63 Home poems

So these are the hills of home. Hazy tiers nearly subliminal. To see them is to see double, hear bad puns delivered with a wink. An untoward familiarity. Rising from my sleep, the road is more and less the road. Around that bend are pale houses, pairs of junipers. Then to look reveals no more.

On the day we moved in, the pings, bumps, and snaps Were scary, it's true, but probably normal; A house accepting new patterns of weight With protest, the way no conviction goes gently. We laughed a little, and called it "our spirit." Later that night, when the power conked out And the kids were crying, the ghost got a name, "Daniel," and a history of whispered exploits, All of them harmless, like nursery rhymes, Or like the little fibs we tell ourselves To explain why this or that has led to suffering. Pretty soon, we were using him for everything. When the Christmas tree fell, it was "Daniel"; When my wife lost her ring, it was "Daniel"; When the kids forgot to feed the goldfish And it turned up dead, its eyes silvered over Like water shadowed under sheets of ice, Well, that became Daniel too, which was curious; And pauses me now as I make the long walk Down the hall to the bathroom in darkness, And hear, in soft concert, the sound of my footfalls Answered at once by my children's voices Still calling to Daniel behind their door.

After three months, Virginia is still a frontier. Late at night, I close the door on my husband practicing Mozart, the dishpan fills and the network affiliates sign off one by one. Now the country stations, tuning up like crickets on radios in scattered valley kitchens: Har yall this evenin folks! (Wanting to say ‘I’m real fine’ I whisper ‘Wow.’) Got your Green Hill chicory perkin’? An army of women, straightened and ironed and blued like Picasso’s ironer—jerking coffeecups back with one gesture, hips pressed to sinks. Their suspendered husbands are reading—the paper? the Bible? And it’s Jesus for you and for me, till midnight—the anthem— and one soaped hand jerks out, and their lighted lives recede to kitchens on the moon’s dark side, Mozart rising . . . Daytimes, in post office, gas station, greasy spoon, I don’t see them anywhere, it makes me nervous. Black faces down here look “colored.” I am afraid of the other, red faces. Take my first job in Boston, the outgoing typist said, ‘You’ve got to know the foms, we use so many foms.’ And I said O why farms? I thought law firms had torts. A tort, I thought, was like vous avez tort. But I was wrong about the farms, and after the Cardinal’s Vietnam speech one of the girls said, ‘Think you’re smat with that accent?’ Still, nothing soothes me, sometimes, like American voices, softened with distance, with nearness, as murmurs in a darkened Greyhound: ‘It sure has been a scorcher.’ ‘Where you folks from?’ I keep yawning, lightworlds off in the dark . . . Sometimes my lonesome standard English sleeps: The varied and ample land, the North and South in the light, and the voices of Earth and Moon swell in my helmet with prairie inflections, soft twangs of outer speech— ‘You’re looking real good,’ says Earth ‘—ain’t that somethin’?’ ‘Roger. No sweat. Out.’

Fireplace blocked, sealed with cardboard, and taped. Furniture trashed, paneling smashed. On the second floor mid-corridor, a rotting cat furry and fey in a nap of  gore glued flat to a spot on the floor, ether-sweet in a frieze of decay, up-staring, popeyed, pissed. The screens I installed belled out, belled in. Every window cracked, broken, or forgotten, left open. The in-gusting Atlantic left smelling sick. A shade softly crashed on a sash, finish nails and a bare molly bolt fanfared me from the gloom. Google the address: from outer space it’s a bare green blot, treeless, erased, terns where we made love, gulls where we fought.

