1630 Nature poems

Water: no matter how much, there is still not enough. Cunning life keeps asking for more and then a drop more. Our ankles are weighted with lead, we delve under the wave. We bend to our spades, we survive the force of the gusher. Our bodies fountain with sweat in the deeps of the sea, Our forehead aches and holds like a sunken prow. We are out of breath, divining the heart of the geyser, Constellations are bobbing like corks above on the swell. Earth is a waterwheel, the buckets go up and go down, But to keep the whole aqueous architecture standing its ground We must make a ring with our bodies and dance out a round On the dreamt eye of water, the dreamt eye of water, the dreamt eye of water. Water: no matter how much, there is still not enough. Come rain, come thunder, come deluged dams washed away, Our thirst is unquenchable. A cloud in the water’s a siren. We become two shades, deliquescent, drowning in song. My love, under the tall sky of hope Our love and our love alone Keeps dowsing for water. Sinking the well of each other, digging together. Each one the other’s phantom limb in the sea.

“Wake to the sun,” the rooster croaked, First bird of the day. The world, light-flecked, Chiselled its lineaments into form. Where was all that fine light coming from? “Trance at the wonder,” the second sang. Whose five dry notes urged the ongoing Afternoon on. “Why wake and stir?” It asked. And asked. There was no answer. “Live through the muddle.” That from the next one. Not very helpful. It looked like rain, Or fog in the offing. Twilight. Then It sang again from an oak or pine. Silence. How I waited for the fourth! Time was a negative dipped into its bath, The dark a fixative that slowly made For every windowpane its window shade. No messages arrived. No music bared The soul for its penitence. Up the stairs No hint of a footfall. The night passed. “Croak by your hand,” said the crow at last.

I Eagerly Like a woman hurrying to her lover Night comes to the room of the world And lies, yielding and content Against the cool round face Of the moon. II Night is a curious child, wandering Between earth and sky, creeping In windows and doors, daubing The entire neighborhood With purple paint. Day Is an apologetic mother Cloth in hand Following after. III Peddling From door to door Night sells Black bags of peppermint stars Heaping cones of vanilla moon Until His wares are gone Then shuffles homeward Jingling the gray coins Of daybreak. IV Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin Shatters into a billion fragments Of quiet shadows At the blaring jazz Of a morning sun.

