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After the Point of No Return
"Wagoner's words are a living link to the world, enacting it so vitally that they feel like natural facts."-The Seattle Times
In his twenty-fourth book of poetry, David Wagoner reflects on youth, love, regret, and expectation versus reality. Here a master writes at top form, back-dropped by life's curious moments and imagining Jesus as an untidy roommate or considering our final destination in "Beginner's Guide to Death."
"After the Point of No Return"
After that moment when you've lost all reasonfor going back where you started, when going aheadis no longer a Yes or No, but a matter of fact,you'll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem,on the other, almost nothing against somethingslightly more than nothing and must chooseagain and again, at points of fewer and fewerchances to guess, when and which way to turn.
That's when you might stop thinking about starsand storm clouds, the direction of wind,the difference between rain and snow, the time of day or the lay of the land, about which treesmean water, which birds know what you needto know before it's too late, or what's right hereunder your feet, no longer able to tell youwhere it was you thought you had to go.
David Wagoner is the author of two dozen books of poetry and ten novels. A longtime teacher at University of Washington, he was the editor at Poetry Northwest. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
In his twenty-fourth book of poetry, David Wagoner reflects on youth, love, regret, and expectation versus reality. Here a master writes at top form, back-dropped by life's curious moments and imagining Jesus as an untidy roommate or considering our final destination in "Beginner's Guide to Death."
"After the Point of No Return"
After that moment when you've lost all reasonfor going back where you started, when going aheadis no longer a Yes or No, but a matter of fact,you'll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem,on the other, almost nothing against somethingslightly more than nothing and must chooseagain and again, at points of fewer and fewerchances to guess, when and which way to turn.
That's when you might stop thinking about starsand storm clouds, the direction of wind,the difference between rain and snow, the time of day or the lay of the land, about which treesmean water, which birds know what you needto know before it's too late, or what's right hereunder your feet, no longer able to tell youwhere it was you thought you had to go.
David Wagoner is the author of two dozen books of poetry and ten novels. A longtime teacher at University of Washington, he was the editor at Poetry Northwest. He lives in Seattle, Washington.
- GenresPoetry
120 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 10, 2012
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
December 15, 2012
There is a William Golding novel called The Pyramid in which a man ages in a progression seen as the ascent of a pyramid. The point is made that as you climb events of the past take on a different shape and meaning, as seen from different points of your life. I see David Wagoner in this way, as a crusty and wise commentator who's already ascended, a hill rather than a pyramid, and who sits on top so that he's able to now see everything in its true perspective. And in poetry that seems wise he reports to us what he sees from his hilltop and how he remembers it as he ascended. His collection of poems is about memory, about how we perceive things now that we can't go back. We're past the point of no return. No writing fashioned in that way can not be about loss. He records that as well, but he celebrates nature more, with humor and compassion, a fly that's confused when a room is plunged into darkness, a pig standing with dignity in her mud. I imagine Wagoner high on his hilltop but he's not out of touch, not so high he can't hear the world's music roundabout, and he records it with lyricism that often takes a form I like, a stepped tercet that reads as if it's rolling its polished understanding downhill.
October 24, 2013
His best poems are the ones that take a minute to seep in, because it is a beautiful image and thought, but your mind can’t quite get it yet, needs to reread the words to make sense of it. Many of these aren’t easy poems, but I kept thinking of what beautiful exercise for my little mind! He is cryptic and meandering in his points and philosophy and combines images of the natural world with everyday life, and that is my favorite thing in the world. So many people sleepwalk through life, never noticing their surroundings, their landscape, their people and all the richness that entails. I felt like this man was telling you how he lived his life and hoping we would catch some inspiration, some insight that broke open our minds and hearts. I can’t believe I had never read him before, and it goes to show my public library rocks since they are always getting new books of poetry I stumble upon…
“When going ahead is no longer an Yes or No, but a matter of fact…” really resonated with me, that moment when a decision is made, or made for you, and all that’s left is to just go or do; “you’ll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem, on the other, almost nothing against something slightly more than nothing…” but then you will stop looking at your compass which is comprised of stars, weather, nature, landscape, and when you stop going by those signs, you will have forgotten your destination. What an interesting winding view of life, of how to decide, how to move forward while staying still inside. The whole poem:
"After the Point of No Return"
After that moment when you've lost all reason
for going back where you started, when going ahead
is no longer a Yes or No, but a matter of fact,
you'll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem,
on the other, almost nothing against something
slightly more than nothing and must choose
again and again, at points of fewer and fewer
chances to guess, when and which way to turn.