I’m not interested in sadness, just a yard as elder earth, a library of sunflowers battered by the night’s rain. When sliced wide, halved at dawn, I can see how you exist, O satellite town, your bright possibility born again in drywall and the diary with the trick lock. Hardly held, for years I slept with my window wide open, wanting screen-cut threads of rain. Blind suburb, dear untruth, you who already know what I mean when I praise every spared copse, you were my battery, my sad clue, but after I mowed the lawn and watched robins chesting for seeds I couldn’t resist what hung in the toolshed, where, with a pair of garden shears I cut all the hair from my arms. That need, that scared need to whiten or clean a surface: plywood or lawn, and the spywall behind which I stood, stock-still, and sinned against the fly’s flyness. Though you live inside me, though you laid eggs in the moisture at the corners of my eyes, I still dream about your sinking empire twenty feet above sea level, and the many things you never see: beautiful bleached gas can, tomato posts bent into art,

It was there, the elemental center, All the time. Eternally present, repeating itself Like seasons, where the times and dates For swallows and household fires are written down, The grouse are counted, the quotas of stocked rainbows. All that love of order, for its own sake. Only the hill-farms, and the high sheep country Above politics—the enormous relief Up there, as the dialect names of skies Return, along with their clouds, and the old knowledge Opens the mind again. To dream, to just potter In the yard, to fiddle with local stations In the kitchen, where news that is no news Finally, at last, fills up the years With pure existence. Lit from beneath The fields are evenings long, the tree by the house Where Vladimir and Estragon kept vigil With the stillness of commando and insurgent Frightens no one. Slow through the air A heron, shouldering aside the weight of the world, Is making for its colonies, coevals In a state plantation . . . Nowhere but here In the high right hand of Ireland, do the weather fronts Give way so slowly, to such ambivalent light.

