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Part Four of “Pro Femina” At Samoa, hardly unpacked, I commenced planting, When I’d opened the chicken crates, built the Cochins a coop. The Reverend Mr. Claxton called, found me covered with mud, My clothes torn, my hair in a wad, my bare feet bleeding. I had started the buffalo grass in the new-made clearing. The next day the priest paid a visit. Civil but restless, I was dying to plant the alfalfa seed—gave him a packet. That evening I paced up and down, dropping melon seeds, Tomatoes and bush lima beans here and there Where I thought they would grow. We were short of food now, So I cooked up a mess of fat little parrots, disturbed At the way they suggested cages and swings and stands ... An excellent meal. I have been told the dodo survived here, And yearn for a pet on a string. And I built the pig-house. I had brought sweet coconut seed from Savage Island. I planted kidney potatoes in small earthen hills. Sowed seeds of eggplant in numerous boxes of soil, Tomato and artichoke too; half-a-dozen fine pineapple Sent over by Mr. Carruthers, the island solicitor. As fast as we eat them, we plant the tops. The kitchen a shack near the house. I made bread in the rain. October, 1890. I have been here nearly a month; Put in corn, peas, onions, radishes, lettuce. Lima beans Are already coming up. The ripening cantaloupe were stolen. Carruthers gave me mint root and grenadilla Like a bouquet; he delivered a load of trees, Two mangoes among them. I set them out in a heavy rain, Then rounded off the afternoon sowing Indian corn. Louis has called me a peasant. How I brooded! Confided it to you, diary, then crossed it out. Peasant because I delve in the earth, the earth I own. Confiding my seed and root—I too a creator? My heart melts over a bed of young peas. A blossom On the rose tree is like a poem by my son. My hurt healed by its cause, I go on planting. No one else works much. The natives take it easy; The colonials keep their shops, and a shortage of customers. The mail comes four times a month, and the gossip all day. The bars are crowded with amateur politicians, Office-seekers I named the earwig consul and king: Big talkers, with small-time conspirators drinking them in. Mr. Carruthers and I picked a site for the kitchen garden. I was planting a new lot of corn and pumpkin When a young chief arrived, laden with pineapple plants. I set them out as I talked to him on the way home. Rats and a wild hen ate the corn. Lettuce got too much sun. So I dug a new patch up the road; in the fragrant evening I confided to Louis, a puff of the sweetest scent Blows back as I cast away a handful of so-called weeds! It still hurts, his remark that I have the soul of a peasant. My vanity, like a newly felled tree, lies prone and bleeding. I clear the weeds near the house for planting maize. Sweet corn and peas are showing. I send for more seeds. I clean out the potatoes, which had rotted in their hills. Of course, RLS is not idle; he is writing A Footnote to History: How the great powers combine to carve up these islands. I discovered the ylang-ylang tree: a base for perfume, Though it suggested to me the odor of boots. Another tree is scented like pepper and spice, And one terrible tree, I am forced to say, Smells like ordure ... It nearly made me ill. Breadfruit is plentiful. I found a banana grove, Began clearing it instantly, and worked till I was dizzy. The garden looks like a graveyard: beds shaped like tombs. I plant cabbage which I loathe, so the British won’t tease me For not growing it. But behold! in the hedge Among citron and lime, many lemon trees, in full bearing. Still, I will fall to brooding before the mirror, Though Louis says he finds the peasant class “interesting.” He is forty today. I am ten years his senior. On the cleared land, the green mummy-apple, Male and female, is springing up everywhere. I discover wild ginger, turmeric, something like sugar. Roots of orange, breadfruit and mango, seeds of cacao Came with a shipment from Sydney; also eleven Young navel orange trees. The strawberry plants are rotten. I am given a handful of bees. I plant more pineapple. All fall I am cursed with asthma, rheumatics, a painful ear. Christmas. A hurricane. And the New Year begins. Louis describes it divinely to Henry James. Mr. Carruthers’ gift pineapple starts to fruit. I set out one precious rhubarb plant, pause to gloat At the ripe tomatoes, the flourishing long-podded beans. But the neighbors’ horses break in and trample the corn. Sometimes, when planting, a strange subterranean rumble —Volcanic?—vexes the earth beneath this peasant haunch. I rise up from my furrow, knuckle smooth my brow As I sniff the air, suddenly chemical, a sulphurous fume. Louis insisted on going to Sydney, fell ill again. His mother comes back with him, finds me on my knees. The old lady’s heart leaps! Alas, I am planting, not praying. We both rise at five-thirty, after dreaming of weeds. Louis describes to me endless vivid deeps: Dreams of nettle-stings, stabs from the citron’s thorns, The ants’ fiery bites, the resistance of mud and slime, The evasions of wormy roots, the dead weight of heat In the sudden puffs of air ... Louis writes till nine, Then if he’s well enough, he helps with the weeding. He writes Colvin, keeper of prints at the British Museum, “I know pleasure still ... with a thousand faces, None perfect, a thousand tongues, all broken, A thousand hands, all with scratching nails ... High among joys, I place this delight of weeding, Out here alone by the garrulous water, under the silence Of the high wind, broken by sounds of birds.” The shock of bird-calls, laughing and whistling! They mimic his name till it seems, he says, “The birds re-live the business of my day.” But the rain continues to fall on birds and weeds. The new servants fooled around with the ice machine As the house leaked and listed. Mildew spread its failure. Mrs. S. gave me some nuts, and went back to Australia. Green peppers, eggplant, tomatoes are flourishing, Asparagus also. The celery does to season