What Are Years.

Marianne Moore once explained that she did not put a question mark after the title of her poem "What Are Years?" - though it kept being printed with one. It's not a question at all, she explained: "It's a meditation: 'What Are Years. What Are Years.' You're not thinking about it, not asking anyone to come and answer you."
Really, Miss Moore?

(That was a rhetorical question.)
I had the Moore poem in mind, more or less, when I first read Leila Wilson's "What Is the Field?" from the September isue of Poetry; here are the first few stanzas:
The field is filled
with what we see
without sleep.
Never completely
closed, it quickly erodes
when tilled before rain.
If clogged with boulders
it won’t be razed
and once burdened
cannot quicken
under flocks.
The field reveals
glint and holds
leaning, pulls
twist from taut
knots of buds.
We watch the field
for stirring, wait
for stems to spring
back from sparrows.
We hope for a swell
in its middle so
we can say we saw
the sway that comes
from noticing.
It's a meditation, albeit one with a questioning title. And that field? Well, naturally, I also thought of Philip Larkin's "Days" -
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
That poem poses a question and answers it... with a riddle. (No coincidence that we have a special feature on Philip Larkin's doodles and drawings this issue, as well!)
And speaking of poems marked by questions, here's another poem from the September issue to think about, Kay Ryan's "Crocodile Tears" -
The one sincere
crocodile has
gone dry eyed
for years. Why
bother crying
crocodile tears.
That's not a typo at the end. Must be... a meditation?