Farewell (sweet Cooke-ham) where I first obtained Grace from that grace where perfect grace remained; And where the muses gave their full consent, I should have power the virtuous to content; Where princely palace willed me to indite, The sacred story of the soul’s delight. Farewell (sweet place) where virtue then did rest, And all delights did harbor in her breast; Never shall my sad eyes again behold Those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold. Yet you (great Lady) Mistress of that place, From whose desires did spring this work of grace; Vouchsafe to think upon those pleasures past, As fleeting worldly joys that could not last, Or, as dim shadows of celestial pleasures, Which are desired above all earthly treasures. Oh how (methought) against you thither came, Each part did seem some new delight to frame! The house received all ornaments to grace it, And would endure no foulness to deface it. And walks put on their summer liveries, And all things else did hold like similes. The trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad, Embraced each other, seeming to be glad, Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies, To shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes; The crystal streams with silver spangles graced, While by the glorious sun they were embraced; The little birds in chirping notes did sing, To entertain both you and that sweet spring. And Philomela with her sundry lays, Both you and that delightful place did praise. Oh how me thought each plant, each flower, each tree Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee! The very hills right humbly did descend, When you to tread on them did intend. And as you set your feet, they still did rise, Glad that they could receive so rich a prize. The gentle winds did take delight to be Among those woods that were so graced by thee, And in sad murmur uttered pleasing sound, That pleasure in that place might more abound. The swelling banks delivered all their pride When such a Phoenix once they had espied. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, Thought themselves honored in supporting thee; The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee, Yet fly away for fear they should offend thee; The little creatures in the burrough by Would come abroad to sport them in your eye, Yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand. Would run away when you did make a stand. Now let me come unto that stately tree, Wherein such goodly prospects you did see; That oak that did in height his fellows pass, As much as lofty trees, low growing grass, Much like a comely cedar straight and tall, Whose beauteous stature far exceeded all. How often did you visit this fair tree, Which seeming joyful in receiving thee, Would like a palm tree spread his arms abroad, Desirous that you there should make abode; Whose fair green leaves much like a comely veil, Defended Phoebus when he would assail; Whose pleasing boughs did yield a cool fresh air, Joying his happiness when you were there. Where being seated, you might plainly see Hills, vales, and woods, as if on bended knee They had appeared, your honor to salute, Or to prefer some strange unlooked-for suit; All interlaced with brooks and crystal springs, A prospect fit to please the eyes of kings. And thirteen shires appeared all in your sight, Europe could not afford much more delight. What was there then but gave you all content, While you the time in meditation spent Of their Creator’s power, which there you saw, In all his creatures held a perfect law; And in their beauties did you plain descry His beauty, wisdom, grace, love, majesty. In these sweet woods how often did you walk, With Christ and his Apostles there to talk; Placing his holy Writ in some fair tree To meditate what you therein did see. With Moses you did mount his holy hill To know his pleasure, and perform his will. With lowly David you did often sing His holy hymns to Heaven’s eternal King. And in sweet music did your soul delight To sound his praises, morning, noon, and night. With blessed Joseph you did often feed Your pined brethren, when they stood in need. And that sweet Lady sprung from Clifford’s race, Of noble Bedford’s blood, fair stem of grace, To honorable Dorset now espoused, In whose fair breast true virtue then was housed, Oh what delight did my weak spirits find In those pure parts of her well framèd mind. And yet it grieves me that I cannot be Near unto her, whose virtues did agree With those fair ornaments of outward beauty, Which did enforce from all both love and duty. Unconstant Fortune, thou art most to blame, Who casts us down into so low a frame Where our great friends we cannot daily see, So great a difference is there in degree. Many are placed in those orbs of state, Partners in honor, so ordained by Fate, Nearer in show, yet farther off in love, In which, the lowest always are above. But whither am I carried in conceit, My wit too weak to conster of the great. Why not? although we are but born of earth, We may behold the heavens, despising death; And loving heaven that is so far above, May in the end vouchsafe us entire love. Therefore sweet memory do thou retain Those pleasures past, which will not turn again: Remember beauteous Dorset’s former sports, So far from being touched by ill reports, Wherein myself did always bear a part, While reverend love presented my true heart. Those recreations let me bear in mind, Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find, Whereof deprived, I evermore must grieve, Hating blind Fortune, careless to relieve, And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these ladies leave, I now must tell the grief you did conceive At their departure, when they went away, How everything retained a sad dismay. Nay long before, when once an inkling came, Methought each thing did unto sorrow frame: The trees that were so glorious in our view, Forsook both flowers and fruit, when once they knew Of your depart, their very leaves did wither, Changing their colors as they grew together. But when they saw this had no power to stay you, They often wept, though, speechless, could not pray you, Letting their tears in your fair bosoms fall, As if they said, Why will ye leave us all? This being vain, they cast their leaves away Hoping that pity would have made you stay: Their frozen tops, like age’s hoary hairs, Shows their disasters, languishing in fears. A swarthy riveled rind all over spread, Their dying bodies half alive, half dead. But your occasions called you so away That nothing there had power to make you stay. Yet did I see a noble grateful mind Requiting each according to their kind, Forgetting not to turn and take your leave Of these sad creatures, powerless to receive Your favor, when with grief you did depart, Placing their former pleasures in your heart, Giving great charge to noble memory There to preserve their love continually. But specially the love of that fair tree, That first and last you did vouchsafe to see, In which it pleased you oft to take the air With noble Dorset, then a virgin fair, Where many a learned book was read and scanned, To this fair tree, taking me by the hand, You did repeat the pleasures which had passed, Seeming to grieve they could no longer last. And with a chaste, yet loving kiss took leave, Of which sweet kiss I did it soon bereave, Scorning a senseless creature should possess So rare a favor, so great happiness. No other kiss it could receive from me, For fear to give back what it took of thee, So I ungrateful creature did deceive it Of that which you in love vouchsafed to leave it. And though it oft had given me much content, Yet this great wrong I never could repent; But of the happiest made it most forlorn, To show that nothing’s free from Fortune’s scorne, While all the rest with this most beauteous tree Made their sad consort sorrow’s harmony. The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow, Crept in the ground, the grass did weep for woe. The winds and waters seemed to chide together Because you went away they knew not whither; And those sweet brooks that ran so fair and clear, With grief and trouble wrinkled did appear. Those pretty birds that wonted were to sing, Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing, But with their tender feet on some bare spray, Warble forth sorrow, and their own dismay. Fair Philomela leaves her mournful ditty, Drowned in deep sleep, yet can procure no pity. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree Looks bare and desolate now for want of thee, Turning green tresses into frosty gray, While in cold grief they wither all away. The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave, While all green things did make the earth their grave. Each brier, each bramble, when you went away Caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay; Delightful Echo wonted to reply To our last words, did now for sorrow die; The house cast off each garment that might grace it, Putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it. All desolation then there did appear, When you were going whom they held so dear. This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give, When I am dead thy name in this may live, Wherein I have performed her noble hest Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, And ever shall, so long as life remains, Tying my life to her by those rich chains.