soup. Avocados grow at a rate that is almost frightening. Coconuts too. I read about Stanley and Livingstone. I cured my five ulcers with calomel, wished I could tell Stanley the remedy. Instead, I made perfume. The servants feared devils, so I planted the orange grove alone. For two months I misplaced this diary ... War is in the air, talk of killing all whites. I bought coffee trees, rose trees, and Indian beans, Then went to Fiji to rest, and to get more seeds From a former Kew gardener. An Indian in a shop Told me how to raise Persian melon and cauliflower And a radish that turns into a turnip when it grows up. I came home to a burgeoning world: cacao, custard squash. The new house was finished, and painted peacock blue. The jealous old cat bit off the new cat’s toes. My mother-in-law returned with her Bible and lady’s maid; My daughter, her family, and my son Lloyd came too. The relatives had a terrible row. Mrs. S. refused To pray with the servants. I threw up my hands! My diary entries grow farther and farther apart. I wrote life was a strain. Later, someone crossed it out. In pain again, from an aneurysm inside my head ... I planted more and more cacao, and a form of cherry tree, Tobacco and rubber, taught how by Mr. Sketchley. I planted more cacao through an epidemic of ’flu. Three hundred seeds in baskets broke through the ground. I get almost no time to write. I have been planting ... Four kinds of cabbage are doing very well. Mr. Haggard, the land commissioner, come to dine, Points out a weed which makes excellent eating Cooked like asparagus. I shall try it very soon. Now, when the Reverend Mr. Claxton comes to call, I refuse to see him. I am tired of the Claxtons. The political situation grows grim. I rage at Louis Who toasts, “Her Blessed Majesty the Queen,” then aggressively Throbbing, turns to my American son To say he may drink to the President afterward If he likes. I am writing this down Hoping Louis will see it later, and be ashamed Of his childishness and bad taste. (This will be erased.) Because war is near, the Germans stop growing cacao. Captain Hufnagel offers me all the seeds I can use. So now we are blazing with cacao fever, The whole family infected. Six hundred plants set out! The verandah tracked with mud, and the cacao litter. Mrs. S. upset by the mess. Twelve hundred cacaos planted. Joe, my son-in-law, planted his thousandth tree today. The tree onions make large bulbs but don’t want to seed. Most vigorous: sunflower, watermelon—weeds! The jelly from berries out of the bush is delicious; Lovely perfume from massoi, citron, vanilla, and gum. The peanuts are weeded while Joe plays on his flute. I plant cabbage by moonlight, set out more cacao. The heart of a death’s-head moth beats a tattoo in my hand. Planted coffee all day, and breadfruit, five beauties ... Planted coffee the better part of the day, eight plants. In the nursery, three times that many. Planted coffee ... Painted the storm shutters. Planted coffee all morning. I found a heap of old bones in a bush near the sty; Two heads and a body: a warrior died with his prize. Louis gave the bones a funeral and a burial. A series of hurricanes: Louis writes to The Times Of “the foul colonial politics.” I send to New York for seeds: Southern Cross cabbage, eggplant, sweet potato And two thousand custard apples. Louis’ own seed, David Balfour, is growing. I wrote nothing From June till the end of this year; too busy planting. The Samoan princes are getting nearer to war. It pains me to write this: my son-in-law has gone native In a spectacular way. Belle is divorcing him. Austin, my grandson, is in school in Monterey. I have not, I believe, mentioned Mrs. Stevenson recently. She has gone back to Scotland. The first breadfruit bore. Belle and I go on sketching expeditions To the hostile Samoan camps, stop in town for ginger beer. Mr. Haggard begged us to stay in town Because he bitterly wanted women to protect. I suggested to him that I and my daughter Could hide under his table and hand him cartridges At the window, to complete the romantic effect. It is clear that Mr. Haggard is Ryder’s brother! He said, “You’d sell your life for a bunch of banana trees.” I’ve given permission to most of the “boys” To go to the races. Lloyd has put up the lawn tennis things. Mr. Gurr, the neighbor, rushes in to say war has begun. We all race to the mission. Eleven heads have been taken. Later: Mr. Dine’s cousin received a head smeared with black (The custom is to return them to the bereaved). He washed it off and discovered it was his brother. He sat there, holding his brother’s head in his hands, Kissing it, bathing it with his tears. A scandal arose Because the heads of three girls have been taken as well (Unheard of before in Samoa), returned wrapped in silk to their kin. At Malie, the warriors danced a head-hunter’s pantomime; The men who had taken heads carried great lumps of raw pork Between their teeth, cut in the semblance of heads. I stopped writing this. Too hysterical with migraine. Also, people find where I hide it, and strike things out. Our favorite chief is exiled for life. The war winds down. Louis works on his masterpiece,The Weir of Hermiston. Well, I’ve kept him alive for eight more years, While his dear friends would have condemned him to fog and rain So they might enjoy his glorious talk in London, Though it be the end of him. Fine friends! except for James. Later: At six, Louis helped with the mayonnaise, When he put both hands to his head, said, “Oh, what a pain! Do I look strange?” I said no, not wanting to frighten him. He was never conscious again. In two hours he died. Tonight, the chiefs with their axes are digging a path To the top of the mountain. They will dig his grave. I will leave here as soon as I can, and never return, Except to be buried beside him. I will live like a gipsy In my wild, ragged clothes, until I am old, old. I will have pretty gardens wherever I am, But never breadfruit, custard apples, grenadilla, cacao, Pineapple, ylang-ylang, citron, mango, cacao, Never again succumb to the fever of planting.

