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W. S. Merwin


William Stanley Merwin was born in New York City on September 30, 1927. He was raised in Union City, New Jersey and Scranton, Pennsylvania, as the son of a Presbyterian minister, and began writing hymns as a child. Merwin attended Princeton University on a scholarship, where he was a classmate of Galway Kinnell, and studied poetry with the critic R. P. Blackmur, and his teaching assistant, John Berryman.

After graduating in 1948, Merwin spent an additional year at Princeton studying Romance languages, a pursuit that would later lead to his prolific work as a translator of Latin, Spanish, and French poetry. He soon married his first wife, Dorothy Jeanne Ferry, and began writing verse plays and working as a tutor to the children of wealthy families. He traveled throughout Europe, and in 1950 took a position in Majorca, Spain, as an instructor to the son of Robert Graves. While there, he met Dido Milroy, whom he eventually married after his first marriage ended.

Merwin's first collection, A Mask for Janus (Yale University Press, 1952), was selected by W. H. Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets. The collection was praised by Auden for its technical virtuosity, and bore the influence both of Graves and the medieval poetry Merwin was translating, in its focus on classical imagery and myth.

After leaving Majorca, Merwin remained in Europe, living in London and the South of France for several years. In 1956, he received a fellowship from the Poets' Theater in Cambridge, MA, and moved back to the United States. While in Boston, he entered the circle of writers that surrounded Robert Lowell and decided to concentrate on poetry. His books written during this time, Green with Beasts (Alfred A. Knopf, 1956) and The Drunk in the Furnace (Macmillan, 1960), both demonstrate the beginning of a significant shift in style and perspective. A New York Times review of The Drunk in the Furnace noted "the earthiness, the grittiness, the humane immediacy that informs the finest of these poems."

Merwin and Dido soon moved back to Europe and lived in London and the South of France. They became close friends with Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes during this time. In 1968, Merwin and Dido separated, and he began living for part of the year in New York.

In 1967, Merwin published the critically acclaimed volume, The Lice (Atheneum, 1967), followed by The Carrier of Ladders (Atheneum, 1970), for which he received the Pulitzer Prize. In a letter to the New York Review of Books, he declared his intention to donate the $1000 prize to antiwar causes as protest against the Vietnam War. Auden responded through his own letter that the Pulitzer judges were not a political party and had no ties to American foreign policy.

In 1976, Merwin moved to Hawaii to study with the Zen Buddhist master Robert Aitken. There he married Paula Schwartz in a Buddhist ceremony in 1983. Merwin settled in Maui, in a home that he helped design and build, surrounded by acres of tropical forest that he restored after years of overuse. The Buddhism and environmentalism that Merwin devoted himself to in Hawaii influenced his later work.

Over the course of his long career, Merwin published over twenty books of poetry. His recent collections include Garden Time (Copper Canyon Press, 2016); The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014); The Shadow of Sirius (Copper Canyon Press, 2008), which won the 2009 Pulitzer Prize; Migration: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2005), which won the 2005 National Book Award; The River Sound (Alfred A. Knopf, 1999), which was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year; Flower and Hand: Poems 1977-1983 (Copper Canyon Press, 1997); and Travels (Alfred A. Knopf, 1993), which received the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.

He also published nearly twenty books of translation, including Collected Haiku of Yosa Buson (Copper Canyon Press, 2013), with Takako Lento; Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Alfred A. Knopf, 2004); Dante's Purgatorio (Alfred A. Knopf, 2000); and volumes by Federico García Lorca and Pablo Neruda. His numerous plays and books of prose include Unchopping a Tree (Trinity University Press, 2014); The Book of Fables (Copper Canyon Press, 2007), a collection of his short prose; Summer Doorways (Counterpoint, 2006), a memoir of his childhood; and The Lost Upland (Alfred A. Knopf, 1992), his memoir of life in the south of France. 

Most recently, he received the 2014 Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the Academy of American Poets, for his Selected Translations (Copper Canyon Press, 2013). About W. S. Merwin’s work, judge David Hinton said:

W. S. Merwin’s art is ravenous, and this award celebrates that hunger. To translate is to inhabit another voice, which in turn enlarges one’s horizons as a writer; and Merwin’s huge Selected Translations represents a lifetime spent doing just that: feeding his own art with other voices. The book is a museum of world poetry, collecting artifacts from a vast range of cultures and times. This year, in addition to the Selected Translations, Merwin also published a voluminous translation from one of Japan’s greatest classical poets, a major addition to his world-poetry museum: Collected Haiku of Yosa Buson. And so continues Merwin’s lifelong gift to our hunger for other voices.

