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For Stuart Longtin Heavy and gray now, dressed in deacon’s robes— I see you in your Speedo at Floyd Lake, its nylon clinging to those golden globes you exercised for Moorhead football’s sake. We hiked the Black Trail to Itasca Park, but now I see a deacon hard at work explicating the Gospel of St. Mark, our high school quarterback become a clerk— in the high sense. A boy with such good looks, you could have run to Hollywood and whored but turned to mastery of sacred books and the manly mimesis of our Lord. Lifesaver, that was your job at Wilderness, teaching tenderfoot farm boys how to swim. Soulsaver, I would call you now and bless any man who preaches Saint Mark to Tim. We take our coffee outside for the view, patrol the walk-about with twelve-foot mesh where drunks can smoke. What has become of Stu? The Word. Not on the page but in the flesh.

The skin ripples over my body like moon-wooed water, rearing to escape me. Where could it find another animal as naked as the one it hates to cover? Once it told me what was happening outside, who was attacking, who caressing, and what the air was doing to feed or freeze me. Now I wake up dark at night, in a textureless ocean of ignorance, or fruit bites back and water bruises like a stone. It’s jealousy, because I look for other tools to know with, and other armor, better girded to my wish. So let it lie, turn off the clues or try to leave: sewn on me seamless like those painful shirts the body-hating saints wore, the sheath of hell is pierced to my darkness nonetheless: what traitors labor in my face, what hints they smuggle through its arching guard! But even in the night it jails, with nothing but its lies and silences to feed upon, the jail itself can make a scenery, sing prison songs, and set off fireworks to praise a homemade day.