Forever is the saddest word The poem's not worth it I'd like to read to you What Andy Warhol said About the traps of the rich But my tastes are changing This is a love note To a Fire Island lifeguard Tuscano shearling And mauve champagne I should never talk Even after two sips Though that's when I can I hate the George V hotel But I would take you there Then walk to the open market Some thoughts are not that great The Internet is my home Where it's easy to be beautiful And seen and new In the glow In the spell I thought I was better I guess I won't ever be God wants us to make out 'Cause I'm in this airport Where nobody's important I just wrote a letter Explaining all of this to you In my head The prism refracts But the stone is cloudy All that comes through Are the deeper obsessions Arvid Nordquist and dry shampoo Cocaine and Pellegrino This weather should have an entry In A  Lover's Discourse A fully enclosed private garden With direct access to the pool Hardwood floors Perfect light I, like, crave you Doesn't it ever just make you sad Plans you had with different people And how it all can't come true? I want the extremes Of pleasure Boredom Watching my lovers cry I really want to show something To the lifeguard from Fire Island Thoughts like nectar International cities To stand here a young prince Unique in spirit Replete with hospitality Aren't you even curious To see my hotel room After I swim? Sitting on my bed I typed Principal Dancer Into YouTube And drank To see the discourse And the honor Feels good Standing at my window What I think I will miss most When I die Is color And the light Sometimes it just comes to you Amidst occasional instances Of radiance or darkness I mean Everyone has their shit Then enough time goes by That's your life Maybe I expect too much I wouldn't know how not to In my room With these portraits In gold frames Feels like theater MGM Pictures The bronze light of Hollywood 1928 The future isn't real I should walk in golden rays Past rows of motorcycles To Coney Island Because I know grace Is more real than love It feels so real In the morning On Fifth Ave. With the lifeguard From Fire Island Weightless in badinage Whatever comes from Art and life Being can be too easy and common Like soda I let him come inside my world Because they gave me a key To Gramercy Park Maybe tonight I'll have a breakdown Sometimes I use this French product To soften the water When I soak in the bathtub It is silent there Like a tomb Sometimes I wish I was already in mine Sometimes I wish The world had a face I could touch the cheek of When I feel I could be a part of it When I cannot And I lie in the hot water Sometimes I wish The pearlescent steam Could sublimate the malaise And the lassitude That is there inside of me Maybe it does I believe it is that way When the light touches down Upon bunny lawns Of Fifth Ave. I don't care at all About the lifeguard so much Gravlax or Paris I should call this friend In Los Angeles An aesthete who hosts parties by the pool

