1630 Nature poems

8/1 From here groomed fields and clumps of trees, a silo of corrugated tin and a white barn blur. Unseasonable cool days, high, blue, a few clouds like ripped pillows as if this were a lip of the North Sea and I could look out and imagine Denmark. But I’m in my office three floors up. 8/3 In Armenian there’s a word—garod—rhymes with “maud.” The beautiful ones are not faithful and the faithful ones are not beautiful— a student said that about some Pavese translations, here in my office. Should I tell you what garod means? 8/5 What’s happening in Spitak and Sarajevo and the West Bank is splayed like the cortex of a silicon chip in the fuzzy air. Maria, the physician from Armenia, was 25 & had one plastic arm and one real arm. I met her in East Hampton on the deck of a house on the dunes. After the earthquake she had no husband, no parents, and only one child. “I’m in a good mood today,” she said, “let’s talk about something else.” I poured her an Amstel Light. 8/10 The coolness intrudes— month of wind-sprints and retching for the coach. It comes back like nerve ends after surgery. Along a country road cicadas rattling. Chicory and sweet pea intruding on the ripe barley. I picked up some seed packs from a junk shop on Rt. 20, a tomato blazed in red ink/ 1926, Fredonia, N.Y. 8/11 What’s between us? The red ink of the tomato? How does an image stay? Or is it always aftermath? The way deep black reflected the most light in Talbot’s first calotypes. But garod: tongue of a snake, meaning exile, longing for home. Thomas Wedgwood got images by getting sunlight to pass through things onto paper brushed with silver nitrate: wings of a dragonfly, the spine of an oak leaf— fugitive photograms. But he couldn’t stop the sun until it turned the paper black. Stop the light before it goes too far? Or is desire what garod means? Longing for a native place. 8/17 Maria said she was learning how to connect nerve endings in the hand so hands and arms would work again. There were so many in Armenia without working hands and arms. At the end of each dendrite is a blurred line like the horizon I’m squinting. Image of the other: light-arrested; not the image of ourselves. 8/21 After digging scallions one day Dickinson defined freedom: Captivity’s consciousness, so’s liberty. Maybe garod is about the longing for the native place between two selves. 8/22 I love the brute force of silence in Roger Fenton’s Sebastopol from Cathcart’s Hill, 1855. The Crimean inner war. The artlessness of silver is like my tongue in your wet space, or like the news photos that bring us the pressure of disaster. Beloved topography, garod then must mean yearning. Is that how we loved under the rattling Nippon porcelain, in the light calotyped by the fire escape? 8/25 garod: the grain chute that spills into a dark barn which is endless, like the self when it’s out of reach. Are we so lonely that a constellation could blacken and fill up that same barn, and that be me or you? But still we’re piss and oats and stock in there. We’re like civet, who wouldn’t love it. 8/31 the new glass-plate pictures: transparent as air, Szarkowski wrote like windows the fragmentary, scruffy, particularity of real living behind them—

It began in a foyer of evenings The evenings left traces of glass in the trees A book and a footpath we followed Under throat-pipes of birds We moved through a room of leaves Thin streams of silver buried under our eyes A field of white clover buried under our eyes Or a river we stopped at to watch The wind cross it, recross it Room into room you paused Where once on a stoop we leaned back Talking late into daylight The morning trees shook off twilight Opening and closing our eyes auroras Beyond groves and flora we followed a road Dotted with polished brown bottles, Scoured furrows, a wood emptied of trees It was enough to hollow us out The evenings left grasses half-wild at our feet Branches with spaces for winds The earth changes The way we speak to each other has changed As for a long while we stood in a hall full of exits Listening for a landscape beyond us

In siftings of chromatic sediment Shed by the winter hours as they decay, With slow descent Light settles through the lower sky in peach, Then mauve, then pale self-abnegating gray Against the water, now that day is spent At Bennetts Beach, Under the high withdrawing blueness, band On band, like layers in a decorative Bottle of sand, Enclosed beneath the heavens’ dome, as though This were the perfect realm in which to live, Preserved, unburdened by the least demand, Or wish, to know— And simply be. Along the beach convene Some silver gulls which stand around reflecting Upon the sheen That comes and goes about their scarlet feet, And crested terns fly back and forth inspecting The shallows for a last titbit to glean, And lightly treat A two-faced wind that works its way across The metal of the sea it tries to planish And to emboss, While deep in its unbalanced buffetings Gannets alternately appear and vanish, Plunge, rise, and loft and give their heads a toss. These things, these things

I Leaguered in fire The wild black promontories of the coast extend Their savage silhouettes; The sun in universal carnage sets, And, halting higher, The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats, Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned, That, balked, yet stands at bay. Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline, A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray, And in her hand swings high o’erhead, Above the waster of war, The silver torch-light of the evening star Wherewith to search the faces of the dead. II Lagooned in gold, Seem not those jetty promontories rather The outposts of some ancient land forlorn, Uncomforted of morn, Where old oblivions gather, The melancholy unconsoling fold Of all things that go utterly to death And mix no more, no more With life’s perpetually awakening breath? Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore, Over such sailless seas, To walk with hope’s slain importunities In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not All things be there forgot, Save the sea’s golden barrier and the black Close-crouching promontories? Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories, Shall I not wander there, a shadow’s shade, A spectre self-destroyed, So purged of all remembrance and sucked back Into the primal void, That should we on the shore phantasmal meet I should not know the coming of your feet?

