James L. Dickey

... a separation from the world, a penetration to some source of power and a life-enhancing return ... Van Gennep: Rites de Passage Moth-force a small town always has, Given the night. What field-forms can be, Outlying the small civic light-decisions over A man walking near home? Men are not where he is Exactly now, but they are around him    around him like the strength Of fields.    The solar system floats on Above him in town-moths. Tell me, train-sound, With all your long-lost grief, what I can give. Dear Lord of all the fields what am I going to do? Street-lights, blue-force and frail As the homes of men, tell me how to do it    how To withdraw    how to penetrate and find the source Of the power you always had light as a moth, and rising With the level and moonlit expansion Of the fields around, and the sleep of hoping men. You?    I?    What difference is there?    We can all be saved By a secret blooming. Now as I walk The night    and you walk with me    we know simplicity Is close to the source that sleeping men Search for in their home-deep beds. We know that the sun is away    we know that the sun can be conquered By moths, in blue home-town air. The stars splinter, pointed and wild. The dead lie under The pastures.    They look on and help.    Tell me, freight-train, When there is no one else To hear. Tell me in a voice the sea Would have, if it had not a better one: as it lifts, Hundreds of miles away, its fumbling, deep-structured roar Like the profound, unstoppable craving Of nations for their wish. Hunger, time and the moon: The moon lying on the brain as on the excited sea    as on The strength of fields. Lord, let me shake With purpose.    Wild hope can always spring From tended strength.    Everything is in that. That and nothing but kindness.    More kindness, dear Lord Of the renewing green.    That is where it all has to start: With the simplest things. More kindness will do nothing less Than save every sleeping one And night-walking one Of us. My life belongs to the world. I will do what I can.

Farm boys wild to couple With anything      with soft-wooded trees With mounds of earth      mounds Of pinestraw      will keep themselves off Animals by legends of their own: In the hay-tunnel dark And dung of barns, they will Say    I have heard tell That in a museum in Atlanta Way back in a corner somewhere There’s this thing that’s only half Sheep      like a woolly baby Pickled in alcohol      because Those things can’t live.      his eyes Are open      but you can’t stand to look I heard from somebody who ... But this is now almost all Gone. The boys have taken Their own true wives in the city, The sheep are safe in the west hill Pasture      but we who were born there Still are not sure. Are we, Because we remember, remembered In the terrible dust of museums? Merely with his eyes, the sheep-child may Be saying      saying I am here, in my father’s house. I who am half of your world, came deeply To my mother in the long grass Of the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight Listening for foxes. It was something like love From another world that seized her From behind, and she gave, not lifting her head Out of dew, without ever looking, her best Self to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound Of sobbing      of something stumbling Away, began, as she must do, To carry me. I woke, dying, In the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes Far more than human. I saw for a blazing moment The great grassy world from both sides, Man and beast in the round of their need, And the hill wind stirred in my wool, My hoof and my hand clasped each other, I ate my one meal Of milk, and died Staring. From dark grass I came straight To my father’s house, whose dust Whirls up in the halls for no reason When no one comes      piling deep in a hellish mild corner, And, through my immortal waters, I meet the sun’s grains eye To eye, and they fail at my closet of glass. Dead, I am most surely living In the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives Them like wolves from the hound bitch and calf And from the chaste ewe in the wind. They go into woods      into bean fields      they go Deep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me, They groan      they wait      they suffer Themselves, they marry, they raise their kind.

