505 History and politics poems

non peccat, quaecumque potest peccasse negare, solaque famosam culpa professa facit. Amores, III, xiv I love my work and my children. God Is distant, difficult. Things happen. Too near the ancient troughs of blood Innocence is no earthly weapon. I have learned one thing: not to look down So much upon the damned. They, in their sphere, Harmonize strangely with the divine Love. I, in mine, celebrate the love-choir.

After a while the 500-year-old village became a secret, carved into the wall of the forest where it met the Pacific, eleven long houses and their racks of drying fish, their dogs. No roads to this town, only boats and the memory of boaters. Blankets made from woodpecker feathers, cattail fluff, cedar bark and dog hair woven into a plaid pattern. At least that's what I remember of the museum's diorama. When the mud came down the mountain and covered the village, no one had lived there for years. It was a boater who remembered, after a while, that the village was gone, and also that it had once existed. Archaeologists brought garden hoses to wash the mud off and hooked the hoses up to the sea. Some of what had been preserved in the mud was destroyed that day by the water pressure, and then later most else was ruined by the wind and rain, but at least for a few weeks they could hold the bones in their hands. The archaeologists brought their dogs, they lived there a while.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias Ozymandias Pharaoh Rameses II (reigned 1279-1213 BCE). According to the OED, the statue was once 57 feet tall. , King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Our lives avoided tragedy Simply by going on and on, Without end and with little apparent meaning. Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes. Simply by going on and on We managed. No need for the heroic. Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes. I don't remember all the particulars. We managed. No need for the heroic. There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows. I don't remember all the particulars. Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus. There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows. Thank god no one said anything in verse. The neighbors were our only chorus, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it. At no time did anyone say anything in verse. It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it. No audience would ever know our story. It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us. We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor. What audience would ever know our story? Beyond our windows shone the actual world. We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor. And time went by, drawn by slow horses. Somewhere beyond our windows shone the world. The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog. And time went by, drawn by slow horses. We did not ourselves know what the end was. The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog. We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues. But we did not ourselves know what the end was. People like us simply go on. We have our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues, But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy. And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.

Near the year 1000 we find Maximos Planudes nude writing to a friend in Asia Minor asking for parchment because the right quality is not for sale in his own neighborhood, presumably Constantinople. In the end, all he receives are some asses’ skins, which do not please him in the least, and a note: Dear Max, No parchment till the summer, months after the population begins to eat meat. Low yield should come as no surprise, our medieval animals being much smaller than their modern counterparts. Love, A. Minor

1. The Cane Fields There is a parrot imitating spring in the palace, its feathers parsley green. Out of the swamp the cane appears to haunt us, and we cut it down. El General searches for a word; he is all the world there is. Like a parrot imitating spring, we lie down screaming as rain punches through and we come up green. We cannot speak an R— out of the swamp, the cane appears and then the mountain we call in whispers Katalina. The children gnaw their teeth to arrowheads. There is a parrot imitating spring. El General has found his word:perejil. Who says it, lives. He laughs, teeth shining out of the swamp. The cane appears in our dreams, lashed by wind and streaming. And we lie down. For every drop of blood there is a parrot imitating spring. Out of the swamp the cane appears. 2. The Palace The word the general’s chosen is parsley. It is fall, when thoughts turn to love and death; the general thinks of his mother, how she died in the fall and he planted her walking cane at the grave and it flowered, each spring stolidly forming four-star blossoms. The general pulls on his boots, he stomps to her room in the palace, the one without curtains, the one with a parrot in a brass ring. As he paces he wonders Who can I kill today. And for a moment the little knot of screams is still. The parrot, who has traveled all the way from Australia in an ivory cage, is, coy as a widow, practising spring. Ever since the morning his mother collapsed in the kitchen while baking skull-shaped candies for the Day of the Dead, the general has hated sweets. He orders pastries brought up for the bird; they arrive dusted with sugar on a bed of lace. The knot in his throat starts to twitch; he sees his boots the first day in battle splashed with mud and urine as a soldier falls at his feet amazed— how stupid he looked!— at the sound of artillery.I never thought it would sing the soldier said, and died. Now the general sees the fields of sugar cane, lashed by rain and streaming. He sees his mother’s smile, the teeth gnawed to arrowheads. He hears the Haitians sing without R’s as they swing the great machetes: Katalina, they sing,Katalina, mi madle, mi amol en muelte. God knows his mother was no stupid woman; she could roll an R like a queen. Even a parrot can roll an R! In the bare room the bright feathers arch in a parody of greenery, as the last pale crumbs disappear under the blackened tongue. Someone calls out his name in a voice so like his mother’s, a startled tear splashes the tip of his right boot. My mother, my love in death. The general remembers the tiny green sprigs men of his village wore in their capes to honor the birth of a son. He will order many, this time, to be killed for a single, beautiful word.