The mountain north of Pasadena has severe and angular back canyons where the light is always unexpected, out of place, too simple for the clutter of the granite blocks along the creeks. The slopes have low rough shrubs, some firebreaks. It rains sometimes, and then the soils wash easily through Rubio and Eaton canyons to the small catch-basins and the storage tanks. The bedrocks tilt toward the west, and so the seepage drains that way. Along a wall of the Arroyo, it comes down in springs named Tibbets, Ivy, Flutterwheel. These are the only steady water, and the Indiana colony had hauled it out in tubs and barrels to their lots. They’d cleared the greasewood from the flats and planted groves of orange and peach trees, built their houses in the California Style with battened redwood boards. Nearer the Arroyo, on its terraces, they saved a few live oak. They’d have December picnics there and afterward would walk from that side, down the bluff. The floor was cool, and there were sycamore and alder, loose irregular new channels through the willows. On the other side, and south, below the San Rafaels, more oak, the sun. They’d take a new way back. Their lots extended east to the Lake Vineyard Land and Water Company. And as a grudging compromise between that tract and theirs, the Central School was built in the dry neat rows of the orchards east of where they lived. Excursion parties from the Middle West were taken mostly with the climate. At the citrus fairs, the charts and produce showed them that it didn’t freeze. Storms were rare and offered the consoling interest of a flood in the Arroyo, loud and stupid boulders the size of safes colliding down the wash. A new hotel faced south on Colorado. Like the Ward Block to its right across Fair Oaks, it was substantial, frame, with dormers and brick chimneys. Each had its widow’s walk and looked as much like Boston as it needed to. Someone from Los Angeles brought in a telephone. He hooked it up in the store on the southeast corner, rode back downtown and called and asked for so-and-so, who wasn’t there. From that one crossing, there were fewer lots each month, new storefronts and more traffic, speculating boomers and pikers, midnight sales, bands and free lunches at the auctions. Owners were induced to move east on Colorado to more eligible locations, but the cross-streets led through dusty tent-lined orchards to the chaparral. The boom came back toward the center and was done. What they’d been selling was the weather and a place to live, and that was what was left. As their one industry, the Novelty Works of Mr. Wakeley went on stuffing scorpions and trapdoor spiders, horny toads, small animals and birds. The balance of trade was not in Pasadena’s favor. But there were jobs. James Scoville kept men doing rockwork on the banks above his groves. The Arroyo narrowed there, and so he had them build a pumphouse and a dam and turn a railroad trestle upside down between two concrete footings. This was the central bridge. It crossed to open ranchland that would subdivide more slowly than the woodlots on the bluffs. Another bridge, La Loma, farther south, was taller, with a wider span and sycamores around its girders. It had replaced the Johnston bridge and made it easier to sell the tracts. The wealth of the invisible elite went into homes on Grand and Orange Grove, Raymond, Nithsdale Rd., Arroyo Terrace, Bellefontaine, new bungalows that looked much less expensive than they were. In their commissions, Charles and Henry Greene used common and available materials, stones from the Arroyo, bricks, a simple flexible pine frame of 2 x 4s and hand-split cedar shakes, porches that were railed with the same rough timber as the posts and beams and trusses and the overhanging rafters for the roof. Their costs were mostly labor. They’d show the workers where they wanted terraces and knolls, what trees and shrubs to save. A local factory expanded to keep up with them, and they’d make daily visits there to oversee the millmen and the carvers or the quality of lumber that had just been shipped. Their mason did exactly what they called for on retaining-walls, the color of the fill, which stone or clinker at what angle to the rest. Each minor thing they cared about earned what it had to do with matters that were not their business. Where the money for a house had come from, what the Mayor had in mind, or Public Works, or how the street would look with lights— affairs like these beyond the garden stayed accessible, a movement to and from the house implicit in its horizontal lines. The roof was long and relatively flat. Beams above the frames of doors and windows were much broader than the frames themselves and paralleled the covered entryways and porches. Even the stairs inside were less than vertical, each section of the railing carved from a single piece of teak and joined to all the other teak—the notched and interlocking kickplates, the splines and level boards that were the facing of the well. Their stairs were furniture. A bench along a landing had the same insistent finish as the inglehook, the same square ebony caps for screwheads as the chairs and tables. Everything showed you how it went together. A scarf or box-joint, metal straps, continuous sure banding from the hallway into any room. There was tile and leaded glass, but it was mostly wood—mahoganies and walnuts, oak, redwood or white cedar wainscots, doweled and pegged loose furniture in teak or birch or lignum-vitae, a smooth self-lubricating wood that didn’t crack. The grain inside was outside too in rafters and stiff rounded beam-ends that were oiled and rubbed. They looked penetrable to light, looked as if they could absorb and carry it at any single time toward the one best place inside. Lucile’s house on Holliston was miles from the Arroyo. But it was imitation Greene & Greene, a less impressive version of their simplest large two-story frames. Its eaves on both the north and south reached almost to the neighbors’ lots, lots that for several blocks each way repeated themselves with slightly different houses. The man she’d bought it from was still a pharmacist at Lake and Villa. He didn’t know me and I never spoke to him. He had a massive tumor on his neck and jaw, and I would be amazed each time I saw him that he wasn’t dead. Until a year or so before he’d sold the house, there’d been an organ with the pipes extending to an upstairs bedroom, probably the room across the hall from Donna’s. There would have been no floor between the first and second stories, our den and sewing room a single shaftlike chamber that the sound would fill. It’s just as likely that the floor had been there all along, exactly as we knew it, with the organ somewhere else. But of all the rooms downstairs, only the den could open to the room above it. With the ranks of pipes along the wall that backed against the stairs, there would have been high windows to the south and west, and possibly, around three sides, a thin railed walk one got to from the upstairs hall. I might let myself care more about how well or what he played if it were clearer to me how the organ looked. If I know anything about its wood, I know it from the