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for Jean Brockway When the walkers-on-water went under, the bog-walkers came out of the barberry thickets, booted in gum to their hips, in a corona of midges, their ears electric with sound, beating the stale of the swamp with their whips and flailing the ground for the itch under the frond, the fern’s demonology, the mosquito’s decibel. Night-sweat clotted their palms. They tasted their gall. The sumac flickered a swatch of its leaves in the lichens and venoms, a dazzle was seen in the fog as a vegetal world gave way to a uterine, pitch pulled at their heels and blackened their knuckles, the bog-laurel’s fan opened its uttermost decimal and showed them the Bog. Paradisal, beyond purpose or menace, dewed like the flesh of an apple with the damp of creation, the disk of the pond glowed under the dragonfly’s bosses, where a faulting of glaciers had left it—vaults of bog-rosemary, buckbean and Labrador tea, a dapple of leavening mosses soaking in ice-water, peat-wicks feeding their gas to the cranberry braziers. They entered the bonfire together. The moss took their weight like a trampoline: they walked on the sponge and bitumen without leaving a footprint. In between, in the vats of mat-roses where the waterline closed like a skin, the ambiguous world of imbalance, non-being, the pre-human and tentative, was one with the ludicrous. The quaking began—under their bootsoles at first, like a whale under ambergris, then cramming their wrists with a drummer’s vibrations, knocking their ribs and their knees as all sagged and rebounded. They lurched on the wet as though tracing a profile of breakers or displacing the cords and the voids of a net, and staggered back into their childhoods, till their feet touched the granite again. The bog tossed them over the threshold that opened a path in the spruce toward the opposite edges. The leaves closed behind them. They walked an unyielding and tangible world like strangers, remembering only the hovering glare where the pitcher-plant’s hammer closed on the fly—the light shaking and shaking— as a pulse touched their feet from below, and passed over.

How much grit do you think you’ve got? Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? You may talk of pluck; it’s an easy word, And where’er you go it is often heard; But can you tell to a jot or guess Just how much courage you now possess? You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, But have you tackled self-discipline? Have you ever issued commands to you To quit the things that you like to do, And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, Those rigid orders have you obeyed? Don’t boast of your grit till you’ve tried it out, Nor prate to men of your courage stout, For it’s easy enough to retain a grin In the face of a fight there’s a chance to win, But the sort of grit that is good to own Is the stuff you need when you’re all alone. How much grit do you think you’ve got? Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go? If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit. It’s bully sport and it’s open fight; It will keep you busy both day and night; For the toughest kind of a game you’ll find Is to make your body obey your mind. And you never will know what is meant by grit Unless there’s something you’ve tried to quit.

On rain washed paper dried, ink still blurs. But all words are stains. The paper’s rippled lunar, mountain and crater, and

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations 1 Cloven Cloven Divided.About the title. The book Crowds and Power(Masse und Macht[1960], translated from German) was written by Elias Canetti; it is a study of how crowd behavior (ranging from religious congregations to mob violence) relates to obedience to state rule. Canetti (1905-1994) was a Bulgarian born novelist, playwright, and non-fiction writer who wrote in German and won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1981. The second section of this poem, in italics, is a long quotation/translation from this book , we are incorporate incorporate United in one body. Compare part of one petition from the Book of Common Prayer: “and that we are very members incorporate in the mystical body of thy Son” (from The Order for the Administration of The Lord’s Supper or Holy Communion). , our wounds simple but mysterious. We have some wherewithal to bide our time on earth. Endurance is fantastic Fantastic Imaginative or fanciful; remote from reality. ; ambulances battling at intersections, the city intolerably en fête en fête French for being festive, perhaps being dressed in festive attire . My reflexes are words themselves rather than standard flexures flexures Acts of bending, such as bowing or kneeling of civil power. In all of this Cassiopeia's Cassiopeia’s Cassiopeia is both a star constellation in the northern sky, and in Greek mythology an Ethiopian queen and the mother of Andromeda; a beautiful woman, but whose vanity and arrogance led to her downfall. John Milton refers to Cassiopeia in Il Penseroso: “Or that starr’d Ethiop queen that strove / To set her beauty’s praise above / The sea nymphs, and their powers offended” (lines 19-21). a blessing as is steady Orion Orion Orion is both the easily recognized star constellation and in Greek mythology a hunter. beloved of poets beloved of poets A list of poems naming Orion includes: Milton’s Paradise Lost , Tennyson’s Locksley Hall , Teasdale’s “ Winter Stars ” , Pickthall’s “ Stars ” , Eliot’s “ Sweeney among the Nightingales ” , and Frost’s “ The Star-splitter .” . Quotidian Quotidian Daily, everyday natures ours for the time being I do not know how we should be absolved Absolved To declare someone free from blame, guilt, or responsibility; also, in Christian theology, to remit or forgive someone for a sin. or what is fate. 2 Fame is not fastidious about the lips Fame is not fastidious about the lips In A Treatise of Civil Power(2007), Geoffrey Hill notes: “section 2 is a paragraph from Elias Canetti’s chapter on ‘Fame’, transposed, with slight changes of wording, into strophic form.” For more on this book by Canetti, see the note about the title above. which spread it. So long as there are mouthsto reiterate the one name it does notmatter whose they are.The fact that to the seeker after famethey are indistinguishable from each otherand are all counted as equal shows that thispassion has its origin in the experienceof crowd manipulation. Names collecttheir own crowds. They are greedy, live their ownseparate lives, hardly at all connectedwith the real natures of the men who bear them. 3 But hear this: that which is difficult preserves democracy; you pay respect to the intelligence of the citizen. Basics are not condescension. Some tyrants make great patrons. Let us observe this and pass on. Certain directives parody at your own risk. Tread lightly with personal dignity and public image. Safeguard the image of the common man the common man There is another version of this poem, printed in Geoffrey Hill’s book A Treatise of Civil Power(2007), with a fourth section added. .

