In the sequence below, poet Amy Newman imagines a set of lost notes jotted by Charles Darwin for his wife Emma (née Wedgwood). The series of haiku-like observations and miniature poems mirrors the delicate, precise, interdependent constructions that Darwin himself detected in nature. We seem to witness a mind in the process of realising that humanity, no less than the orchid or the wasp, is part of this vast, intricate pattern.
Weaving in quotations from The Origin of Species, Newman achieves a seamlessly crafted blend of registers: the voice is informal, sensuous, coolly explicatory, and at times unguardedly excited (note the way the word "mouth" is twice emphasised by its position as the end of a section). The reader can sense acutely those moments when Emma's lover becomes "flustered" with pleasure and desire. But the poem also hints at the one shadow on their intimacy. What Charles cannot fully express to conventionally-religious Emma is not his sexual desire but his atheism. He has come to see religious belief simply as a phase in human evolution. The seventh verse ("we have acquired some idea of the lapse of time") expresses an idea of "creation" so daunting that Darwin erases it.
Amy Newman, professor of contemporary literature and creative writing at Northern Illinois University, is the author of four poetry collections, the most recent being fall (Welseyan, 2004-2006), which was reviewed in the Guardian in 2004 by Danny Leigh. "Darwin's Unfinished Notes for Emma" is from her second book, Camera Lyrica (alicejamesbooks, 1999). You can sample more of her work here and read her interview with the magazine trap door sun here.
As many readers will know, Amy is a previous contributor to the Guardian's online Poetry Workshop. I am delighted to welcome her as poet and participant on Poem of the Week
Darwin's Unfinished Notes to Emma
"Actually Darwin's gradual loss of faith, which he downplayed for fear of upsetting his wife Emma, had ... complex causes." - River out of Eden, Richard Dawkins
The world this morning is wide as this sea, and full of potential. I think of you so often, with great sadness at our distance.
Some of the plants I see are extraordinary. One, whose petals seem lined with cream and open out so full reminds me of your hands...
It is a diverse world, Emma, the structure is breathtaking. We will never unlearn these
hours of facts. The world...
I think of you especially as we observe the orchids, those flowers that you so admire. I would like to give you all the varieties of orchid.
Bees cut holes and suck the nectar at the bases of certain flowers, which, with a very little more trouble, they can enter
at the mouth
The mistletoe depends on birds to spread its seeds, the flowers depend on insects, it is all a series of increasingly apparent relationships. Nature moves in profitable steps.
To propagate, the orchid, I am flustered to write, requires the co-operation of the male wasp, and so resembles
we have acquired some ideas of the lapse of time; the mind cannot grasp the full meaning of the term of even a million years
Do you remember that one morning I smelled of nectar? Darling, the world is feral, and we are natives
Of all the species of bee, only the humble-bee can visit the common red clover. It has to do with curvature, with length of the proboscis, too slight to be appreciated by us. Whole fields of red clover
offer in vain their abundant supply of nectar to any other bee. The idea
of a vast spread of fresh green waiting with all its juice,
Instinct! The mental processes of animals!
To propagate, the orchid requires the participation of
the male wasp, to get the pollen on his legs, and to get him to transfer
the pollen to other orchids. The orchid must resemble genitalia,
a female wasp, her body, so the insect will copulate
with the flower. The orchids had to become desirable, so this man wasp
will alight from one to another, cross-pollinating. She wears her colour
like flesh, and scents brazenly for him: spreading herself in the cooler air;
her sweet interior; the fumbling of the dizzy wasp. This did not happen
as a whim. This is an extremely intricate subject.
The similar framework of bones in the hand of a man, wing of a bat, fin of a porpoise, leg of the horse
I am remembering your subtle throat, how in the heat your skin will almost pearl. Underneath your dress of skin all that fragile blood. You are this morning
a field of clover, and I feel drawn to this, a humble-bee. I am carried in the world's mouth
The same pattern in the wing and the leg of a bat, in the petals, stamens and pistils of flowers
This is a matter of perfection, over time, and complication. Did the orchid have the means to think itself into seducing, to adapt as idea the perfect dress of reproduction, the female wasp
a bit of fur and soft petal curved like its soft parts
Last night a dream: you and I dusted in pollen
I would like to believe
AMY NEWMAN