That's when you might stop thinking about stars
and storm clouds, the direction of wind,
the difference between rain and snow, the time
of day or the lay of the land, about which trees
mean water, which birds know what you need
to know before it's too late, or what's right here
under your feet, no longer able to tell you
where it was you thought you had to go.
"A Brief History"
“A poet writes the history of his body” Thoreau
Where it went, what it came back to,
where and why it laid itself down
and tried to sleep, what happened to it
without advice or consent,
what it failed at, how it disobeyed
its own commands to no purpose,
what it held in its hands when it was told
and told to let go, what it neglected
to open its arms for, how it wouldn’t
stand still, not even when it might as well
have had no legs at all
to be running away with, or the times
when it would sit and wait
without knowing what it was waiting for
in places where it didn’t belong,
how it broke down, how
but not why it made marks again
and again on pieces of paper.
A Brief History states something we have all done, sitting and waiting for no reason, and not sure why, but add it to the unique structure of the poem, and it took my breath away. “It” is such a quietly understated word here for his body and/or his soul; ‘what it neglected to open its arms for’ resonated in me, since when we review our life, we look at all our accomplishments and regrets, but do we remember what we did not embrace by not opening our hearts? Can we distill it that deeply to basics, and shouldn’t we just open our hearts just in case? To everything?
Some poems weren’t as sublimely gorgeous; but hidden within the mundane, there were thoughts that insidiously lodged in my head: in “Driving,”
‘…You knew
where both your feet should go
And when to lift them and why,
What never, never to change
Till exactly the right time
As you picked up speed
But not where you were going…’
I know, driving seems like a tired metaphor for the umm, tired metaphor of the road of life, but it gets me every time, as a traveler, and a walker, I loved the tired metaphor, and this idea, that part of living right is to know where your feet should be placed and what settings to never change to keep you going, but after all , you never knew the destination. That seems like a wide view, from the vantage point of old age, and can’t we all use it for enlightenment. We get somewhere, even if we are in the same place, and that’s the point. A little lightness and humor that is very real:
“For my Daughters during their First Penumbral Eclipse” (excerpt)
Emerson said a kind of light shines through us
and makes us aware we’re nothing. “Nothing” seems wrong.
We transmit something or other. We interfere.
Cosmically speaking, we have a nuisance value.
A Letter to an Old Poet
…You should stay alive
As often as possible and keep yourself open
to anything out of place and everything
with nowhere else to go, to carry what’s left
of your voice out and beyond, into, over,
and under, past, within, outside, between,
among, across, along, and up and around
and to be beside yourself when the spirit moves you…
The poem ends, ‘and to thank Miss Clippinger for your prepositions.’ But when you are only including excerpts, it is extraneous and takes away some of the power. But I love the simple lesson: stay alive as often as possible, or be alive and living as often as you can. Simple.
How to Live
They show us more often
Than not how to die
At the same time and in more ways
Of doing both, of taking the first
Out of the heart of the other
And spreading it around…
I am always drawn to the theme of knowing how to live from learning more about death; and thought for days about this: of taking life out of the heart of death, or taking death out of the heart of life. We don’t think of death or illness or suffering having a heart, because there is so much pain around it, but I have seen it, I witnessed it, and can’t believe it has never been expressed this gently beautifully. Death is the hardest thing to be optimistic about.
Another great poem , ‘On Being Asked Once More What a Poem Is,’ takes the tone of a poet being challenged by a hip hop fan to define what a poem is and instead of trotting out the tired definitions, the poet starts asking questions about songs, what is a song, what is dancing, what is the relationship between song and dance, and that he should go “ask poets to tell you what you’re doing/ is acting out what they call making a poem.” Love it! I have a friend who is a wonderful dancer and she loves all kinds, from salsa to hip hop and watching her is like poetry in motion, but the creative process looks and feels authentic and similar.