I. Until Jove let it be, no colonist Mastered the wild earth; no land was marked, None parceled out or shared; but everyone Looked for his living in the common world. And Jove gave poison to the blacksnakes, and Made the wolves ravage, made the ocean roll, Knocked honey from the leaves, took fire away— So man might beat out various inventions By reasoning and art. First he chipped fire Out of the veins of flint where it was hidden; Then rivers felt his skiffs of the light alder; Then sailors counted up the stars and named them: Pleiades, Hyades, and the Pole Star; Then were discovered ways to take wild things. In snares, or hunt them with the circling pack; And how to whip a stream with casting nets, Or draw the deep-sea fisherman’s cordage up; And then the use of steel and the shrieking saw; Then various crafts. All things were overcome By labor and by force of bitter need. II. Even when your threshing floor is leveled By the big roller, smoothed and packed by hand With potter’s clay, so that it will not crack, There are still nuisances. The tiny mouse Locates his house and granary underground, Or the blind mole tunnels his dark chamber; The toad, too, and all monsters of the earth, Besides those plunderers of the grain, the weevil And frantic ant, scared of a poor old age. Let me speak then, too, of the farmer’s weapons: The heavy oaken plow and the plowshare, The slowly rolling carts of Demeter, The threshing machine, the sledge, the weighted mattock, The withe baskets, the cheap furniture, The harrow and the magic winnowing fan— All that your foresight makes provision of, If you still favor the divine countryside. III. Moreover, like men tempted by the straits In ships borne homeward through the blowing sea, We too must reckon on Arcturus star, The days of luminous Draco and the Kids. When Libra makes the hours of sleep and daylight Equal, dividing the world, half light, half dark, Then drive the team, and sow the field with barley, Even under intractable winter’s rain. But Spring is the time to sow your beans and clover, When shining Taurus opens the year with his golden Horns, and the Dog’s averted star declines; For greater harvests of your wheat and spelt, Let first the Pleiades and Hyades be hid And Ariadne’s diadem go down. The golden sun rules the great firmament Through the twelve constellations, and the world Is measured out in certain parts, and heaven By five great zones is taken up entire: One glowing with sundazzle and fierce heat; And far away on either side the arctics, Frozen with ice and rain, cerulean; And, in between, two zones for sick mankind: Through each of these a slanting path is cut Where pass in line the zodiacal stars. Northward the steep world rises to Scythia And south of Libya descends, where black Styx and the lowest of the dead look on. In the north sky the Snake glides like a river Winding about the Great and Little Bear— Those stars that fear forever the touch of ocean; Southward they say profound Night, mother of Furies, Sits tight-lipped among the crowding shades, Or thence Aurora draws the daylight back; And where the East exhales the yellow morning, Reddening evening lights her stars at last. IV. As for the winter, when the freezing rains Confine the farmer, he may employ himself In preparations for serener seasons. The plowman beats the plowshare on the forge, Or makes his vats of tree-trunks hollowed out, Brands his cattle, numbers his piles of grain, Sharpens fence posts or pitchforks, prepares Umbrian trellises for the slow vine. Then you may weave the baskets of bramble twigs Or dip your bleating flock in the clean stream. Often the farmer loads his little mule With olive oil or apples, and brings home A grindstone or a block of pitch from market. And some will stay up late beside the fire On winter nights, whittling torches, while The housewife runs the shuttle through the loom And comforts the long labor with her singing; Or at the stove she simmers the new wine, Skimming the froth with leaves. Oh idle time! In that hale season, all their worries past, Farmers arrange convivialities— As after laden