The last time I saw Donald Armstrong He was staggering oddly off into the sun, Going down, off the Philippine Islands. I let my shovel fall, and put that hand Above my eyes, and moved some way to one side That his body might pass through the sun, And I saw how well he was not Standing there on his hands, On his spindle-shanked forearms balanced, Unbalanced, with his big feet looming and waving In the great, untrustworthy air He flew in each night, when it darkened. Dust fanned in scraped puffs from the earth Between his arms, and blood turned his face inside out, To demonstrate its suppleness Of veins, as he perfected his role. Next day, he toppled his head off On an island beach to the south, And the enemy’s two-handed sword Did not fall from anyone’s hands At that miraculous sight, As the head rolled over upon Its wide-eyed face, and fell Into the inadequate grave He had dug for himself, under pressure. Yet I put my flat hand to my eyebrows Months later, to see him again In the sun, when I learned how he died, And imagined him, there, Come, judged, before his small captors, Doing all his lean tricks to amaze them— The back somersault, the kip-up— And at last, the stand on his hands, Perfect, with his feet together, His head down, evenly breathing, As the sun poured from the sea And the headsman broke down In a blaze of tears, in that light Of the thin, long human frame Upside down in its own strange joy, And, if some other one had not told him, Would have cut off the feet Instead of the head, And if Armstrong had not presently risen In kingly, round-shouldered attendance, And then knelt down in himself Beside his hacked, glittering grave, having done All things in this life that he could.

In a stable of boats I lie still, From all sleeping children hidden. The leap of a fish from its shadow Makes the whole lake instantly tremble. With my foot on the water, I feel The moon outside Take on the utmost of its power. I rise and go out through the boats. I set my broad sole upon silver, On the skin of the sky, on the moonlight, Stepping outward from earth onto water In quest of the miracle This village of children believed That I could perform as I dived For one who had sunk from my sight. I saw his cropped haircut go under. I leapt, and my steep body flashed Once, in the sun. Dark drew all the light from my eyes. Like a man who explores his death By the pull of his slow-moving shoulders, I hung head down in the cold, Wide-eyed, contained, and alone Among the weeds, And my fingertips turned into stone From clutching immovable blackness. Time after time I leapt upward Exploding in breath, and fell back From the change in the children’s faces At my defeat. Beneath them I swam to the boathouse With only my life in my arms To wait for the lake to shine back At the risen moon with such power That my steps on the light of the ripples Might be sustained. Beneath me is nothing but brightness Like the ghost of a snowfield in summer. As I move toward the center of the lake, Which is also the center of the moon, I am thinking of how I may be The savior of one Who has already died in my care. The dark trees fade from around me. The moon’s dust hovers together. I call softly out, and the child’s Voice answers through blinding water. Patiently, slowly, He rises, dilating to break The surface of stone with his forehead. He is one I do not remember Having ever seen in his life. The ground I stand on is trembling Upon his smile. I wash the black mud from my hands. On a light given off by the grave I kneel in the quick of the moon At the heart of a distant forest And hold in my arms a child Of water, water, water.

And now the green household is dark. The half-moon completely is shining On the earth-lighted tops of the trees. To be dead, a house must be still. The floor and the walls wave me slowly; I am deep in them over my head. The needles and pine cones about me Are full of small birds at their roundest, Their fists without mercy gripping Hard down through the tree to the roots To sing back at light when they feel it. We lie here like angels in bodies, My brothers and I, one dead, The other asleep from much living, In mid-air huddled beside me. Dark climbed to us here as we climbed Up the nails I have hammered all day Through the sprained, comic rungs of the ladder Of broom handles, crate slats, and laths Foot by foot up the trunk to the branches Where we came out at last over lakes Of leaves, of fields disencumbered of earth That move with the moves of the spirit. Each nail that sustains us I set here; Each nail in the house is now steadied By my dead brother’s huge, freckled hand. Through the years, he has pointed his hammer Up into these limbs, and told us That we must ascend, and all lie here. Step after step he has brought me, Embracing the trunk as his body, Shaking its limbs with my heartbeat, Till the pine cones danced without wind And fell from the branches like apples. In the arm-slender forks of our dwelling I breathe my live brother’s light hair. The blanket around us becomes As solid as stone, and it sways. With all my heart, I close The blue, timeless eye of my mind. Wind springs, as my dead brother smiles And touches the tree at the root; A shudder of joy runs up The trunk; the needles tingle; One bird uncontrollably cries. The wind changes round, and I stir Within another’s life. Whose life? Who is dead? Whose presence is living? When may I fall strangely to earth, Who am nailed to this branch by a spirit? Can two bodies make up a third? To sing, must I feel the world’s light? My green, graceful bones fill the air With sleeping birds. Alone, alone And with them I move gently. I move at the heart of the world.

