Analysis of "The Haven"

Since I apparently can't write poetry of my own, let me tell you about a favorite of mine, Michael White's "The Haven":

Lightly, as falling, I slipped bodiless
Through gaps in the branches, through stand after stand
Of Cedars shouldering each other close
On the low blond hills or sinkhole slopes, and wound up winded
Near a sunken, snowmelt stream;
Along its banks, the frozen grass lay folded
In waves, and still hid patches of snow. A drumming
Of wings passed overhead, and I shivered, swept
With a memory of you as you woke.
The creek itself was a dark stair of pools linked

By a small, clear-spun strand in the crystalline
Bird-tracked silt. Though I felt no wind, a murmuring ran
Through the bark, all around, of the sycamore trunks--
More shadow than substance--staring out
Through the milky air. You were rising
In a distant hour, wrapped in a warmth
Of sunlight. And then I was back in it, as
The dull bronze haze of daybreak loomed
Over the farthest ridge, and from the town
Beyond, the slurred speech of traffic rose to the ear.

Much of poetry is the inner existence of the poet. He or she uses connections and images formed within the mind, making the meaning personal to the poet and elusive to the reader. A good poet, however, will give consistent and rich clues into the meaning, drawing the earnest reader closely within his or her own circle of understanding; an understanding that, arguably, could not be as completely obtained through prose. The subject of "The Haven" is elusive. A light reading will not uncover it, but there is substantial and poignant evidence within the form and language to guide the way, showing us that the speaker in the poem is dealing with the death of a loved one.

There are two worlds in the poem. The first, from which the title comes, and in which all but the last four lines take place, has an airy, almost heavenly quality: "More Shadow than substance--staring out/Through the milky air," and, the ". . . grass lay folded/In waves." We encounter many floating and flying images: "Lightly as falling," "bodiless," and, "You were rising/in a distant hour, wrapped in a warmth/Of sunlight." Near the creek, "A drumming/Of wings passed overhead . . . ." The narrator also says, "The creek istelf was a dark stair of pools . . . ," which can give a feeling a traveling upward. Even movement upon the ground is flowing: the narrator slips through trees instead of running or walking, and he is "swept/With a memory . . . ." All of this suggests that the "you" in the poem is not in the physical realm, but has passed away and that they are engaged in a kind of other-worldly communion--not literally, but through memory.

The second world is the real one, the mundane, everyday existence, without the lost love, to which the narrator is forced to return, as seen in the last four lines.

The two planes of existence are at once separate and conjoined. The twenty lines are split into two stanzas. The split comes mid-sentence, a fact that may be disconcerting at first, but is the first hint at the division between the two worlds. It is at the beginning of the second stanza that the narrator begins to return to the present. The "clear-spun strand" of water suggests a minute but progressive movement down the "dark stair" and back to earth. He is still in the dream-world with his love but is beginning, now, to move out of it. As he does, the lover departs as well, as expressed in italics in lines fifteen through seventeen.

The close relationship between the dream and reality is expressed both formally and through semantics. As I said before, each stanza contains the same numer of lines, and White uses alliteration in both of them: ". . . sunken, snowmelt stream," "slurred speech," and other instances. Both have a cloudy atmosphere: In the dream world, he "[stares] out/Through the milky air . . . ." In the real world "The dull bronze haze of daybreak" looms.

Form also plays a part in showing how the wooded surroundings evoke the transition into the world of memory. Look again at the example of consonance in "sunken, snowmelt stream." The language and rhythm to this point move the reader at a steady, flowing pace. Then those s's spring out, catching the reader's attention, even to the point of pausing for a moment. At the same time that the narrator comes to a halt, the reader is forced to stop. At this point, the narrator has reached his "haven," the place at which the memories of his lover awaken within him. In fact, that is his image of her: ". . . swept/with a memory of you as you woke." The place is a kind of parallel to the sort of relationship they must have had, and it shows in the fleeting details, such as when line three is read by itself:

Of cedars shouldering each other close. . . .

It is intriguing that the poet can let us in on so intimate an emotion with such subtle devices.

The resolution comes in their departure from each other. The narrator seems to accept it with a serenity that is helped along with the image of his lover ". . .wrapped in a warmth of sunlight . . . ." The harder, more concrete images of the real world are less threatening with this image.

This poem is subtle and challenging, and there may be other ways to read it, even if you agree with the passing loved-one motif. For instance, there is no evidence to suggest the person spoken of is a "lover" per se. It could be that the speaker is referring to a son or daughter or sibling. But the above reading of the poem is valid, given the evidence. And if it is correct, "The Haven" is a very poignant illustration of the feelings one can have after surviving a loved one.