Keith Waldrop

Among other economies, I’m of two minds, one possessed, the other a deep peace. Violent trembling seizes me, launched in the interval. Enemy of children, of quaint little things, of jokes and pictures. Enemy of comic papers and caricatures, of water-drinking. Too short for tragedy. Rarely has a large or distant expedition ever succeeded in its object, as may be seen in the failure of foreign missions, of human development, the immediate phenomena. Sympathy for the victors, who gallantly perish. Collateral catastrophes, as if they had a will. The more distinctive visual images sail too long, relinquish, burst. The “inner voice” is playing a game. Eagerness and obstinacy. A mysterious invisible placed in the mouth. We know too well how terrible it is to contend against personality. The whole idyll vanishes. Southward along a coastline, down among cities. Across the gulf to the promontory. Probably astonished. Not without mistrust. You are now my prisoner. Physically I am myself. Cultivated living, good manners, rich food and drink, order and elegance in my house. Erect military bearing.

I propose turning the key useless to conceal from you that strange things take place it used to ring of its own accord chair by the window and the door closed saw the curtain detach falling when I weary of looking, something is bound to appear walking backwards she is frightened by the sound but cannot describe it the face vanishes, the hands remain white arms beneath fearful drapery looking out, over the hill I burn it, it distills a dark mucus curtain wrenched away a gossamer veil, as it seems resembling, yet most unlike her armless chair, handless cup sloping downwards to the base of the hill momentary grasp around her ankle an old-fashioned house a narrow lane on a declivity

To those of a certain temperament, there is nothing worse than the thought of something hidden, secret, withheld from their knowing— especially if they suspect that another knows about it and has even, perhaps, connived at keeping it concealed. D. H. Lawrence seems to have been irritated no end by the thought that people were having sex and not telling him. Freud too. —Ah but then Freud arranged it so that everyone had to tell. His psychoanalysis lights up the depths, makes our tangled web transparent, to the point where I can see all the way down to It. And the process moves outward in increasing rings: The Master analyses his disciples. Who thereby—transparent now—become masters and, in turn, take on others, patients or disciples, to analyse. So that eventually there are no secrets. Except, of course, those of the first Master, the Self-Analysed. Which is to say, the only private One, sole Unrevealed. Opaque center of His universal panopticon. While we see only His words, His daughter, His cigar. Poor Lawrence.

He reads:What soul suffers in secret, the flesh shows openly. Deep within, in a region hardly accessible, a bold self-image sends messages of bloodshed and conquest, which reverberate in his heart of hearts. [I forget which hand is writing.] He does not doubt that he exists. The five senses have left their mark on him. It is a record of what has happened to him, but he cannot talk or travel until he finds a body of water. A man who has lived on reindeer’s flesh amuses himself with ripples. In this cage was once a nightingale. In the echo, new words for wind. The usual convulsions,and a green cat. And, after all, months or years are nothing to him. [My image contains his body.] His body contains bodies. Blemishes. Inglories. Vague figures, in a howling wind, and with no notion of perspective. Of countless ruined worlds, he would appropriate the essential emblem. Wall struggling with wall, shadow with shad- ow. Thousands of miles a day. He gazes across an unguarded cemetery—gazes idly, waiting for new equipment. As through a fixed window, he finds a kind of space, the visible world foreshortened. He does not see deeply, but—still—one thing behind another. He keeps a tiny bird, folded like a sheet of paper. Twice two is four—still—and a circle has no angles. Body sheds shoulder, jaw.However body may appear, the soul comes back in scars. [There are no dead. Only names.] Too close, ruin wrinkles the surface—his breath bothers reality. The sun pours down. The pots are mended. An unfolding, from where it is all contained. The ships have been salvaged. [I do not know what body he has in mind.] Clothing is resumed. Temples are rebuilt. “Which body?” we inquire, while all the liars cry out, “Verily!” As though all this were in the dark. Here is a column of soldiers, a heap of apples, an avenue of trees. Here a swarm of bees, of birds, a row of equidistant lines. A set of unequal objects distributes the field of vision. Here is the painted world in an actual image. [I have no theory for the clouds he sees.]

too old for vision I must settle for dreams specific forms of cloud (body surrounded by body) every sensation con- ceals a dream fresco figurine sculpture in low relief (a motor halo a mental blue) cleft in the logical space (wilderness or wrack) we have lived on a ladder to the window of a room to which the key is lost (words lost in the music)