A great example of his meandering style, bringing you along with him on a story, and then back around to the lesson, and then gently to rest is ‘Rain Dance in a Rain Forest.’ “We’d have to dance beforehand anywhere else/but here, where rain is already happening,/how simple it all seems to persuade the gods/ to bring their heaven down, to shower us/ with that most comfortable answer to a prayer;/ results before the fact.”
“When going ahead is no longer an Yes or No, but a matter of fact…” really resonated with me, that moment when a decision is made, or made for you, and all that’s left is to just go or do; “you’ll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem, on the other, almost nothing against something slightly more than nothing…” but then you will stop looking at your compass which is comprised of stars, weather, nature, landscape, and when you stop going by those signs, you will have forgotten your destination. What an interesting winding view of life, of how to decide, how to move forward while staying still inside. The whole poem:
"After the Point of No Return"
After that moment when you've lost all reason
for going back where you started, when going ahead
is no longer a Yes or No, but a matter of fact,
you'll need to weigh, on the one hand, what will seem,
on the other, almost nothing against something
slightly more than nothing and must choose
again and again, at points of fewer and fewer
chances to guess, when and which way to turn.
That's when you might stop thinking about stars
and storm clouds, the direction of wind,
the difference between rain and snow, the time
of day or the lay of the land, about which trees
mean water, which birds know what you need
to know before it's too late, or what's right here
under your feet, no longer able to tell you
where it was you thought you had to go.
"A Brief History"
“A poet writes the history of his body” Thoreau
Where it went, what it came back to,
where and why it laid itself down
and tried to sleep, what happened to it
without advice or consent,
what it failed at, how it disobeyed
its own commands to no purpose,
what it held in its hands when it was told
and told to let go, what it neglected
to open its arms for, how it wouldn’t
stand still, not even when it might as well
have had no legs at all
to be running away with, or the times
when it would sit and wait
without knowing what it was waiting for
in places where it didn’t belong,
how it broke down, how
but not why it made marks again
and again on pieces of paper.
A Brief History states something we have all done, sitting and waiting for no reason, and not sure why, but add it to the unique structure of the poem, and it took my breath away. “It” is such a quietly understated word here for his body and/or his soul; ‘what it neglected to open its arms for’ resonated in me, since when we review our life, we look at all our accomplishments and regrets, but do we remember what we did not embrace by not opening our hearts? Can we distill it that deeply to basics, and shouldn’t we just open our hearts just in case? To everything?
Some poems weren’t as sublimely gorgeous; but hidden within the mundane, there were thoughts that insidiously lodged in my head: in “Driving,”
‘…You knew
where both your feet should go
And when to lift them and why,
What never, never to change
Till exactly the right time
As you picked up speed
But not where you were going…’
I know, driving seems like a tired metaphor for the umm, tired metaphor of the road of life, but it gets me every time, as a traveler, and a walker, I loved the tired metaphor, and this idea, that part of living right is to know where your feet should be placed and what settings to never change to keep you going, but after all , you never knew the destination. That seems like a wide view, from the vantage point of old age, and can’t we all use it for enlightenment. We get somewhere, even if we are in the same place, and that’s the point. A little lightness and humor that is very real:
“For my Daughters during their First Penumbral Eclipse” (excerpt)
Emerson said a kind of light shines through us
and makes us aware we’re nothing. “Nothing” seems wrong.
We transmit something or other. We interfere.
Cosmically speaking, we have a nuisance value.
A Letter to an Old Poet
…You should stay alive
As often as possible and keep yourself open
to anything out of place and everything
with nowhere else to go, to carry what’s left
of your voice out and beyond, into, over,
and under, past, within, outside, between,
among, across, along, and up and around
and to be beside yourself when the spirit moves you…
The poem ends, ‘and to thank Miss Clippinger for your prepositions.’ But when you are only including excerpts, it is extraneous and takes away some of the power. But I love the simple lesson: stay alive as often as possible, or be alive and living as often as you can. Simple.
