Who Is Less Than a Vapor?
—after Donne's "Meditation XII" What won’t end a life if a vapor will? If this poem were a violent shaking of The air by thunder or by cannon, in That case the air would be condensed above The thickness of water, of water baked Into ice, almost petrified, almost Made stone and no wonder; no la. But that Which is but a vapor, and a vapor Not exhaled when breathed in, who would not think Miserably then, put into the hands Of nature, which doesn’t only set us Up as a mark for others to shoot at, But delights itself in blowing us up Like glass, till it see us break, even From its own breath? Madness over madness Misplaced, overestimating ourselves Proceeding ourselves, we proceed from ourselves So that a self is in the plot, and we Are not only passive, but active, too, In this destruction contract. Doesn’t my Calling call for that? We have heard of death On these small occasions and from unearthed Instruments: a pin, a comb, a hair yanked, A golden vision gangrened and killed. But Still the vapor. Still. So, if asked again, What Is a vapor? I couldn’t tell you. So So insensible a thing; so near such Nothings that reduce us to nothing. And yet for all their privileges, they are Not privileged from our misery; for they Are the vapors most natural to us, Arising in our own bodies, arising In the clot-shine of disheveled rumor; And those that wound nations most arise At home. What ill air to meet in the street. What comes for your throat like homebred vapor Comes for your throat as fugitive, as fox, As soulman of any foreign state? As Detractor, as libeler, as scornful jester At home? For, as they babble of poisons And of wild creatures naturally disposed (But of course) to ruin you, ask yourself About the flea, the viper; for the flea, Though it may kill no one, does all the harm It can, not so that it may live but so That it may live as itself, shrugging through Your blood; but the jester, whose head is full Of vapor, draws vapor from your head, pulls Pigeons from his pockets, blares what venom He may have as though he were the viper, As though he is not less than a vapor, As though there is no virtue in power, Having it, and not doing any harm.
Copyright © 2019 by Rowan Ricardo Phillips. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 12, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
About this Poem
“Caught, as we all are, in the spooky gaze of this world, I found myself re-reading in John Donne’s ‘Meditation XII’ from his 1624 Devotions upon Emergent Occasions. A friend sent it to me some time ago remarking that, in light of what's going on, it cuts right to the bone. And does it ever. That said, ‘Who Is Less Than a Vapor?’ isn’t quite a found poem or an erasure—instead, it feels to me like language in the crux of being instrument, weapon, and tool all at once. These days I find myself in that mode: listening for the base poem, that sample you still can find while digging in the crates of the mind; the dwindling voice that nevertheless for the future singers sings.”
—Rowan Ricardo Phillips
Rowan Ricardo Phillips
Born in New York City in 1974, Rowan Ricardo Phillips earned his BA at Swarthmore College and his PhD at Brown University.
He is the author of two books of poetry: Heaven (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015), which was a longlist finalist for the National Book Award, and The Ground (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012), for which he received the 2013 Great Lakes Colleges Association New Writers Award for Poetry and the PEN/Joyce Osterweil Award.
In her review of Phillips’s debut collection, Evie Shockley writes, “The poems in The Ground carry the authoritative descriptions and rhythms of Walcott, the philosophical and symbolic flights of Stevens, the subtle humor and cosmopolitanism of Dove, but in a language whose musical blend of the contemporary and the timeless is all Phillips’s own. These poems assert cycles—they repeat, recur, and return—but where we end up is not where we started. “
Phillips is also the author of a book of literary criticism, When Blackness Rhymes with Blackness (Dalkey Archive Press, 2010), and a translation of Catalan poet Salvador Espriu’s Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Dalkey Archive Press, 2012).
Phillips has taught at Columbia University, Harvard University, Princeton University, and Stony Brook University, where he was also director of the Poetry Center. In 2013, he received a Whiting Writers’ Award, and two years later, he was awarded a Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellowship. A fellow at the New York Institute for the Humanities at New York University, Phillips divides his time between New York City and Barcelona, Spain.
Heaven (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015)
The Ground (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012)
When Blackness Rhymes with Blackness (Dalkey Archive Press, 2010)
Date Published: 2019-04-12
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/who-less-vapor