“Breadth. Circle. Desert. Monarch. Month. Wisdom. (for which there are No rhymes

It was not a romantic sentiment, nor self-determined; rather, it was embarrassing. My love of spearheading, from introvert to extrovert, from cowardice to consequence, from the enjambment to the unspecified dunce. It was a sabotage, a reckless moment: a purulent, tawny decree. All temptation puzzled me and drew me in. I dropped out of a large life, I flew over exams, I punched out breakfast teachers with lunch money, toiling over the idea of belonging rather than over upward mobility. I understood how power flung outward into the troves of the cursed (I felt cursed or troubled all of the time). I wasn't bearing oranges, limes, or even lemons. All of it blurred together so that a mere suggestion made by an outside force was something to be freely ignored. I could nod off, I could misinterpret, it could be reconfigured as a negotiation. The fog felt like an aphorism. Never lifting, always dull, always an added pull. The tribunal cloud judged below, judged my direction. There was lying, conning, faking, elucidating in order to get away with undoing. I was interested in preserving yet I can't tell you if it felt sacred or befallen. Your anxiety might have represented a crushing faith or a character assassination, my own or someone else's. Or a lack of grip on reality: the wet rip of the grocery bags all of it falling— your body on all fours. Accumulating soot upon retrieval. There were downsides to feeling different so I huddled in the corner (not a ball, not rocking). I felt friendless and yet social. I felt no aptitude towards refining a skill. However, words cut my brain into two brains with their precipice their demarcations, their incisions (too strong a word). They held me captive against their edge, their influence: I felt like insinuating something delicate or dear. Now—I am holding on—trying to pay attention to the collusion that I must be playing over and over in my mind, and it was my mind, it needed me to leave everything outside, on the steps or in the sky, to feign exhaustion in order to meet an aberration, the one in the corner that felt large and carefree with its own vernacular sprawled with whitewash on bricks or floors or that ghastly far above that kept me standing very still but perhaps I wasn't inactive, I was just interpreting what had already been an assumed boundary, immersed in its insularity and in what stuck to its roundedness. for Katy Lederer

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief— Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes That humour interpos'd too often makes; All this still legible in mem'ry's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.— But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell—time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic shew of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft— Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

Snow is a strange white word; No ice or frost Have asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost. Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know, No man knows why. In all men's hearts it is. Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould. Red fangs have torn His face. God's blood is shed. He mourns from His lone place His children dead. O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume. Give back this universe Its pristine bloom. (Cape Town, 1914)

because a box is a box: humans are cultivated into said box without choice or clarification, specimens only existing—as in: (you—i—us). flesh & frame— restricted bone matter comprising a box reluctant not to be a box. but nurtured inside the box, let’s say form which is shaped by & indigenous, to, the box & the creator of the holy box—only leading to another question about, of course, the infamous box—form turns deceitful inside the box like any [thing] caged, leaning to a non-empathetic approach steeped in revolt —is judas in waiting. note: the box is not universal nor the universal. whatever hopes of otherworldliness lies in the box itself. the box will not elongate, dissolve or vanish without reaction to an action & here within lies problem of perspective as in—there is none—zero. along time’s continuum, color, too, is encouraged for the sake of the construction of the box, which is precious as flickering light, but cannot be verified since darkness is the original concept of all things human.

As though undreaming the mountain from the sea or tweezering hands from a watch, a quick-fix change of regimes: a democracy lost to a monarchy, an empty sudden village, and elsewhere the wedding party lining up like a lost tribe of refugees. As though a reverse whisper of vows into a pageant of elegant ears when the heat in the O cooled its "till death do us" and the storm inside seething below the flowers, gowns, and cake, its own Institution.