ships have reached home port, The happy sailors load the prow with garlands. Then is the time to gather acorns and Laurel berries and the bloodred myrtle, To lay your traps for cranes and snares for buck, To hit the fallow deer with twisted slingshots, And track the long-eared hare— When snow is deep, and ice is on the rivers. V. What of the humors and the ways of Autumn? Just when the farmer wished to reap his yellow Fields, and thresh his grain, I have often seen all the winds make war, Flattening the stout crops from the very roots; And in the black whirlwind Carrying off the ears and the light straw. And often mighty phalanxes of rain Marched out of heaven, as the clouds Rolled up from the sea the detestable tempest; Then the steep aether thundered, and the deluge Soaked the crops, filled ditches, made the rivers Rise and roar and seethe in their spuming beds. The Father himself in the mid stormy night Lets the lightning go, at whose downstroke Enormous earth quivers, wild things flee, And fear abases the prone hearts of men— As Jove splits Athos with his firebolt Or Rhodopê or the Ceraunian ridge. The southwind wails in sheets of rain, And under that great wind the groves Lament, and the long breast of the shore is shaken. If you dislike to be so caught, mark well The moon’s phases and the weather signs; Notice where Saturn’s frigid star retires, Mercury’s wanderings over heaven; and revere Especially, the gods. Offer to Ceres Annual sacrifice and annual worship In the first fair weather of the spring, So may your sheep grow fat and your vines fruitful, Your sleep sweet and your mountains full of shade. Let all the country folk come to adore her, And offer her libations of milk and wine; Conduct the sacrificial lamb three times Around the ripe field, in processional, With all your chorus singing out to Ceres; And let no man lay scythe against his grain Unless he first bind oakleaves on his head And make his little dance, and sing to her. VI. When shall we herd the cattle to the stables? The wind, say, rises without intermission; The sea gets choppy and the swell increases; The dry crash of boughs is heard on hills; The long sound of the surf becomes a tumult; The gusts become more frequent in the grove; The waves begin to fight against the keels; From far at sea the gulls fly shoreward crying; The heron leaves his favorite marsh and soars Over the high cloud. Then you will see Beyond thin skimrack, shooting stars Falling, the long pale tracks behind them Whitening through the darkness of the night; And you’ll see straw and fallen leaves blowing. But when it thunders in rough Boreas’ quarter, When east and west it thunders—every sailor Furls his dripping sail. A storm should never catch you unprepared. Aerial cranes take flight before its rising, The restless heifer with dilated nostrils Sniffs the air; the squeaking hirondelle Flits round and round the lake, and frogs, Inveterate in their mud, croak a chorale. And too the ant, more frantic in his gallery, Trundles his eggs out from their hiding place; The rainbow, cloud imbiber, may be seen; And crows go cawing from the pasture In a harsh throng of crepitating wings; The jeering jay gives out his yell for rain And takes a walk by himself on the dry sand. Stormwise, the various sea-fowl, and such birds As grub the sweet Swan River in Asia, May be observed dousing themselves and diving Or riding on the water, as if they wished— What odd exhilaration—to bathe themselves. VII. After a storm, clear weather and continuing Sunny days may likewise be foretold: By the sharp twinkle of the stars, the moon Rising to face her brother’s rays by day; No tenuous fleeces blowing in the sky, No halcyons, sea favorites, on the shore Stretching out their wings in tepid sunlight; But mists go lower and lie on the fields, The owl, observing sundown from his perch, Modulates his meaningless melancholy. Aloft in crystal air the sparrow hawk Chases his prey; and as she flits aside The fierce hawk follows screaming on the wind, And as he swoops, she flits aside again. With funereal contractions of the windpipe The