Norman Dubie

The vase was made of clay With spines of straw For strength. The sunbaked vase Soaked in a deep blue dye for days. The events in this wilderness, Portrayed in the round of the vase, Depend on shades of indigo against The masked areas of the clay, a flat pearl color To detail the big sky and snow... This Montana field in winter is not sorrowful: A bugle skips through notes: We view it all somehow from the center of the field And there are scattered groups of cavalry. Some of these Men were seasoned by civil war. Their caps are blue. Their canteens are frozen. The horses shake their heads Bothered by beads of ice, the needles of ice Forming at both sides of their great anvil heads. The long, blue cloaks of the officers fall over the haunches Of the horses. The ammunition wagons Beside the woods are blurred by the snowy weather... Beyond the wagons, farther even, into the woods There is a sloping streambed. This is The dark side of the vase which is often misunderstood. From here through the bare trees there’s A strange sight to be seen at the very middle of the field: A valet is holding a bowl of cherries—archetype and rubric, A general with white hair eats the fruit while introducing its color Which will flow through the woods in early December. An Indian woman came under dark clouds to give birth, unattended In the deep wash inside the woods. She knew the weather Could turn and staked the tips of two rooted spruce trees To the earth to make a roof. The deerskin of her robe is in her mouth. Her legs spread, He feet are tied up in the roof of darkening spruce.No stars Show through!

for Hank The General’s men sit at the door. Her eyes Are fat with belladonna. She’s naked Except for the small painted turtles That are drinking a flammable cloud Of rum and milk from her navel. The ships out in the harbor Are loosely allied Like casks floating in bilge. The occasional light on a ship Winks. In the empty room of the manuscript Someone is grooming you For the long entrance into the dark city. They’ll hang the General. Then with torches they’ll search for his children. Men and women Are seen jumping from the burning hotel. Journalists, in no hurry, Elect to take the elevator. They walk Out of the building, stepping over corpses. . . You are listening to loud bells. The corpses get up and follow the journalists. It’s unfair that while rehearsing For death they actually succumbed to it. But no one sobs. Shirts and dresses billowing as they fall. Something inhuman in you watched it all. And whatever it is that watches, It has kept you from loneliness like a mob.

for my father Vivid and heavy, he strolls through dark brick kitchens Within the great house of Esterhazy: A deaf servant’s candle Is tipped toward bakers who are quarreling about The green kindling! The wassail is Being made by pouring beer and sherry from dusty bottles Over thirty baked apples in a large bowl: into The wassail, young girls empty their aprons of Cinnamon, ground mace, and allspice berries. A cook adds Egg whites and brandy. The giant glass snifters On a silver tray are taken from the kitchen by two maids. The anxious pianist eats the edges of a fig Stuffed with Devonshire cream. In the sinks the gallbladders Of geese are soaking in cold salted water. Walking in the storm, this evening, he passed Children in rags, singing carols; they were roped together In the drifting snow outside the palace gate. He knew he would remember those boys’ faces. . . There’s a procession into the kitchens: larger boys, each With a heavy shoe of coal. The pianist sits and looks Hard at a long black sausage. He will not eat Before playing the new sonata. Beside him The table sags with hams, kidney pies, and two shoulders Of lamb.A hand rings a bell in the parlor! No longer able to hide, he walks Straight into the large room that blinds him with light. He sits before the piano still thinking of hulled berries. . . The simple sonata which He is playing has little To do with what he’s feeling: something larger Where a viola builds, in air, an infinite staircase. An oboe joins the viola, they struggle For a more florid harmony. But the silent violins now emerge And, like the big wing of a bird, smother everything In a darkness from which only a single horn escapes— That feels effaced by the composer’s dream. . . But he is not dreaming, The composer is finishing two performances simultaneously! He is back in the dark kitchens, sulking and counting His few florins—they have paid him With a snuffbox that was pressed With two diamonds, in Holland! This century discovers quinine. And the sketchbooks of a mad, sad musician Who threw a lantern at his landlord who was standing beside A critic. He screamed:Here, take the snuffbox, I’ve filled It with the dander of dragons!

The Baltic Sea froze in 1307. Birds flew north From the Mediterranean in early January. There were meteor storms throughout Europe. On the first day of Lent Two children took their own lives: Their bodies Were sewn into goatskins And were dragged by the hangman’s horse The three miles down to the sea. They were given a simple grave in the sand. The following Sunday, Meister Eckhart Shouted that a secret word Had been spoken to him. He preached That Mary Magdalene Sought a dead man in the tomb But, in her confusion, found Only two angels laughing. . . This was a consequence of her purity And her all too human grief. The Baltic Sea Also froze in 1303— Nothing happened that was worthy of poetry.