Far away, far away, men making wars. Other folk's blood spilt on other folk's floors. Only this morning I wounded my finger: a thorn on my rosebush pierced like a stinger. Sucking that finger, I thought of the war. Sad is the earth! And those people, so poor! I'm of no help, being here and not there, nor can I reach them, by sea or by air. And what if I could—what good could I do? My Arabic's terrible! My English is, too! What, should I stroll through the fields of the dead leaving sheaves of my verses under each head? No. Enough of this wretched irony-fest. Let's put on a coat. The sun's low in the west.

At times now from some margin of the day I can hear birds of another country not the whole song but a brief phrase of it out of a music that I may have heard once in a moment I appear to have forgotten for the most part that full day no sight of which I can remember now though it must have been where my eyes were then that knew it as the present while I thought of somewhere else without noticing that singing when it was there and still went on whether or not I noticed now it falls silent when I listen and leaves the day and flies before it to be heard again somewhere ahead when I have forgotten

a poem in seven parts 1 convent my knees recall the pockets worn into the stone floor, my hands, tracing against the wall their original name, remember the cold brush of brick, and the smell of the brick powdery and wet and the light finding its way in through the high bars. and also the sisters singing at matins, their sweet music the voice of the universe at peace and the candles their light the light at the beginning of creation and the wonderful simplicity of prayer smooth along the wooden beads and certainly attended. 2 someone inside me remembers that my knees must be hidden away that my hair must be shorn so that vanity will not test me that my fingers are places of prayer and are holy that my body is promised to something more certain than myself 3 again born in the year of war on the day of perpetual help. come from the house of stillness through the soft gate of a silent mother. come to a betraying father. come to a husband who would one day rise and enter a holy house. come to wrestle with you again, passion, old disobedient friend, through the secular days and nights of another life. 4 trying to understand this life who did i fail, who did i cease to protect that i should wake each morning facing the cold north? perhaps there is a cart somewhere in history of children crying “sister save us” as she walks away. the woman walks into my dreams dragging her old habit. i turn from her, shivering, to begin another afternoon of rescue, rescue. 5 sinnerman horizontal one evening on the cold stone, my cross burning into my breast, did i dream through my veil of his fingers digging and is this the dream again, him, collarless over me, calling me back to the stones of this world and my own whispered hosanna? 6 karma the habit is heavy. you feel its weight pulling around your ankles for a hundred years. the broken vows hang against your breasts, each bead a word that beats you. even now to hear the words defend protect goodbye lost or alone is to be washed in sorrow. and in this life there is no retreat no sanctuary no whole abiding sister. 7 gloria mundi so knowing, what is known? that we carry our baggage in our cupped hands when we burst through the waters of our mother. that some are born and some are brought to the glory of this world. that it is more difficult than faith to serve only one calling one commitment one devotion in one life.