crows produce their caws, three at a time, And in their high nests, pleased at I know not what, Noise it among themselves: no doubt rejoicing To see their little brood after the storm, But not, I think, by reason of divine Insight or superior grasp of things. VIII. But if you carefully watch the rapid sun And the moon following, a fair night’s snare Never deceives you as to next day’s weather. When the new moon collects a rim of light, If that bow be obscured with a dark vapor, Then a great tempest is in preparation; If it be blushing like a virgin’s cheek, There will be wind; wind makes Diana blush; If on the fourth night (most significant) She goes pure and unclouded through the sky, All that day and the following days will be, For one full month, exempt from rain and wind. The sun, too, rising and setting in the waves, Will give you weather signs, trustworthy ones Whether at morning or when stars come out. A mackerel sky over the east at sunrise Means look out for squalls, a gale is coming, Unfavorable to trees and plants and flocks. Or when through denser strata the sun’s rays Break out dimly, or Aurora rises Pale from Tithonus’ crocus-colored chamber, Alas, the vine-leaf will not shield the cluster In the hubbub of roof-pattering bitter hail. It will be well to notice sunset, too, For the sun’s visage then has various colors; Bluish and dark means rain; if it be fiery That means an East wind; if it be dappled And mixed with red gold light, then you will see Wind and rain in commotion everywhere. Nobody can advise me, on that night, To cast off hawsers and put out to sea. But if the next day passes and the sunset Then be clear, you need not fear the weather: A bright Norther will sway the forest trees. IX. Last, what the late dusk brings, and whence the fair Clouds are blown, and secrets of the Southwind You may learn from the sun, whose prophecies No man denies, seeing black insurrections, Treacheries, and wars are told by him. When Caesar died, the great sun pitied Rome, So veiling his bright head, the godless time Trembled in fear of everlasting night; And then were portents given of earth and ocean, Vile dogs upon the roads, and hideous Strange birds, and Aetna quaking, and her fires Bursting to overflow the Cyclops’ fields With flames whirled in the air and melted stones. Thunder of war was heard in Germany From south to north, shaking the granite Alps; And a voice also through the silent groves Piercing; and apparitions wondrous pale Were seen in dead of night. Then cattle spoke (O horror!), streams stood still, the earth cracked open And tears sprang even from the temple bronze. The Po, monarch of rivers, on his back Spuming whole forests, raced through the lowland plains And bore off pens and herds; and then continually The viscera of beasts were thick with evil, Blood trickled from the springs; tall towns at night Re-echoed to the wolf-pack’s shivering howl; And never from pure heaven have there fallen So many fires, nor baleful comets burned. It seemed that once again the Roman lines, Alike in arms, would fight at Philippi; And heaven permitted those Thessalian fields To be enriched again with blood of ours. Some future day, perhaps, in that country, A farmer with his plow will turn the ground, And find the javelins eaten thin with rust, Or knock the empty helmets with his mattock And wonder, digging up those ancient bones. Paternal gods! Ancestors! Mother Vesta! You that guard Tiber and the Palatine! Now that long century is overthrown, Let not this young man fail to give us peace! Long enough beneath your rule, O Caesar, Heaven has hated us and all those triumphs Where justice was thrown down—so many wars, So many kinds of wickedness! No honor Rendered the plow, but the fields gone to ruin, The country-folk made homeless, and their scythes Beaten to straight swords on the blowing forge! War from the Euphrates to Germany; Ruptured engagements, violence of nations, And impious Mars raging the whole world over— As when a four horsed chariot rears away Plunging from the barrier, and runs wild, Heedless of the reins or the charioteer.