As I come down the hill from Toro Poutini’s house My feet are sore, being bare, on the sharp stones And that is a suitable penance. The dust of the pa road Is cool, though, and I can see The axe of the moon shift down behind the trees Very slowly. The red light from the windows Of the church has a ghostly look, and in This place ghosts are real. The bees are humming loudly In moonlight in their old hive above the church door Where I go in to kneel, and come out to make my way Uphill past a startled horse who plunges in the paddock Above the nunnery. Now there are one or two Of the tribe back in the big house—What would you have me do, King Jesus? Your games with me have turned me into a boulder.

for Arthur Sze I. Somehow precise and unquestionable, the cut of the Chinese man’s hair. Never before this certainty, I consider the decision of each strand. The diameter. The angle. So black, the way it appears, crashing against the hard corner of his jaw. II. I consider the darkness. You are appointed court photographer. Consider this picture. III. My small face is red behind a bath towel curtain. I watch a funeral that is taking place next door. So black, my dog, hurling himself against a chain link fence. IV. The casket is lowered and I am removing rusty pins from the grease on the window’s aluminum track, along with strands of hair. V. This is pressing. I mark it with an asterisk. Black and large. VI. A vague feeling, pressing itself against a snowfence in my mind. Like a threat, I view the way you cut your hair as if it were a history of something small.

I The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths! the ringing wain, The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, All housed within the sleeping farms! The business of the day is done, The last-left haymaker is gone. And from the thyme upon the height, And from the elder-blossom white And pale dog-roses in the hedge, And from the mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night-air blows The perfume which the day forgoes. And on the pure horizon far, See, pulsing with the first-born star, The liquid sky above the hill! The evening comes, the fields are still. Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds— Flickering and circling In files and in rounds— Gaily their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o'er their shoulders white Showering their hair— See! the wild Maenads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood. See! through the quiet land Rioting they pass— Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the grass. Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize; Fill with their sports the field, Fill with their cries. Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Shepherd, why mute? Forth with thy joyous song! Forth with thy flute! Tempts not the revel blithe? Lure not their cries? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Melt not their eyes? Is not, on cheeks like those, Lovely the flush? —Ah, so the quiet was! So was the hush! II The epoch ends, the world is still. The age has talk'd and work'd its fill— The famous orators have shone, The famous poets sung and gone, The famous men of war have fought, The famous speculators thought, The famous players, sculptors, wrought, The famous painters fill'd their wall, The famous critics judged it all. The combatants are parted now— Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. And in the after-silence sweet, Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, Ascending pure, the bell-like fame Of this or that down-trodden name, Delicate spirits, push'd away In the hot press of the noon-day. And o'er the plain, where the dead age Did its now silent warfare wage— O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, Where many a splendour finds its tomb, Many spent fames and fallen mights— The one or two immortal lights Rise slowly up into the sky To shine there everlastingly, Like stars over the bounding hill. The epoch ends, the world is still. Thundering and bursting In torrents, in waves— Carolling and shouting Over tombs, amid graves— See! on the cumber'd plain Clearing a stage, Scattering the past about, Comes the new age. Bards make new poems, Thinkers new schools, Statesmen new systems, Critics new rules. All things begin again; Life is their prize; Earth with their deeds they fill, Fill with their cries. Poet, what ails thee, then? Say, why so mute? Forth with thy praising voice! Forth with thy flute! Loiterer! why sittest thou Sunk in thy dream? Tempts not the bright new age? Shines not its stream? Look, ah, what genius, Art, science, wit! Soldiers like Caesar, Statesmen like Pitt! Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakespeare— Beautiful souls! See, on their glowing cheeks Heavenly the flush! —Ah, so the silence was! So was the hush! The world but feels the present's spell, The poet feels the past as well; Whatever men have done, might do, Whatever thought, might think it too.

It takes a calendar one damp day to declare fall, weeks of dying mums to second the motion. *     *     * Gone the homeland, gone the father, nothing left but invisible north to magnetize your doubts. *     *     * Not eulogies or hearses but the sandwiches after, estranged cousins chewing under one umbrella. *     *     * One clock for errands, one for midnight trysts, though neither will hurry a slow train. *     *     * Prairie is not the floor nor sky the coffered ceiling. Even a scarecrow is wise beyond its straw. *     *     * Look down: a river of grass. Look up: a velvet lost and found. Look inside: no straws to drink that dusk. *     *     * A woman’s watch thieved by a jay—ah, to be lifted like that, to be carried like time across lapping waves.