Beginning to dangle beneath The wind that blows from the undermined wood, I feel the great pulley grind, The thread I cling to lengthen And let me soaring and spinning down into marble, Hooked and weightlessly happy Where the squared sun shines Back equally from all four sides, out of stone And years of dazzling labor, To land at last among men Who cut with power saws a Parian whiteness And, chewing slow tobacco, Their eyebrows like frost, Shunt house-sized blocks and lash them to cables And send them heavenward Into small-town banks, Into the columns and statues of government buildings, But mostly graves. I mount my monument and rise Slowly and spinningly from the white-gloved men Toward the hewn sky Out of the basement of light, Sadly, lifted through time’s blinding layers On perhaps my tombstone In which the original shape Michelangelo believed was in every rock upon earth Is heavily stirring, Surprised to be an angel, To be waked in North Georgia by the ponderous play Of men with ten-ton blocks But no more surprised than I To feel sadness fall off as though I myself Were rising from stone Held by a thread in midair, Badly cut, local-looking, and totally uninspired, Not a masterwork Or even worth seeing at all But the spirit of this place just the same, Felt here as joy.

Here they are. The soft eyes open. If they have lived in a wood It is a wood. If they have lived on plains It is grass rolling Under their feet forever. Having no souls, they have come, Anyway, beyond their knowing. Their instincts wholly bloom And they rise. The soft eyes open. To match them, the landscape flowers, Outdoing, desperately Outdoing what is required: The richest wood, The deepest field. For some of these, It could not be the place It is, without blood. These hunt, as they have done, But with claws and teeth grown perfect, More deadly than they can believe. They stalk more silently, And crouch on the limbs of trees, And their descent Upon the bright backs of their prey May take years In a sovereign floating of joy. And those that are hunted Know this as their life, Their reward: to walk Under such trees in full knowledge Of what is in glory above them, And to feel no fear, But acceptance, compliance. Fulfilling themselves without pain At the cycle’s center, They tremble, they walk Under the tree, They fall, they are torn, They rise, they walk again.

They will soon be down To one, but he still will be For a little while    still will be stopping The flakes in the air with a look, Surrounding himself with the silence Of whitening snarls. Let him eat The last red meal of the condemned To extinction, tearing the guts From an elk. Yet that is not enough For me. I would have him eat The heart, and from it, have an idea Stream into his gnarling head That he no longer has a thing To lose, and so can walk Out into the open, in the full Pale of the sub-Arctic sun Where a single spruce tree is dying Higher and higher. Let him climb it With all his meanness and strength. Lord, we have come to the end Of this kind of vision of heaven, As the sky breaks open Its fans around him and shimmers And into its northern gates he rises Snarling    complete    in the joy of a weasel With an elk’s horned heart in his stomach Looking straight into the eternal Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all My way: at the top of that tree I place The New World’s last eagle Hunched in mangy feathers    giving Up on the theory of flight. Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate To the death in the rotten branches, Let the tree sway and burst into flame And mingle them, crackling with feathers, In crownfire. Let something come Of it    something gigantic    legendary Rise beyond reason over hills Of ice screaming that it cannot die, That it has come back, this time On wings, and will spare no earthly thing: That it will hover, made purely of northern Lights, at dusk    and fall On men building roads: will perch On the moose’s horn like a falcon Riding into battle    into holy war against Screaming railroad crews: will pull Whole traplines like fibres from the snow In the long-jawed night of fur trappers. But, small, filthy, unwinged, You will soon be crouching Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion Of being the last, but none of how much Your unnoticed going will mean: How much the timid poem needs The mindless explosion of your rage, The glutton’s internal fire    the elk’s Heart in the belly, sprouting wings, The pact of the “blind swallowing Thing,” with himself, to eat The world, and not to be driven off it Until it is gone, even if it takes Forever. I take you as you are And make of you what I will, Skunk-bear, carcajou, bloodthirsty Non-survivor. Lord, let me die    but not die Out.