in memory of Edmond Jabè s “And so her worries ran on into the other world.” The Tale of Genji 1 ultimate boundary: arms stretched sideways to represent nothing supreme accomplishment: ends of the earth 2 I will forget first what happened, then ideas then all my feelings, forgetting finally what I’m up to now pose accept almost some expiring embers signifying momentary joy 3 and a bare knife also figures 4 amnesia retrograde and anterograde—unable to acquire new information and the old store lost blessed are the feet finite on this unfinished page defy conquer divine denominations de- rived from prepositions equivalent to end, the sky wears out as well 5 earth’s limit against the soles, bordering air, but my toes point come to the world’s con- clusion, distinguishing infinity from the boundless a figure of Death in the plural of majesty a bronze vase, as vessel for nothing burnt flesh figured by the living animal the “name, address and flower” test images of weeping friends, signifying weeping 6 immaterial mystery, imperfect misery I start at the coast, my limit the shore opposite not movement mere direction 7 mist dancing 8 ocean’s music 9 an ornamental barrier or parapet along the edge of this terrace, this balcony, this etc. inconceivable splendour signifying a choice of evils nameless objects seen imperfectly by the flame from sticks a nearer though still im- perfect view back to past ages watery track . . . 10 . . . Isle of the Dead 11 stranger both to model and to copy unable to relate the garment to the body absolute border: surface and line and point, alien to all experience weaving a sound over the water, not to harbor there but to surpass the port 12 objects of regret in a mysterious accent I will forget all my words, first proper names, then common nouns adjectives next next interjections and at last (even) gestures obscurity of the dawn signifying love of self 13 on a page of sand, appearance of a footprint 14 I heard the speech of one unknown to me the report dying gradually away I heard a voice I had not known the righteous lifted up, while we remain suspended I can hear a voice I no longer recognize a sort of tear, symbol of poured wine or else the splash of the wine poured he caused him to hear a tongue which he knew not 15 he temple figured by a frame, inlet to the sanctuary, narrow pass between columns then a track leading across and beyond the balustrade this room and a skein, succession of generations, some kind of existence 16 the spin begins to wobble the bare surface where earth meets air and becomes horizon 17 to remember you, as Aristotle would insist, is not to recall you not clever or quick enough for recollection but in the slow turn of attention, I do bring you back, which does not mean I know you a picture 18 two eyes, or one triangle—sight in abstracto 19 uncertain of the way 20 thrown 21 I will forget to appreciate Klee, Tristam Shandy, Emma Kirkby then forget how to do what- ever finally forget anger and finally fear common noise, a common languor, uncanny and pensive silence

From where I sit, I can see other things: a silver porcupine, pins standing upright. It is a vanished tale of a vanished forest at the shore of a vanished ocean. I call the dead as often as I can. In the vaults, among mummies—this is pure memorial. I am the girl in whose eyes the name is written. I feel as if veiled, as if soon I shall get to know something. These are people with encephalitis who cannot go forward, but can go backward, and can dance. In this rough draft of my memoirs, my brother comes toward me—frightened, skeletal—longing for marvels. I cannot describe it better than by comparing it to other figures, intoxication. Mere reflexes, as for instance breathing, can become conscious. One of two rivals has his ornamental tail bit off. In dying sounds, barely reaching our ears, a melody continues. No end to it—an infinite progression. All this love of a bygone age. Watch the track of a concentrated sunbeam through our lake ice: part of the beam is stopped, part goes through. Now the upper surface buckles, phantasmagoria of unchained passion—under which the land quakes, the ocean swells, and a myriad-years- old forest snaps and cracks. Surpassing all forms of experience, the wide, deep, freshwater lake—on which the city is built—rises before us. Here a modern idea interposes, a new body made from the elements. Then everything is forgotten. Sometimes thoughts are cut off and sometimes they are the blade which cuts. At the present gravel pit, electric lights in the evening cast their magic blue sheen. There’s the sun, a crack above those hills, breaking the day. If the door open, who comes in? If it close, what will interrupt my train? The staircase effect supplies strong evidence for a subjective map. Downhill, the sun trickles, unperturbed. Here trots a mammoth with red wool, through the black yew forest. The tendency of elements to linger on: You say I dream of what I want, but what I want now is to dream. The cold rind broken, the same wind blows. Through a lens of ice, the dark heat of the sun burns wood, fires gunpowder, melts lead. Perhaps a cloud of musk rises, such as issues from a crocodile in passion. Unless light falls properly upon these flowers, you cannot see them. All associations at this level rain down from above. We talk of word-pictures. We observe vertigo. We reach the cleft by a steep gully or couloir—very dangerous, the path from the heights, the glory of the prospect, the insight gained. What I mean is a disturbance in all the senses at once. You will not find the flower confused. Facing a certain wind, there is always danger.

seventy wingbeats per second vagaries of vegetation, rosy anticipation I turn the page without reading essence of accident what is the strongest motive what drives the solar wind time’s not so old, dating only from the creation New England has cooled significantly, icy core with a sooty coating this ice hard to break—the brain will have to wait catharsis of the vulture, obligatory vespers a bat, painted the color of joy, head downward because the brain is heavy I put on music but don’t always listen whether magma could rise to where tones reach audible frequencies modest success with a late parasitic moth we will soon find out if all this is true sudden drain on the heart, more doubt, the big melt: anything gone is replaced