“Earth is the birth of the blues,” sang Yellow Bertha, as she chopped cotton beside Mama Rose. It was as hot as any other summer day, when she decided to run away. Folks say she made a fortune running a whorehouse in New Orleans, but others say she’s buried somewhere out west, her grave unmarked, though you can find it in the dark by the scent of jasmine and mint, but I’m getting ahead of myself. If it wasn’t for hell, we’d all be tapdancing with the devil Mama Rose used to say, but as it is, we just stand and watch, while someone else burns up before salvation. “People desire damnation, Bertha,” she said, unwrapping the rag from her head to let the sweat flow down the corn rows, plaited as tightly as the night coming down on the high and mighty on judgment day. They say she knew what was coming, because she threw some bones that morning. She bent down to pick up her rag which had fallen and when she straightened up, her yellow gal had gone down the road. “Go then,” she called out, “I didn’t want you no how.” Then she started talking to herself about how Old White John caught her milking cows. “He wrestled me to the ground and did his nastiness.” He said, “your daddy was a slave and his daddy and I’m claiming back what’s mine.” It was July. I remember fireworks going off outside. When Bertha come, so white she liked to scared me to death, I let her suckle my breast and I said, “All right, little baby, maybe I’ll love you. Maybe.” Mama Rose said she did her best, but it’s hard to raise a gal like that with everybody thinking she’s giving them the high hat, because she’s so light and got those green eyes that look right through you. She frightens people. Even men, who’re usually wanting to saddle up and ride that kind of mare, can’t abide her. They’re afraid if they try her, they’ll never be the same. The only ones willing are white. They’re watching her day and night, but they know John swore to kill any man who touched her, because lo and behold, he owns up to her. He’s proud of her. Nobody can believe it. He’s even at her baptism. He buys her cheap dresses and candy at the store. He hands it to her out the door, because she can’t go in. He won’t, he won’t stop looking at her like it’s some kind of miracle she was born looking so much like him and his people. It’s a warning, or something. “It’s evil turning back on itself,” said the preacher the Sunday cut clean through by the truth, by the living proof, as Old John stood up in church and testified to the power of God, who spoke to him that morning, telling him he was a sinner. He died that winter. Horrible suffering, they say. He had a stroke on the way to town. His car ran off the road and he drowned. They say Bertha found him. They say she ran all the way to town for the doctor, who told her, “I am not a colored doctor,” so she went and got the sheriff. He listened for a while, then he locked her in a cell. He said he knew she was guilty of something. Well, after a while, Rose went down there and I swear she nearly had a fit. “Get my daughter out here,” she said. “How can you lock up your own brother’s child?” The sheriff knew it was true, so finally he said, “You take her and don’t ever cross my path again.” When Bertha passed him on the way out, he tripped her with his foot. When she got off the floor, she said, “Every dog has its day.” From that time to this is a straight line, pointing at a girl, who doesn’t even have shoes anymore, as she runs down the road, throwing off her ragged clothes, as she goes, until she’s as naked as the day she was born. When she comes to washing hanging on the line, she grabs a fine dress and keeps on running. She’s crying and laughing at the same time. Along comes a truck that says J. GOODY on the side. The man driving stops to give her a ride. He swings the door open on the passenger side, but Bertha says, “Move over, I’ll drive.” When she asks him why he stopped, he says, “I know white trash, when I see it. You’re just like me, but you're a girl. You’re pretty. You can free yourself. All you have to do is show a little leg and some titty in the big city.” He gave her fifty cents and a wink and she started thinking she might as well turn white. She got a job waiting table in a dance hall. One night, the boss heard her singing along with the band. He said, “Why don’t you go up on stage,” and she said, “I play piano too.” He said, “Howdy do.” From then on, she made everybody pay one way, or another. She got hard. She took lovers— fathers, sons, and husbands. It didn't matter, but once in a while, she heard her mother’s voice, saying, “You made the wrong choice,” and she felt the blues and she let loose with a shout. “Lordy,” said the boss, “you sound colored.” More and more people came to hear her sing, but they kind of