A 29-year-old stewardess fell ... to her death tonight when she was swept through an emergency door that sud- denly sprang open ... The body ... was found ... three hours after the accident. — New York Times The states when they black out and lie there rolling    when they turn To something transcontinental    move by    drawing moonlight out of the great One-sided stone hung off the starboard wingtip    some sleeper next to An engine is groaning for coffee    and there is faintly coming in Somewhere the vast beast-whistle of space. In the galley with its racks Of trays    she rummages for a blanket    and moves in her slim tailored Uniform to pin it over the cry at the top of the door. As though she blew The door down with a silent blast from her lungs    frozen    she is black Out finding herself    with the plane nowhere and her body taken by the throat The undying cry of the void    falling    living    beginning to be something That no one has ever been and lived through    screaming without enough air Still neat    lipsticked    stockinged    girdled by regulation    her hat Still on    her arms and legs in no world    and yet spaced also strangely With utter placid rightness on thin air    taking her time    she holds it In many places    and now, still thousands of feet from her death she seems To slow    she develops interest    she turns in her maneuverable body To watch it. She is hung high up in the overwhelming middle of things in her Self    in low body-whistling wrapped intensely    in all her dark dance-weight Coming down from a marvellous leap    with the delaying, dumfounding ease Of a dream of being drawn    like endless moonlight to the harvest soil Of a central state of one’s country    with a great gradual warmth coming Over her    floating    finding more and more breath in what she has been using For breath    as the levels become more human    seeing clouds placed honestly Below her left and right    riding slowly toward them    she clasps it all To her and can hang her hands and feet in it in peculiar ways    and Her eyes opened wide by wind, can open her mouth as wide    wider and suck All the heat from the cornfields    can go down on her back with a feeling Of stupendous pillows stacked under her    and can turn    turn as to someone In bed    smile, understood in darkness    can go away    slant    slide Off tumbling    into the emblem of a bird with its wings half-spread Or whirl madly on herself    in endless gymnastics in the growing warmth Of wheatfields rising toward the harvest moon.    There is time to live In superhuman health    seeing mortal unreachable lights far down seeing An ultimate highway with one late priceless car probing it    arriving In a square town    and off her starboard arm the glitter of water catches The moon by its one shaken side    scaled, roaming silver    My God it is good And evil    lying in one after another of all the positions for love Making    dancing    sleeping    and now cloud wisps at her no Raincoat    no matter    all small towns brokenly brighter from inside Cloud    she walks over them like rain    bursts out to behold a Greyhound Bus shooting light through its sides    it is the signal to go straight Down like a glorious diver    then feet first    her skirt stripped beautifully Up    her face in fear-scented cloths    her legs deliriously bare    then Arms out    she slow-rolls over    steadies out    waits for something great To take control of her    trembles near feathers    planes head-down The quick movements of bird-necks turning her head    gold eyes the insight- eyesight of owls blazing into the hencoops    a taste for chicken overwhelming Her    the long-range vision of hawks enlarging all human lights of cars Freight trains    looped bridges    enlarging the moon racing slowly Through all the curves of a river    all the darks of the midwest blazing From above. A rabbit in a bush turns white    the smothering chickens Huddle    for over them there is still time for something to live With the streaming half-idea of a long stoop    a hurtling    a fall That is controlled    that plummets as it wills    turns gravity Into a new condition, showing its other side like a moon    shining New Powers    there is still time to live on a breath made of nothing But the whole night    time for her to remember to arrange her skirt Like a diagram of a bat    tightly it guides her    she has this flying-skin Made of garments    and there are also those sky-divers on tv sailing In sunlight    smiling under their goggles    swapping batons back and forth And He who jumped without a chute and was handed one by a diving Buddy. She looks for her grinning companion    white teeth    nowhere She is screaming    singing hymns    her thin human wings spread out From her neat shoulders    the air beast-crooning to her    warbling And she can no longer behold the huge partial form of the world    now She is watching her country lose its evoked master shape    watching it lose And gain    get back its houses and peoples    watching it bring up Its local lights    single homes    lamps on barn roofs    if she fell Into water she might live    like a diver    cleaving    perfect    plunge Into another    heavy silver    unbreathable    slowing    saving Element: there is water    there is time to perfect all the fine Points of diving    feet together    toes pointed    hands shaped right To insert her into water like a needle    to come out healthily dripping And be handed a Coca-Cola    there they are    there are the waters Of life    the moon packed and coiled in a reservoir    so let me begin To plane across the night air of Kansas    opening my eyes superhumanly Bright    to the damned moon    opening the natural wings of my jacket By Don Loper    moving like a hunting owl toward the glitter of water One cannot