How to Live
They show us more often
Than not how to die
At the same time and in more ways
Of doing both, of taking the first
Out of the heart of the other
And spreading it around…
I am always drawn to the theme of knowing how to live from learning more about death; and thought for days about this: of taking life out of the heart of death, or taking death out of the heart of life. We don’t think of death or illness or suffering having a heart, because there is so much pain around it, but I have seen it, I witnessed it, and can’t believe it has never been expressed this gently beautifully. Death is the hardest thing to be optimistic about.
Another great poem , ‘On Being Asked Once More What a Poem Is,’ takes the tone of a poet being challenged by a hip hop fan to define what a poem is and instead of trotting out the tired definitions, the poet starts asking questions about songs, what is a song, what is dancing, what is the relationship between song and dance, and that he should go “ask poets to tell you what you’re doing/ is acting out what they call making a poem.” Love it! I have a friend who is a wonderful dancer and she loves all kinds, from salsa to hip hop and watching her is like poetry in motion, but the creative process looks and feels authentic and similar.
A great example of his meandering style, bringing you along with him on a story, and then back around to the lesson, and then gently to rest is ‘Rain Dance in a Rain Forest.’ “We’d have to dance beforehand anywhere else/but here, where rain is already happening,/how simple it all seems to persuade the gods/ to bring their heaven down, to shower us/ with that most comfortable answer to a prayer;/ results before the fact.”
July 20, 2020
After reading the book, After the Point of No Return by David Wagoner, and mesmerized right from the start, "After that moment when you've lost all reason, for going back where you started, when going ahead is no longer a yes or no but a matter of fact", I no longer have the point to return it to the shelf until I've read the rest of the pages.
I am in awe of the author's perspective and keen observations on relationships, life, struggles, dreams, precious moments and memories worth keeping, carefully woven in poem after poem.
Every poem is awesome but a couple poems left an indelible mark on me.
I am very much inspired with the poem, "A Letter to an Old Poet", "Do you still believe, old man, you are a poet? If so, what you must do is so obvious, you shouldn't need reminding. You should keep trying to do what haven't done or start." It tugs my heart and stir the poet in me to keep trying and start what haven't been done yet or else regret the things that should have been done or started.
In "How to live", Poets show us how to live. Definitely true. ''they show us more often than not how to die at the same time and in more ways of doing both, of taking the first out of the heart of the other and spreading it around". Indeed this poem exudes positivities.
This book, oozing with so much inspiration and beautiful soulful lines is truly worth a treasure, thus, I am highly recommending it.
- Rosario B. Villaluz, co-author, Semper Fi, Poetry
I am in awe of the author's perspective and keen observations on relationships, life, struggles, dreams, precious moments and memories worth keeping, carefully woven in poem after poem.
Every poem is awesome but a couple poems left an indelible mark on me.
I am very much inspired with the poem, "A Letter to an Old Poet", "Do you still believe, old man, you are a poet? If so, what you must do is so obvious, you shouldn't need reminding. You should keep trying to do what haven't done or start." It tugs my heart and stir the poet in me to keep trying and start what haven't been done yet or else regret the things that should have been done or started.
In "How to live", Poets show us how to live. Definitely true. ''they show us more often than not how to die at the same time and in more ways of doing both, of taking the first out of the heart of the other and spreading it around". Indeed this poem exudes positivities.
This book, oozing with so much inspiration and beautiful soulful lines is truly worth a treasure, thus, I am highly recommending it.
- Rosario B. Villaluz, co-author, Semper Fi, Poetry
July 26, 2016
Many of the poems in this collection are tight narratives: so many settings, characters, conflicts, resolutions. It's a great primer on story. My favorite poem is "The Boy Who Ran Away from Me," which takes a Frostian approach, although "After Apple-Picking" is far less formal and more overtly weighty. Seems to be an emphasis on "how to live" here, which fits with the age of the poet. Many of these are "concept" poems, so the beauty is in the idea not in musicality or metaphor. I had never before heard the police term "fighting the blizzard" for being drunk, but that's a fitting phrase.
May 21, 2012
a few really good poems, but all in all i grew bored.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews