Phillip,
First, a disclaimer: I consider Merwin the most admirable living american poet. It's not a contest, but he has no competition. If the works of only two poets from the second half of the 20th century survive, those poets should be James Wright and Merwin.
But I'm not sure I would ever attempt to apply the word 'perfection' to any of his works. It makes me think of what W.C. Williams said when Ginsberg presented him with a sonnet: "In this form, perfection is basic." Merwin seems to be interested in something wholly different.
It's easy to see the influences of three mentors here (Blackmur, Berryman, and Auden). But beyond that, most of his pieces resist analysis. Some cliches apply: early religious influence transmuted into a later interest in myth. Early work in form which later informs the more open verse. But beyond that, it's hard to discern any formulas, algorithms, or plans, except in their absence. There is no sophomoric concern with 'voice', no highlighting of the craft. What we do have is passion, and interest in the eternal, and an almost visionary intensity.
So what do we have? The voices of the drowned, who spend their time looking up from the sea bottom, at the light in the water and the ships going by above them. There's no 'I', but there is a collective 'we', and the 'we' is understandable enough that 'it could be us.' In other words, if you and I were in this position, and were conditions like this, it 'is' what we would do.
This is because Merwin is able to fully see and feel it. The ground swells moving us about, the way the light comes down through the water, the forms of the ships still going by. He even feels the loss of memory we'd experience.
And he does it without error, without abstractions, without missteps, and without conventional sentimentality. For Merwin has an incredible, almost unfair, advantage: he spent years as a translator, in various languages, and his knowledge of those other languages informs the clarity and purity of his use of english. And he spent years translating poets from distant cultures, and has an extremely nuanced view of poetics. He is the antithesis of parochialism, as universal a poet as we've ever known. And it shows here: the piece is informed by greek myth, italian epic, english drama, 20th century american verse, but doesn't belong to any of them. It's hard to even call it american, except by the accident of his birth.
What it does have is intensity, passion, vision and dexterity. Maybe it *is* a production of its time, but it's also eternal. I'm gushing here, and I don't want to gush. There's no need. But I will say this: woodworkers, seeing a piece approaching this level, have a tendency to throw down their tools, and say 'that's it, I give up.' But a piece like this has the opposite effect on me. It shows me that it's humanly possible to do better than I'm doing. Much, much better. It helps me keep going in spite of my substantial limitations. And if that's how you wish to define 'perfection', well, the definition is good enough to persuade me.
Thanks,
Bill
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