Off Highway 106 At Cherrylog Road I entered The ’34 Ford without wheels, Smothered in kudzu, With a seat pulled out to run Corn whiskey down from the hills, And then from the other side Crept into an Essex With a rumble seat of red leather And then out again, aboard A blue Chevrolet, releasing The rust from its other color, Reared up on three building blocks. None had the same body heat; I changed with them inward, toward The weedy heart of the junkyard, For I knew that Doris Holbrook Would escape from her father at noon And would come from the farm To seek parts owned by the sun Among the abandoned chassis, Sitting in each in turn As I did, leaning forward As in a wild stock-car race In the parking lot of the dead. Time after time, I climbed in And out the other side, like An envoy or movie star Met at the station by crickets. A radiator cap raised its head, Become a real toad or a kingsnake As I neared the hub of the yard, Passing through many states, Many lives, to reach Some grandmother’s long Pierce-Arrow Sending platters of blindness forth From its nickel hubcaps And spilling its tender upholstery On sleepy roaches, The glass panel in between Lady and colored driver Not all the way broken out, The back-seat phone Still on its hook. I got in as though to exclaim, “Let us go to the orphan asylum, John; I have some old toys For children who say their prayers.” I popped with sweat as I thought I heard Doris Holbrook scrape Like a mouse in the southern-state sun That was eating the paint in blisters From a hundred car tops and hoods. She was tapping like code, Loosening the screws, Carrying off headlights, Sparkplugs, bumpers, Cracked mirrors and gear-knobs, Getting ready, already, To go back with something to show Other than her lips’ new trembling I would hold to me soon, soon, Where I sat in the ripped back seat Talking over the interphone, Praying for Doris Holbrook To come from her father’s farm And to get back there With no trace of me on her face To be seen by her red-haired father Who would change, in the squalling barn, Her back’s pale skin with a strop, Then lay for me In a bootlegger’s roasting car With a string-triggered I2-gauge shotgun To blast the breath from the air. Not cut by the jagged windshields, Through the acres of wrecks she came With a wrench in her hand, Through dust where the blacksnake dies Of boredom, and the beetle knows The compost has no more life. Someone outside would have seen The oldest car's door inexplicably Close from within: I held her and held her and held her, Convoyed at terrific speed By the stalled, dreaming traffic around us, So the blacksnake, stiff With inaction, curved back Into life, and hunted the mouse With deadly overexcitement, The beetles reclaimed their field As we clung, glued together, With the hooks of the seat springs Working through to catch us red-handed Amidst the gray breathless batting That burst from the seat at our backs. We left by separate doors Into the changed, other bodies Of cars, she down Cherrylog Road And I to my motorcycle Parked like the soul of the junkyard Restored, a bicycle fleshed With power, and tore off Up Highway 106, continually Drunk on the wind in my mouth, Wringing the handlebar for speed, Wild to be wreckage forever.