Barely twenty-five, he smells of yesterday’s spit and vomit, black beard droops in clumps from his drawn, sun-savaged face. Hanging from a string around his neck: a small holy book. This man was once a child held against the breast of a mother who kissed his small meaty hands that smelled of milk and tears.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are bann'd, and barr'd—forbidden fare; But this was for my father's faith I suffer'd chains and courted death; That father perish'd at the stake For tenets he would not forsake; And for the same his lineal race In darkness found a dwelling place; We were seven—who now are one, Six in youth, and one in age, Finish'd as they had begun, Proud of Persecution's rage; One in fire, and two in field, Their belief with blood have seal'd, Dying as their father died, For the God their foes denied;— Three were in a dungeon cast, Of whom this wreck is left the last. There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, There are seven columns, massy and grey, Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left; Creeping o'er the floor so damp, Like a marsh's meteor lamp: And in each pillar there is a ring, And in each ring there is a chain; That iron is a cankering thing, For in these limbs its teeth remain, With marks that will not wear away, Till I have done with this new day, Which now is painful to these eyes, Which have not seen the sun so rise For years—I cannot count them o'er, I lost their long and heavy score When my last brother droop'd and died, And I lay living by his side. They chain'd us each to a column stone, And we were three—yet, each alone; We could not move a single pace, We could not see each other's face, But with that pale and livid light That made us strangers in our sight: And thus together—yet apart, Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 'Twas still some solace in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken to each other's speech, And each turn comforter to each With some new hope, or legend old, Or song heroically bold; But even these at length grew cold. Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon stone, A grating sound, not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be: It might be fancy—but to me They never sounded like our own. I was the eldest of the three And to uphold and cheer the rest I ought to do—and did my best— And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven— For him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distress'd To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day— (When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free)— A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone, Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun: And thus he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay, With tears for nought but others' ills, And then they flow'd like mountain rills, Unless he could assuage the woe Which he abhorr'd to view below. The other was as pure of mind, But form'd to combat with his kind; Strong in his frame, and of a mood Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, And perish'd in the foremost rank With joy:—but not in chains to pine: His spirit wither'd with their clank, I saw it silently decline— And so perchance in sooth did mine: But yet I forced it on to cheer Those relics of a home so dear. He was a hunter of the hills, Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon's snow-white battlement, Which round about the wave inthralls: A double dungeon wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay: We heard it ripple night and day; Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; And I have felt the winter's spray Wash through the bars when winds were high And wanton in the happy sky; And then the very rock hath rock'd, And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, Because I could have smiled to see The death that would have set me free. I said my nearer brother pined, I said his mighty heart declined, He loathed and put away his food; It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like had little care: The milk drawn from the mountain goat Was changed for water from the moat, Our bread was such as captives' tears Have moisten'd many a thousand years, Since man first pent his fellow men Like brutes within an iron den; But what were these to us or him? These wasted not his heart or limb; My brother's soul was of that mould Which in a palace had grown cold, Had his free breathing been denied The range of the steep mountain's side; But why delay the truth?—he died. I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead,— Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. He died—and they unlock'd his chain, And scoop'd for him a shallow grave Even from the cold earth of our cave. I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay His corse in dust whereon the day Might shine—it was a foolish thought, But then within my brain it wrought, That even in death his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer— They coldly laugh'd—and laid him there: The flat and turfless earth above The being we so much did love; His empty chain above it leant, Such Murder's fitting monument! But he, the favourite and the flower, Most cherish'd since his natal hour, His mother's image in fair face The infant love of all his race His martyr'd father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched now, and one day free; He, too, who yet had held untired A spirit natural or inspired— He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood: I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors—this was woe Unmix'd with such—but sure and slow: He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender—kind, And grieved for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray; An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright; And not a word of murmur—not A groan o'er his untimely lot,— A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence—lost In this last loss, of all the most; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting Nature's feebleness, More slowly drawn, grew less and less: I listen'd, but I could not hear; I call'd, for I was wild with fear; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonishèd; I call'd, and thought I heard a sound— I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him:—I found him not, I only stirred in this black spot, I only lived, I only drew The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath— My brothers—both had ceased to breathe: I took that hand which lay so still, Alas! my own was full as chill; I had not strength to stir, or strive, But felt that I was still alive— A frantic feeling, when we know That what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die, I had no earthly hope—but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befell me then and there I know not well—I never knew— First came the loss of light, and air, And then of darkness too: I had no thought, no feeling—none— Among the stones I stood a stone, And was, scarce conscious what I wist, As shrubless crags within the mist; For all was blank, and bleak, and grey; It was not night—it was not day; It was not even the dungeon-light, So hateful to my heavy sight, But vacancy absorbing space, And fixedness—without a place; There were no stars, no earth, no time, No check, no change, no good, no crime But silence, and a stirless breath Which neither was of life nor death; A sea of stagnant idleness, Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! A light broke in upon my brain,— It was the carol of a bird; It ceased, and then it came again, The sweetest song ear ever heard, And mine was thankful till my eyes Ran over with the glad surprise, And they that moment could not see I was the mate of misery; But then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track; I saw the dungeon walls and floor Close slowly round me as before, I saw the glimmer of the sun Creeping as it before had done, But through the crevice where it came That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, And tamer than upon the tree; A lovely bird, with azure wings, And song that said a thousand things, And seemed to say them all for me! I never saw its like before, I ne'er shall see its likeness more: It seem'd like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! Or if it were, in wingèd guise, A visitant from Paradise; For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while Which made me both to weep and smile— I sometimes deem'd that it might be My brother's soul come down to me; But then at last away it flew, And then 'twas mortal well I knew, For he would never thus have flown— And left me twice so doubly lone,— Lone as the corse within its shroud, Lone as a solitary cloud, A single cloud on a sunny day, While all the rest of heaven is clear, A frown upon the atmosphere, That hath no business to appear When skies are blue, and earth is gay. A kind of change came in my fate, My keepers grew compassionate; I know not what had made them so, They were inured to sights of woe, But so it was:—my broken chain With links unfasten'd did remain, And it was liberty to stride Along my cell from side to side, And up and down, and then athwart, And tread it over every part; And round the pillars one by one, Returning where my walk begun, Avoiding only, as I trod, My brothers' graves without a sod; For if I thought with heedless tread My step profaned their lowly bed, My breath came gaspingly and thick, And my crush'd heart felt blind and sick. I made a footing in the wall, It was not therefrom to escape, For I had buried one and all, Who loved me in a human shape; And the whole earth would henceforth be A wider prison unto me: No child, no sire, no kin had I, No partner in my misery; I thought of this, and I was glad, For thought of them had made me mad; But I was curious to ascend To my barr'd windows, and to bend Once more, upon the mountains high, The quiet of a loving eye. I saw them—and they were the same, They were not changed like me in frame; I saw their thousand years of snow On high—their wide long lake below, And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; I heard the torrents leap and gush O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; I saw the white-wall'd distant town, And whiter sails go skimming down; And then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem'd joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seem'd to fly; And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled—and would fain I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save,— And yet my glance, too much opprest, Had almost need of such a rest. It might be months, or years, or days— I kept no count, I took no note— I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free; I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where; It was at length the same to me, Fetter'd or fetterless to be, I learn'd to love despair. And thus when they appear'd at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home: With spiders I had friendship made And watch'd them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell; My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are:—even I Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