feared her too. They said, she was too white to sing the blues like that. It wasn’t right. One night, she got to talking with the boss. He walked round and round the office, shaking his head, saying how much he’d lose, if she stopped singing the blues. “How often can you find a treasure like mine,” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder, then he said, “If I weren’t so old,” and his voice dropped off to a whisper, then he said, “I got the answer now, sweet Roberta. Go on down to the dressing room and wait.” It didn't take long. He came in and set a jar on the table. “What do I do with this?” Asked Bertha. He said, “you’re going to pass for colored.” Suddenly, she was wearing blackface. Suddenly, she was safe on the other side of the door she slammed on the past and it was standing open at last. She could come and go as she pleased and no one saw her enter, or leave. She was free, she was freed, but she didn’t feel it and she needed it to be real. She went on, though. She flowed like a river, carrying the body of a man, who had himself a nigger, because he could. She lived. She got old. She almost froze one cold spell and she got up from her sickbed and told her daughter she got during the change of life it was time to go. She sewed a note to her ragged coat. It said, “This is the granddaughter of Mama Rose.” She put fifty cents in her hand and went to stand with her at the bus stop. She would not return, but her child had earned the right to go home. When I got off the bus, a hush fell over the people waiting there. I was as white as my mother, but my eyes were gray, not green. I had hair down to my waist and braids so thick they weighed me down. Mother said, my father was a white musician from another town, who found out her secret and left her and me to keep it. Mama Rose knew me, though, blind as she was. “What color are you, gal?” She asked and I told her, “I’m as black as last night.” That's how I passed, without asking permission.

From Chapter XLII The good Dame Mercy with Dame Charyte My body buryed full ryght humbly In a fayre temple of olde antyquyte, Where was for me a dyryge devoutely And with many a masse full ryght solempnely; And over my grave, to be in memory, Remembraunce made this lytell epytaphy: "O erthe, on erthe it is a wonders cace That thou arte blynde and wyll not the knowe. Though upon erthe thou hast thy dwellynge-place, Yet erthe at laste must nedes the overthrowe. Thou thynkest the to be none erthe I trowe; For yf thou dydest, thou woldest than apply To forsake pleasure and to lerne to dy. "O erthe, of erthe why arte thou so proude? Now what thou arte call to remembraunce. Open thyn eres unto my songe aloude. Is not thy beauté, strength, and puyssaunce, Though it be cladde with cloth e s of plesaunce, Very erthe and also worm e s fode, Whan erthe to erthe shall so tourne the blode? "The vyle carkes set upon a fyre Dooth often haunte the synne of lechery, Fulfyllynge the foule carnall desyre. Thus erthe with erthe is corrupte mervaylously; And erthe on erthe wyll nothynge puryfye Tyll erthe to erthe be nere subverted. For erthe with erthe is so perverted. "O mortall folke! you may beholde and se Howe I lye here, sometyme a myghty knyght; The end of joye and all prosperyte Is dethe at last, through his course and myght; After the day there cometh the derke night; For though the day be never so longe, At last the belles ryngeth to evensonge. "And my selfe called La Graunde Amoure, Sekynge adventure in the worldly glory, For to attayne the ryches and honoure, Did thynke full lytell that I sholde here ly, Tyll dethe dyde marke me full ryght pryvely. Lo what I am! and whereto you must! Lyke as I am so shall you be all dust. "Than in your mynde inwardely dyspyse The bryttle worlde, so full of doublenes, With the vyle flesshe, and ryght sone aryse Out of your slepe of mortall hevynes; Subdue the devill with grace and mekenes, That after your lyfe frayle and transytory, You may then lyve in joye perdurably."

Lincoln? He was a mystery in smoke and flags Saying yes to the smoke, yes to the flags, Yes to the paradoxes of democracy, Yes to the hopes of government Of the people by the people for the people, No to debauchery of the public mind, No to personal malice nursed and fed, Yes to the Constitution when a help, No to the Constitution when a hindrance Yes to man as a struggler amid illusions, Each man fated to answer for himself: Which of the faiths and illusions of mankind Must I choose for my own sustaining light To bring me beyond the present wilderness? Lincoln? Was he a poet? And did he write verses? “I have not willingly planted a thorn in any man’s bosom.” I shall do nothing through malice: what I deal with is too vast for malice.” Death was in the air. So was birth.