The city and the continent trail off into cold black water the same way: at the western edge, a flat stretch with precipitous planes set perpendicular and back from the beach or beach-equivalent, a blacktop margin where the drugged and dying trudge, queue up for Hades. Bolinas had its junkie lady with gray skin, gray sweater, stumbling through the sand with the short- burst intensity and long-run aimlessness of crackhead hustlers on the West Street piers. Dreams of Bolinas haunted me for years before I saw it. I’d huddle at the foot of the cliff in a cold wind late at night, wrapped in Indian blankets, waiting with strangers as the tidal wave or temblor hit. Tonight I walk with old friends in a new dream past a vest-pocket park of great formality and charm in the far West Village. My disaffected former confidant has grown a pony tail and cruises up the street on a “hog,” a “chopper,” which seems a perfect locomotive choice. I walk out to the quay where gondola after enormous gondola departs for “the other side,” not New Jersey anymore, anymore than something prosaic as another mass of land past the bright horizon could function as a mirror of the chopped-away Bolinas hill. O western edge, where points of interest on maps of individual hearts and bodies disappear in waters of a depth unfathomable even in a dream, I had thought that sleep was meant to blunt your sharpness, not to hone and polish with the lapping of the hungry waves of Lethe.

Good-bye!—no, do not grieve that it is over, The perfect hour; That the winged joy, sweet honey-loving rover, Flits from the flower. Grieve not—it is the law. Love will be flying— Yes, love and all. Glad was the living—blessed be the dying. Let the leaves fall.

Farewell love and all thy laws forever; Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more. Senec and Plato call me from thy lore To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour. In blind error when I did persever, Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore, Hath taught me to set in trifles no store And scape forth, since liberty is lever. Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts And in me claim no more authority. With idle youth go use thy property And thereon spend thy many brittle darts, For hitherto though I have lost all my time, Me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs to climb.

To all you ladies now at Bath, And eke, ye beaux, to you, With aching heart, and wat'ry eyes, I bid my last adieu. Farewell ye nymphs, who waters sip Hot reeking from the pumps, While music lends her friendly aid, To cheer you from the dumps. Farewell ye wits, who prating stand, And criticise the fair; Yourselves the joke of men of sense, Who hate a coxcomb's air. Farewell to Deard's, and all her toys, Which glitter in her shop, Deluding traps to girls and boys, The warehouse of the fop. Lindsay's and Hayes's both farewell, Where in the spacious hall, With bounding steps, and sprightly air, I've led up many a ball. Where Somerville of courteous mien, Was partner in the dance, With swimming Haws, and Brownlow blithe, And Britton pink of France. Poor Nash, farewell! may fortune smile, Thy drooping soul revive, My heart is full I can no more— John, bid the coachman drive.

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies, A mortal foe and enemy to rest, An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, A way of error, a temple full of treason, In all effects contrary unto reason. A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers As moisture lend to every grief that grows; A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, A siren song, a fever of the mind, A maze wherein affection finds no end, A raging cloud that runs before the wind, A substance like the shadow of the sun, A goal of grief for which the wisest run. A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, A path that leads to peril and mishap, A true retreat of sorrow and despair, An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed, And for my faith ingratitude I find; And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed, Whose course was ever contrary to kind: False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu! Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.