*     * *     * The third arrow flew upward and stuck we rode back sun birds bedeviled the great stem its reflected words fast thunder hills a molten mass small clouds of stones green rushes waylaid spirits onto lava beds post removed stone broken face turned down to earth *    * *    * I dropped out the little hangnail blanket of a door sun strapped to my back so everyone could feel I was sinking *    * *    * I dried out woke up sprouted wings and flew away *    * Looking Glass is dead The circular blue paper is the sky We see some green spots which are pleasing Are the commissioners clear as I am? I gave them a blue flag which they pretended to cherish I live in hopes I do not have two hearts The Illinois River will rise A single warrior to write beyond without me Death at the hands of the long guns Did I say death? Or the springs are drying up? Find the break where blood runs clear Through the love you bear your gallant little band *    * “Not to reverse history but to draw out the strength” * Write in the corridor to be no speaking Sing in the hall to be no dancing Cry in the street to be no leading Break into the house to be no sleeping Feel in the closet to be no running Fight in the dome to be no screaming Lie down in the dark to be no changing *    * Are the commissioners clear as I am? The dampness of night pierces my shield. Two dead men push a stick through my buttonhole. The sun looks down on me as complete. I want you to look and smile — red with iron black. With all of my heart I thank my black-robed friends for their kindness. Columns of steel rise. I was glad to hear the black robes had given you this shimmer of elongated nights, left to waver in the void. They know how to die in battle. They are a twist in the black mirror, that river between the city and the mist. We will produce no sane men again. They come back different and the same. They roam over hills and plains and wish the heavens would fall. You issued the first soldiers and we only answered back, seeking air. I have sent many words that were drowned along the way. The wind is full of bottles and the air aggressive, a red feather placed into black hair. * Joy Harjo in a 1989 interview with Lewis MacAdams

Though the road turn at last to death’s ordinary door, and we knock there, ready to enter and it opens easily for us, yet all the long journey we shall have gone in chains, fed on knowledge-apples acrid and riddled with grubs. We taste other food that life, like a charitable farm-girl, holds out to us as we pass— but our mouths are puckered, a taint of ash on the tongue. It’s not joy that we’ve lost— wildfire, it flares in dark or shine as it will. What’s gone is common happiness, plain bread we could eat with the old apple of knowledge. That old one—it griped us sometimes, but it was firm, tart, sometimes delectable ... The ashen apple of these days grew from poisoned soil. We are prisoners and must eat our ration. All the long road in chains, even if, after all, we come to death’s ordinary door, with time smiling its ordinary long-ago smile.

Prisoners guilty or not always look the same when they are released— patriarchs dethroned. This one just passed through the gate head bowed despite not being tall his gestures like a Bedouin’s entering the tent he carried on his back all day long. Cotton curtains, stone walls, the smell of burnt lime take him back to the moment the cold war ended. The other day his sheet was hung up in the courtyard as if to flaunt the blood stain after a wedding night. Faces tarnished by sun surround him, all eyes and ears: “What did you dream of last night?” A prisoner’s dreams are parchment made sacred by its missing passages. His sister is still discovering his odd habits: the bits of bread hidden in pockets and under his bed the relentless chopping of wood for winter. Why this fear? What can be worse than life in prison? Having choices but being unable to choose.

The animals are leaving the safety of the trees Light sensors respond to the footfall of every guest To retard the growth of algae The fishes must be moved from the window Stiller than water she lies As in a glass dress As if all life might come to its end within the radius of her bed Beyond the reef of trees a beach cannot be seen the bay itself barely breathing In the other wing of the house a small boat awaits elucidation

This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors Many a frosty night, and merrily Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores: 'At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush,' said he, 'I slept.' None knew which bush. Above the town, Beyond 'The Drover', a hundred spot the down In Wiltshire. And where now at last he sleeps More sound in France—that, too, he secret keeps.

From loss of  the old and lack of  the new From failure to make the right thing do Save us, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. From words not the word, from a feckless voice From poetic distress and from careless choice Exclude our intellects,  James Joyce. From genteel angels and apostles unappalled From Hollywood visions as virgins shawled Guard our seeing, Grünewald. From calling a kettle an existential pot, From bodying the ghost of  whatever is not, John save us, O most subtle Scot. From pace without cadence, from pleasures slip-shod From eating the pease and rejecting the pod Wolfgang keep us, lover of God. Couperin come with your duple measure Alter our minds against banal pleasure. Dürer direct with strictness our vision; Steady this flesh toward your made precision. Mistress of accurate minor pain, Lend wit for forbearance, prideless Jane. From pretending to own what we secretly seek, From (untimely, discourteous) the turned other cheek, Protect our honor, Demetrius the Greek. From ignorance of structural line and bone From passion not pointed on truth alone Attract us, painters on Egyptian stone. From despair keep us, Aquin’s dumb son; From despair keep us, Saint Welcome One; From lack of despair keep us, Djuna and John Donne. That zeal for free will get us in deep, That the chance to choose be the one we keep That free will steel self  in us against self-defense That free will repeal in us our last pretense That free will heal us Jeanne d’Arc, Job,  Johnnie Skelton, Jehan de Beauce, composer  Johann, Dark  John Milton, Charter Oak  John, Strike deep, divide us from cheap-got doubt; Leap, leap between us and the easy out; Teach us to seize, to use, to sleep well, to let go; Let our loves, freed in us, gaudy and graceful, grow. Originally appeared in the June 1957 issue of Poetry magazine.