oak-frame sliding doors between the den and living room. So if the console had been quartered oak, the case was walnut—no tracery around the pipes, the same plain cuts as for the cabinets and counters everywhere downstairs. How many manuals there were, or knobs with nameplates for the pitches and the stops, if the bench was free or fixed, or whether the pedals for the naturals were strips that flared slightly in their alignment toward the darker sharps— the whole clear shape of it in that one place remains as closed to me as how it worked, as the feeders and the reservoirs, the valves, the layers of coarse felt between the double panels of the swell-box; as how the sliders kept the air below the upper-boards and pipes and let it go and let it sound the way he wanted it to sound, the wind inside the pipe striking against a lip and coming back, contained and vibrant for the time he kept it there. Its shock to the air outside the pipe was how it sounded, the way he wanted it to sound, or as it might have sounded if the room were larger and the sounds dispersed and mixed less palpably, went on together with the light or darkness in the room. There wouldn’t have been time between the sounds to count them to be sure that nothing of the piece was missing. Nor was there time for me, at any moment in the sewing room, to know the changes that the light had worked downstairs. Not that I would have tried to know, or done much more than suffer my current fit of pouting. I’d hear Lucile walk past the stairs toward the kitchen in her busy self-important way. Maybe she’d leave. From a back window of the sewing room, I’d see her in her car and starting out the driveway. These were the least obstructed windows in the house. Late in the day, haze showed its tired agreement with the house next door, the shingles dull and olive like the rusted screens, the asphalt paper on the roof. I could see my aunt’s back yard on Chester. Trees as far west of us as Lake marked off the streets in staggered elevations—palms, short rows of deodars and jacarandas. At night, from a window in the southern wall, the top three letters on the tower for the academy kept coming on one at a time, then all together. [...] Richard Arkwright was a barber. He toured the markets and the farms and bought the hair of country girls and made it into wigs. When he hired John Kay to build a frame for spinning thread from the strands of cotton, manufacture was domestic—looms and jennies in the kitchens of the small freeholders and the farmers who would sell their cloth to merchants. Wool was the English staple trade, a privilege of the landed graziers. All gentlemen wore silk. Raw cotton was a coarse adherent fiber from Brazil and the Antilles. It had to be opened and cleaned and have its strands laid parallel by two large cards that worked it back and forth between them. Drawing made the slivers equal in thickness by redoubling them, and roving made them thicker still and left them ready to be spun. Arkwright’s water-frame replaced the hand’s inexpert pulling and pushing, movements that begin and end and can’t repeat themselves exactly. At Cromford, with the money of two hosiers, he built a gas-lit mill above the Derwent. He needed journeymen clockmakers who did tooth and pinion, a smith who forged and filed. Afraid that no one man would know “all that I should expect he might,” he was “determined to let no person see the works.” He wanted “locks and hangings for the windows; good latches for the outer doors, and for the inner doors as well.” To make the other money come to him, he specified as little as he could in all his patents. And as he sold the plans, he built six factories in Lancashire. At Glasgow, he was made an honorary burgess and was taken to the Falls of Clyde, at New Lanark, where he would build another mill. He advertised for weavers, framework-knitters. Children who were seven could have constant employment. In the riot against machines, they burned his mill near Chorley. He was threatened: “I will lie in wait for you in this town Nottingham or wherever I most likely to find you. I will ashure shute you as your name is what it is. Dam you do you think the town must be ruled by such a barber as you.” Contemporaries thought he was a Newton or Napoleon. He was knighted and named High Sheriff of Derbyshire. He claimed that he could pay the national debt if he were left alone to make his money; and when he died, the income from his mills was more than that of most German principalities. He was asthmatic. An economist of time, he worked at English grammar as he traveled in a post-chaise with four horses driven always at top speed. He lost his patents at a trial in 1785. The industry was open. In the damp valleys, at breaks in the long profiles of the streams, new spinning mills went up. They were too far outside the towns to worry that they’d be inspected—close enough to send their thread to upland workshops by the new trans-Pennine turnpike roads, or by the new canal that crossed the valley of the Calder, through the Craven drumlins east to the other watershed, and Leeds. There was so much thread that barns were fitted up with handlooms that could weave good fustians and cambrics. Cotton was its own new country, and the landlords feared the moneyed men. Land could itself be capital, the business of the aristocracy. Each landlord had his broken straggling plots, their furrows running lengthwise to the rounded headlands where the plough would turn. He knew which land was his, but it was open and was grazed collectively by several owners. Between harvest and sowing, even his farmers’ pigs would graze there with the sheep. Cows grazed the catchwork meadows on the terraces, or at the watersides. Enclosure was the landlords’ plan to change their strips of arable to larger straighter fields. They would appropriate the wastes—the marshes and moors, the peat-bogs where the farmers got their fuel. Commons had been “a profit which a man hath in the land of another, as to pasture beasts thereon, cut wood, catch fish, hunt coneys, and the like.” In most of the Midland parishes, there were now Acts for Enclosure of the Open and Common Fields, new roads with wide grass verges to a ditch, then quickset hedgerows, ash, occasional small farmsteads with a croft, no lanes, the landlord’s manor and his park, and in the fields the thickets for his foxes. It cost him less to graze than till. The stiff clay soils would hold a year of wheat, another of spring corn, lie fallow. The land would yield him more if he could save the labor of his farmers and the cottagers. Tenure at Will was his prerogative to put them off the land when he was through with them. As he engrossed more farms, they set his hedges, drained and marled the looser tracts and planted clover, turnips, and lucerne. He managed breeds of stock and turned them out to graze the even turf across the hillocks. Enclosure had made “fat beasts, and lean poor people.” With no one skill peculiar to themselves, they left the villages for workshops in the north. The Earl of Leicester said “I look around and see no other house than mine. I am like the ogre in the tale, and have eaten up all my neighbors.”