His other honors include the Academy of American Poets Fellowship, the Aiken Taylor Award for Modern American Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, the Governor’s Award for Literature of the State of Hawaii, the Lannan Literary Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Writers’ Award, the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets, the PEN Translation Prize, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, the Shelley Memorial Award, the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the Zbigniew Herbert International Literary Award, as well as fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Rockefeller Foundation.

A former Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, Merwin also served as Poetry Consultant to the Library of Congress and as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2010 to 2011. He died on March 15, 2019.



Garden Time (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)
The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014)
The Shadow of Sirius (Copper Canyon Press, 2008)
Present Company (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)
Migration: New & Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2005)
The Pupil (Alfred A. Knopf, 2001)
The River Sound (Alfred A. Knopf, 1999)
The Folding Cliffs (Alfred A. Knopf, 1998)
Flower and Hand: Poems 1977-1983 (Copper Canyon Press, 1997)
The Vixen (Alfred A. Knopf, 1996)
Travels (Alfred A. Knopf, 1993)
The Rain in the Trees (Alfred A. Knopf, 1988)
Opening the Hand (Atheneum, 1983)
The Compass Flower (Atheneum, 1977)
The Carrier of Ladders (Atheneum, 1970)
The Lice (Atheneum, 1967)
The Drunk in the Furnace (Macmillan, 1960)
Green with Beasts (Alfred A. Knopf, 1956)
A Mask for Janus (Yale University Press, 1952)


Unchopping a Tree (Trinity University Press, 2014)
The Book of Fables (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)
Summer Doorways (Counterpoint, 2006)
The Lost Upland (Alfred A. Knopf, 1992)


Selected Translations (Copper Canyon Press, 2013)
Collected Haiku of Yosa Buson, with Takako Lento (Copper Canyon Press, 2013)
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Alfred A. Knopf, 2004)
Dante’s Purgatorio (Alfred A. Knopf, 2000)

W. S. Merwin
Photo credit: Matt Valentine

By This Poet


My Friends

My friends without shields walk on the target

It is late the windows are breaking

My friends without shoes leave
What they love
Grief moves among them as a fire among
Its bells
My friends without clocks turn
On the dial they turn
They part

My friends with names like gloves set out
Bare handed as they have lived
And nobody knows them
It is they that lay the wreaths at the milestones it is their
Cups that are found at the wells
And are then chained up

My friends without feet sit by the wall
Nodding to the lame orchestra
Brotherhood it says on the decorations
My friend without eyes sits in the rain smiling
With a nest of salt in his hand

My friends without fathers or houses hear
Doors opening in the darkness
Whose halls announce

Behold the smoke has come home

My friends and I have in common
The present a wax bell in a wax belfry
This message telling of
Metals this
Hunger for the sake of hunger this owl in the heart
And these hands one
For asking one for applause

My friends with nothing leave it behind
In a box
My friends without keys go out from the jails it is night
They take the same road they miss
Each other they invent the same banner in the dark
They ask their way only of sentries too proud to breathe

At dawn the stars on their flag will vanish

The water will turn up their footprints and the day will rise
Like a monument to my
Friends the forgotten

One of the Lives

If I had not met the red-haired boy whose father
               had broken a leg parachuting into Provence
to join the resistance in the final stage of the war
               and so had been killed there as the Germans were moving north
out of Italy and if the friend who was with him
               as he was dying had not had an elder brother
who also died young quite differently in peacetime
               leaving two children one of them with bad health
who had been kept out of school for a whole year by an illness
               and if I had written anything else at the top 
of the examination form where it said college
               of your choice or if the questions that day had been
put differently and if a young woman in Kittanning
               had not taught my father to drive at the age of twenty
so that he got the job with the pastor of the big church 
               in Pittsburgh where my mother was working and if 
my mother had not lost both parents when she was a child
               so that she had to go to her grandmother’s in Pittsburgh
I would not have found myself on an iron cot
               with my head by the fireplace of a stone farmhouse
that had stood empty since some time before I was born
               I would not have travelled so far to lie shivering
with fever though I was wrapped in everything in the house
               nor have watched the unctuous doctor hold up his needle
at the window in the rain light of October
               I would not have seen through the cracked pane the darkening
valley with its river sliding past the amber mountains
               nor have wakened hearing plums fall in the small hour
thinking I knew where I was as I heard them fall


Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.

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