The word "yes" has many nuances. It can mean I'm listening or I'm following what you're saying or I agree. It can signal the beginning of an interaction, as when you enter a store and the salesperson says "Yes?" . In Molly Bloom's soliloquy at the end of James Joyce's book Ulysses, the recurring word "yes" moves from simply marking various memories to become the embodiment of the sensual.
In the Terry Adams poem "Breath" , the word "yes" signals the speaker's ever-increasing amazement at the experience of being alive and all its attendant complexities.
They told me when I awoke to this bodyThe poem ratchets up its ecstatic (and perhaps apocalyptic) vision even more:
each breath will taste my blood
with the tongue of every creature that has lived,
and I said yes.
And the air I breathe will be torn by rocks
abraded by fans and bruised in the factories
of steel, and I said yes.
The air will stir the wet of my body
in the ocean of bodies, and in shared bodies
of hives and cities, and in the poisons,
and I said yes,I will breathe air that has passed through the nail holes
punched by children into jar lids
to save the lives of fireflies, and I say yes.
And just when you think the speaker couldn't possibly go any further, the poem concludes with
I will blow a cloud on the final mirrorA fine example of how the feeling of expansiveness is grounded in the body and in the facts of that world.
of the dying, before the cistern of silence cracks,
and I will make a quick slate
for fingers shouting behind cold glass,
saying yes.
In W.S. Merwin’s under-punctuated poem “Yesterday,” the narrator starts out being a sympathetic listener as an acquaintance recounts a family incident:
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
But over the course of the poem, the narrator becomes uneasy with this story:
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my [own] fathers hand the last time
Maybe the narrator no longer feels sympathetic:
he says my fatherThe poem ends matter-of-factly with the cold truth of the acquaintance:
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I dont want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
Breath (Terry Adams)
They told me when I awoke to this body
each breath will taste my blood
with the tongue of every creature that has lived,
and I said yes.
And the air I breathe will be torn by rocks
abraded by fans and bruised in the factories
of steel, and I said yes.
each breath will taste my blood
with the tongue of every creature that has lived,
and I said yes.
And the air I breathe will be torn by rocks
abraded by fans and bruised in the factories
of steel, and I said yes.
And they said the ants have a right to this breath
as much as I, and it erases their paths
as they walk and as easily,
it erases mine.
They said my breath will read me from inside
with its licking torch as if I were a cave,
and I said yes.
as much as I, and it erases their paths
as they walk and as easily,
it erases mine.
They said my breath will read me from inside
with its licking torch as if I were a cave,
and I said yes.
And the air will carry the breathless
patience of stone and the seething heat
of asphalt and scatter me from the memories
as flickeringly as footsteps,
and I said yes,
The air will stir the wet of my body
in the ocean of bodies, and in shared bodies
of hives and cities, and in the poisons,
and I said yes,
patience of stone and the seething heat
of asphalt and scatter me from the memories
as flickeringly as footsteps,
and I said yes,
The air will stir the wet of my body
in the ocean of bodies, and in shared bodies
of hives and cities, and in the poisons,
and I said yes,
I will breathe air that has passed through the nail holes
punched by children into jar lids
to save the lives of fireflies, and I say yes.
I will breathe the force that blows windrows
in snow, and rubs waves in the sand,
strips topsoil from farmlands
and makes the cypress cringe from the sea.
punched by children into jar lids
to save the lives of fireflies, and I say yes.
I will breathe the force that blows windrows
in snow, and rubs waves in the sand,
strips topsoil from farmlands
and makes the cypress cringe from the sea.
Though it is sour with dreams and loud
with sickness it will run beside my heart
like a young girl beside a horse,
it will forgive my legs for running,
and chase my mind away
from its fear, and I say yes,
I will blow into whirlwinds in the breath
of my lover, and into sea storms I will fly to be healed,
with sickness it will run beside my heart
like a young girl beside a horse,
it will forgive my legs for running,
and chase my mind away
from its fear, and I say yes,
I will blow into whirlwinds in the breath
of my lover, and into sea storms I will fly to be healed,
and to the vastness inside clouds I will go
for rest, and I will wash out my tears
with the mist blown from white caps,
and disperse my venom in daggers of sunlight,
and I say yes,
I will torture my vision through
with the everlasting scanning of seabirds, yes,
I will breathe each layer from the horizon,
and hush my thoughts in the deepest calm of caves,
for rest, and I will wash out my tears
with the mist blown from white caps,
and disperse my venom in daggers of sunlight,
and I say yes,
I will torture my vision through
with the everlasting scanning of seabirds, yes,
I will breathe each layer from the horizon,
and hush my thoughts in the deepest calm of caves,
and ripple the slow, sunken rivers, like sleep,
then whistle through blow‑holes hidden in thickets
linking the underground to the sky.
I will whisper through the perforated coinage of sewer lids,
I will lie down in hot valleys with the breath
of vegetables, and I will say yes.
I will breathe a clear cloud of silk around my heart,
and wear a frayed scarf of fire,
then whistle through blow‑holes hidden in thickets
linking the underground to the sky.
I will whisper through the perforated coinage of sewer lids,
I will lie down in hot valleys with the breath
of vegetables, and I will say yes.
I will breathe a clear cloud of silk around my heart,
and wear a frayed scarf of fire,
I will breathe what determines the path
of falling feathers,
and blows the snow from the seared summits
of mountains. I will stay trapped
a thousand years in a tomb until a mouse will free me.
I will blow a cloud on the final mirror
of the dying, before the cistern of silence cracks,
and I will make a quick slate
for fingers shouting behind cold glass,
saying yes.
of falling feathers,
and blows the snow from the seared summits
of mountains. I will stay trapped
a thousand years in a tomb until a mouse will free me.
I will blow a cloud on the final mirror
of the dying, before the cistern of silence cracks,
and I will make a quick slate
for fingers shouting behind cold glass,
saying yes.
(from Adam's Ribs, Off the Grid Press, Somerville, MA © 2008)
Yesterday (W.S. Merwin)
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my fathers hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I dont want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my fathers hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don't want you to feel that you
have to
just because I'm here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I dont want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
(from Selected Poems, pages 257-258, Atheneum, New York, NY © 1988)
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