(i) (for Robert Grey) caged by dappled light unlike Rilke’s beast     content this side of heaven (ii) perennial green ephemeral butterfly what time’s time enough? (iii) red roof in full leaf sail now grey threatening sky cry blue land ahoy! (iv) in this green waiting birds trill leaves quiver then time interjects its train!

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong – and so— If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

Siwashing it out once in Siuslaw Forest I slept under   rhododendron All night   blossoms fell Shivering on   a sheet of cardboard Feet stuck   in my pack Hands deep   in my pockets Barely   able   to   sleep. I remembered   when we were in school Sleeping together   in a big warm bed We were   the youngest lovers When we broke up   we were still nineteen. Now our   friends are married You teach   school back east I dont mind   living this way Green hills   the long blue beach But sometimes   sleeping in the open I think back   when I had you. A spring night in Shokoku-ji Eight years ago this May We walked under cherry blossoms At night in an orchard in Oregon. All that I wanted then Is forgotten now, but you. Here in the night In a garden of the old capital I feel the trembling ghost of Yugao I remember your cool body Naked under a summer cotton dress. An autumn morning in Shokoku-ji Last night watching the Pleiades, Breath smoking in the moonlight, Bitter memory like vomit Choked my throat. I unrolled a sleeping bag On mats on the porch Under thick autumn stars. In dream you appeared (Three times in nine years) Wild, cold, and accusing. I woke shamed and angry: The pointless wars of the heart. Almost dawn. Venus and Jupiter. The first time I have Ever seen them close. December at Yase You said, that October, In the tall dry grass by the orchard When you chose to be free, “Again someday, maybe ten years.” After college I saw you One time. You were strange. And I was obsessed with a plan. Now ten years and more have Gone by: I’ve always known where you were— I might have gone to you Hoping to win your love back. You still are single. I didn’t. I thought I must make it alone. I Have done that. Only in dream, like this dawn, Does the grave, awed intensity Of our young love Return to my mind, to my flesh. We had what the others All crave and seek for; We left it behind at nineteen. I feel ancient, as though I had Lived many lives. And may never now know If I am a fool Or have done what my karma demands.

1 I find a strange knowledge of wind, an open door in the mountain pass where everything intersects. Believe me. This will not pass. This is a world where flags contain themselves, and are still, marked by their unfurled edges. Lean stuff sways on the boughs of pitch pine: silver, almost tinsel, all light gone blue and sprouting orange oils in a last bouquet. 2 These were the nest builders; I caught one last morning, I sang so it fell down, stupid, from the trees. They’re so incorrect in their dead skin. Witness their twig feet, the mistake of their hands. They will follow you. They yearn pebbles for their gullets to grind their own seed. They swallow so selflessly and die like patriots. 3 Last Christmas, a family of five woke from their dreaming and dreamed themselves over: the baby in its pink pajamas, the boy in the red flannel bathrobe he grabbed from the door, a mother, a father, and a sister in curlers; all died. A wood frame house, a cannister of oil, a match—watch as it unsettles. They were so cold; umber. 4 I am away from the knowledge of animal mystics, brujas and sorcerers or the nudging chants of a Tlingit Kachina. I am frightened by regions with wills of their own, but when my people die in the snow I wonder did the depths billow up to reach them?

