a whole lot of "junk"

Okay, so, to jump right in to everything, the poem I wrote about in my most recent essay was not at all the poem I wanted to write about (no offense to Miss Dickinson). I had intended to write about Richard Wilbur’s Junk, but things didn’t work out the way I had planned. I started off busting with enthusiasm only to be deflated by obstacle after obstacle. I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say I spend many, many hours searching for anything written on this particular piece. Oh, I found plenty of essays and articles on other poems by Wilbur. I found myself looking at essays about some of my favorite poems, poems I’d forgotten I’d like to begin with. Too bad I never found a single essay on Junk. After a few other failed attempts with other poems, I settled on a Dickinson poem and proceeded to write my essay based on My Life was stood - a Loaded gun. Since I never got to write the essay I wanted to write about Junk, I have decided to write just a wee bit about my reactions and feelings towards the poem. This is, of course, all very rough. I am literally drawing on scribbles. Did I mention I have horrible handwriting? Alleluia for computers!

I find it fascinating the way Wilbur both degrades and glorifies the “junk”. He is clearly criticizing the craftsmanship of the axe when he refers to it as “hell’s handiwork the wood not hickory the flow of the grain not faithfully followed.” He focuses on flaws, imperfections, judging just how unworthy it all is. He cries out for those who have discarded the useless items, “Haul them off! Hide them!” He compares them to the sort of people we look down upon, “the bought boxer” and “the paid off jockey,” only to make an about face in comparing the junk to “captives who would not talk under torture.” Here Wilbur has paralleled the junk to some of the most revered and respected people in our culture. He goes on to describe the dump in terms of “dolmens,” which is remarkable in several ways. The dolmens are supposed tomb-markers, playing on the idea that these items are dead, gone, destroyed. The suggestion that the “death” of these items merits a tomb-marker instantly glorifies them. This play on death comes up again when Wilbur says, “they shall all be buried to the depth of diamonds.” Again, here is further glorification through mere juxtaposition of the junk and diamonds. The line, “the sun shall glory in the glitter of glass chips,” screams of exaltation.

Wilbur is reveling in this idea of destruction, of dissolution. He loves the idea that all things decompose, fall about and degenerate. It’s as if he is insinuating not only the insignificance of everything we do and make, but the beauty of our finite existence. We live only because we die. The value of our lives is defined only by the fact that they are limited. And not only are we mortal, but our creations suffer mortality as well. Wilbur shows us that everything we have sought to tame, will inevitably escape us. Nothing truly lasts forever; we must die; things must break and be forgotten. But that is the beauty of existence, of life.