Kingston, Jamaica Lamps have begun to light as evening, alluvial, fills every crevice in the courtyard, fills Devon House, alone with its marble columns, its verandas and esplanades empty, the plantation gone, and the fields, the courtyard a tourist attraction now: glass ashtrays etched with boys too large to be clambering coconut trees, statuettes of women too smooth to be burdened with baskets of fruit on their heads, stoneware with doctor birds captured in the shallowest bas-relief, key rings carved in the rough shape of the island; and now even the hummingbirds are spoken of as jewels where once everyone drowned in leaf-filtered sunlight.

Bernadette: O sweet delightful house why do so many things get lost in you? House: Maybe you just dream you lose them. B: How do you know what dreams are? H: I pride myself on knowing everything you know. B: Oh, so you know we’re getting you new windows? H: I have trouble with no & know. With knew & new too. Why do people do that? B: I don’t know; I don’t mean I don’t no. H: See, you make it hard for a house. Anyway I don’t usually speak. B: Do you write poetry? H: I dabble. I don’t know if it’s poetry or prose though. B: It’s prose — it’s shaped like you. H: What about my roof? B: That would be a concrete poem. H: Even the time the tree fell through it? B: That would be a different genre, perhaps conceptual art. H: I’d like to climb mountains. You can leave me whenever you want but I’m stuck with you. B: What was it like when people prayed in you? H: It was kind of creepy. I liked the Jewish people better — more love of life. People can do anything they want to me, I’d like to be more proactive. I’m just stuck here. Even a cult could move in. B: I’ve never been a therapist for a house. How was your childhood? Were you born? H: I was made of mostly local stuff. Don’t set me me on fire. I tremble every time you light that wood stove. B: There was no heat when we moved into you; there were also 24 doors. H: Don’t blame me, I didn’t do it. B: You didn’t do anything but be here like an immobile tree, but you provided shelter. Can houses tremble? Do you have a sex life? H: None of your business. The sex life of houses isn’t known to humans, nor will it ever be. B: You seem to have mastered grammar but not homonyms. H: I liked it when I was unoccupied, full of birds’ nests on the porch & ghosts inside, I felt fulfilled. B: How did you like the Hebrew books? H: They reminded me of my bat mitzvah. B: You never told me you were Jewish. H: I thought you’d never ask.

Water sheets on the old stone of the cellar walls, trickles out over the floor into little deltas of mud, worse every year, so that now I can see daylight at the footings, and upstairs the floors sometimes tremble and the clothes go damp in the closets. And sometimes I think the whole place is about to come down, and have begun to dream at night of moving, unaccountably sad to think of leaving this house which has possessed me now for eighteen years, in which one of us has died and two been born, for all its elegance of detail most everything not right in it, or long gone bad, nothing ever done which should have been, one hundred years and more of water rancid in the cellars, moldings never finished or else mitred crookedly, all the small and growing energies of dirt and rot wherever we care to look, whenever we do. And we do. But I dream also of the pine grove of my planting, which I know I love and which is the green truth of this place: in one day ten years ago I dug fourteen small trees, wrapped the roots in burlap, dragged them down from the top ridge of the hill, spaced them carefully, watered them each day for one whole season. Now they are twenty feet high, thick roots already at the cellar wall, vigorous and loud even in little winds, only the hemlock mournful and reluctant to do much in the way of increasing itself. But it is clear that if I do not freely leave this place, it will leave me—though, as Ray Reynolds says, digging at a powdery floor joist with his knife, there may be more here than I think, better than a two-by-six at least; and his blade slides two inches in and stops at what he calls the heartwood, meaning, as I take it, at the wood which has not yet given way.