1. Is it true that they dream? It is true, for the spaces of night surround them with shape and purpose, like a warm hollow below the shoulders, or between the curve of thigh and belly. The land itself can lie like this. Hence our understanding of giants. The wind and the grass cry out to the arms of their sleep as the shore cries out, and buries its face in the bruised sea. We all have heard barns and fences splintering against the dark with a weight that is more than wood. The stars, too, bear witness. We can read their tails and claws as we would read the signs of our own dreams; a knot of sheets, scratches defining the edges of the body, the position of the legs upon waking. The cage and the forest are as helpless in the night as a pair of open hands holding rain. 2. Do they dream of the past or of the future? Think of the way a woman who wanders the roads could step into an empty farmhouse one afternoon and find a basket of eggs, some unopened letters, the pillowcases embroidered with initials that once were hers. Think of her happiness as she sleeps in the daylilies; the air is always heaviest at the start of dusk. Cows, for example, find each part of themselves traveling at a different rate of speed. Their bells call back to their burdened hearts the way a sparrow taunts an old hawk. As far as the badger and the owl are concerned, the past is a silver trout circling in the ice. Each night he swims through their waking and makes his way back to the moon. Clouds file through the dark like prisoners through an endless yard. Deer are made visible by their hunger. I could also mention the hopes of common spiders: green thread sailing from an infinite spool, a web, a thin nest, a child dragging a white rope slowly through the sand. 3. Do they dream of this world or of another? The prairie lies open like a vacant eye, blind to everything but the wind. From the tall grass the sky is an industrious map that bursts with rivers and cities. A black hawk waltzes against his clumsy wings, the buzzards grow bored with the dead. A screendoor flapping idly on an August afternoon or a woman fanning herself in church; this is how the tails of snakes and cats keep time even in sleep. There are sudden flashes of light to account for. Alligators, tormented by knots and vines, take these as a sign of grace. Eagles find solace in the far glow of towns, in the small yellow bulb a child keeps by his bed. The lightning that scars the horizon of the meadow is carried in the desperate gaze of foxes. Have other skies fallen into this sky? All the evidence seems to say so. Conspiracy of air, conspiracy of ice, the silver trout is thirsty for morning, the prairie dog shivers with sweat. Skeletons of gulls lie scattered on the dunes, their beaks still parted by whispering. These are the languages that fall beyond our hearing. Imagine the way rain falls around a house at night, invisible to its sleepers. They do not dream of us. 4. How can we learn more? This is all we will ever know.

* In the shape of a submarine frost lengthens on a window. Outside, winter sparrows perch in rhinoceros-colored trees. Mare's tails chase whitely past brick chimneys. I have seen those lights before, small rectangular eyes of far buildings, one church steeple darkening the blue sky. * It looks like a stopped grey heart, if hearts sport such delicate scallops and trees wear hearts on their sleeves. Now the first wasp of spring emerges, its wings a transparency of fish scales, old isinglass or vein-fretted windows— wings of the first untranscendent angel sentenced to death by the god frost. How can some later spring reclaim this paper city or repair its walls damaged in the long drop from the one hundred and twentieth odd year of a tree? * The sky wears that color through which you expect a tornado's black drill. Only cicadas try the air, a scratching that cannon could not silence. Beyond the barn with three siloes and the wind pump stopped like a tin daisy, carp lip the surface of reflected sky, the promised violence. * I always imagined that place as an orchard on a mountaintop, its summer Delicious freckling to a sunset by Seurat. But the last time it was fall, the sere grass bent one way toward an open gate, as though a great wind had swept down stones of the garden walls. Two posts bent where the orchard had been, their purpose obscure. They stood, I think, where flowers had rivaled deepest in their colors and scents.