—one, that is, over the other." This deliberate choice creates a reflective and detached tone, as though the speaker is observing themselves from a distance. The mention of Fowler, a reference to Fowler’s Modern English Usage, situates the poem within a literary and linguistic context, hinting at the speaker’s preoccupation with precision and the constructed nature of expression.

The poem unfolds in a natural setting, with the speaker reclining beneath a ponderosa pine, immersed in the sensory details of the woods: "One peers up into the breeze-swayed branches... / Perhaps the wind, which is easy and warm, dislodged the ant." The ant, falling from the tree into the speaker’s ear, becomes a metaphor for the unpredictability of life and the small, often unnoticed connections between creatures. The speaker’s reflection on the ant leads to a humorous and wistful digression: "In truth, one wishes for the tongue of a sylph instead of an ant. Even two sylphs, one thinks." Here, the invocation of sylphs—mythical spirits of the air—introduces an element of fantasy and desire, contrasting with the mundane reality of the woods.

The speaker’s imagination shifts seamlessly between observing nature and conjuring abstractions. The encounter with a deer—“Thinking one dead, a deer approaches”—blends the real and the hypothetical. The speaker briefly imagines chasing the deer but admits their exhaustion: "One is molten. One seems to have no bones." This acknowledgment of physical weariness parallels the speaker’s broader contemplation of limitations, mortality, and the fleeting nature of vitality.

Language itself becomes a central motif, as the speaker reflects on the word "dappled" and its poetic connotations. The self-aware nod to Gerard Manley Hopkins, known for his use of "dappled" in "Pied Beauty," highlights the speaker’s playful engagement with literary tradition: "And as one acknowledges one?s Hopkinsian trespass, one notes perhaps the same sort of finch spoken of in his poem." This meta-literary moment underscores the intertwining of personal reflection and cultural inheritance, as the speaker finds meaning and connection through the act of allusion.

The poem’s exploration of memory and mortality deepens as the speaker recalls their "1965 Book-of-the-Month Club edition of Fowler?s Modern / English Usage," stamped with the name of a now-deceased acquaintance. The speaker’s affection for this object and its former owner reveals their attachment to tangible remnants of the past, which serve as touchstones for both nostalgia and intellectual engagement. The acknowledgment of the woman’s death—“One knew her and she died, and one is glad to have known her”—is understated yet poignant, emphasizing the quiet inevitability of loss.

The climax of the poem occurs with the sudden arrival of a hawk, "a rabbit in its talons." The speaker, transfixed by the scene, reflects on the violence and beauty inherent in nature: "One?s breath is held. One perceives the soul of the rabbit does not abide." This moment of death contrasts with the earlier musings on sylphs and finches, grounding the poem in the visceral realities of existence. The image of the hawk above and the impending fall of the rabbit’s blood onto the speaker’s face serves as a stark reminder of life’s fragility and interconnectedness.

In the poem’s final lines, the speaker imagines their beloved encountering them, "seemingly wounded," and reflects on the incomprehensibility of their thoughts: "the one one loves will not understand at first / when one insists that one must never be the last one to die." This cryptic assertion encapsulates the speaker’s meditations on mortality, love, and the fear of isolation. It suggests that the desire to share life’s beauty and pain with another is central to the human experience, even as individual existence remains solitary and finite.

Wrigley’s use of the pronoun "one" throughout the poem creates a deliberate ambiguity, allowing the speaker to oscillate between personal introspection and universal observation. The poem’s free verse structure and fluid syntax mirror the natural flow of thought, blending moments of humor, wonder, and existential inquiry.

"First Person" is a richly textured meditation on the intersections of language, memory, and mortality. Through its playful self-awareness and vivid imagery, Robert Wrigley captures the intricate dance between the individual and the universal, inviting readers to reflect on their own place within the vast, interconnected tapestry of life. The poem resonates as both a celebration of intellectual curiosity and a poignant acknowledgment of life’s impermanence.

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