(for the Barteks) up at 7, dress & cook an egg black with pan soot, eat with hot bread and butter binoculars, book, notebook, 2 baloney sandwiches & a peanutbutter english sparrows singing as I walk to Hotel Yancey pigeons wheel above grand island coffee & the world-herald Saturday 7:30 in their elegant warm cafe Vera Coons comes in her green car we pick up her friend Bea while speaking of Canada geese I hear a cardinal startling, we see a cardinal crows flying we’re driving south on highway 281 cornfields, bright day, temp. 21 hit the Platter Restaurant where George Stoppekotte sits in his pickup he climbs in, we all sit & talk & wait for Bill Schleicher “if they take all the water out of the Platte River, by God, we folks here are gonna sit with our fingers dry” Bill comes with Harley Kandish, shuffle around George & Bill lead off in the pickup, Harley rides with us cross the Platte, gray with ice sunlight heading west sparrow hawk on a low fence “when you talk about wild asparagus, those 2 guys spot it where no one else does” we stop, check out black blobs in the trees, George says they spotted wild geese a magpie, we all drive on — I train my binocs on the passing trees (black Angus in bright yellow corn) stop again, geese “ — put a spot of salt in everything she made” “your dipstick’ll boil that oil eventually then you can’t get the darn varnish out” 2 ducks — scaup? goldeneye? meadowlark in a tree we see an eagle white-headed, gargantuan, in cottonwood by river back — we drink coffee — high spirits — everybody talks at once of Spanish peanuts — postum — people killing eagles being sick — where we’re going — once Harley saw an eagle & a bluebird & a beaver all in the same spot in Colorado & another eagle! closer perched upright, dark-bodied turning its arctic head in the light drive on ducks (buffleheads?) on Bufflehead pond hundreds of geese flap into a field & mass there giant trucks whiz by we’re 49 miles from grand island, turn south pass piles of mallards in a pond goldfinches lilt by turn east pass restored Fort Kearney hey — great horned owl on a telephone pole now he’s sitting on a haystack! “there was a crippled pelican down on Steen Lake a long while” I’ve got pelicans on my socks stop & piss in a refuge Bill says “we saw an immature on a haystack once & he was dead — not a wound on him. maybe he at a poison mouse” thought I heard a woodpecker pecking but it was the pickup cooling off — but there is a fat little downy there, we look — english sparrows out here sounds erupt like a whale under the pond ice stop for lunch here last baloney sandwich, Vera’s coffee, cigarette at a red picnic table by the pond & more sandwiches, pickles, from Vera chickadee sings talk “there’s something about a deer — couldn’t shoot one” “this was back when the Prince of Wales toured the country, they entertained him at Swift & Company. my sister-in-law was secretary to Old Man Swift. well she saw the Prince standing there looking forlorn & took a glass of water up to him & asked if he was thirsty and he was” “I was Secretary of Equitable Finance for 47 years” talk of city politics & economics & ecological considerations, & we leave, drive east glittering corn 3 mergansers on a pond fly off another eagle Platte River iced with curving channels open brown islands, everywhere shit, beautiful round brick barn young bald eagle flapping & soaring up — 2 more, sitting in trees — another, white-headed, closer, sits in massive stillness, then takes off! soars! flashing snow light from tail & head — drive a bit, stop & 3 more are seen sitting among strings & bunches of brown ducks that continually pour into & out of some body of water there “majestic” we say in such majesty so multiplied still majestic in so much left & right of ducks? drive on blue lake changes from brown to silver as we pass “there’s somebody’s little broken dream” we walk into a sanctuary Bill hands out peanuts in the shell points out diamond willow (chipping sparrow), through woods I climb green tower & look out upon islands & channels of the Platte “that’s alkali, you put your finger in it & lick it & it’s just like salt” badger hole wild plum “I don’t stomp em, I just throw em in there stems & all” “ — that’s due process” back to the car — banana, chocolate warm day now talk about Greeks fixing lamb — too much midafternoon, sit & talk motors start “sunflower” “cherry wood” talk, east again loggerhead (?) shrike flies off flicker meadowlarks all over sides of the road chipping sparrow with his white line over eye, black-bordered chestnut cap George saw 7 robins in a tree nothern robin in a russian olive paved road windmills walk to river & scan black spots — all nests blue ice, blue sky straggled brown horizon white posts in the river purple & yellow black hawk hovering over a field marsh hawk?  no, red-tail — fox squirrel way off gray cliffs of snow in the ditch 2 hairies on a post “I wanted to go up to Baribou to see the circus museum” pumphouse with purple shingles shrike goblin shapes of field wood panoramic freight train view nameless little town wave at man burning stumps talk of water & we slowly drive through country wide cornfields keep us from the trees the eagles sit in “I just always have lip-ice” 2 hawks — complex identification discussion, or debate, and I maintain: ferruginous rough-leg nearing doniphan roads zigzag along the cardinal directions following slow northward Platte curve eagle again — flapping & soaring across our path, distant — field of lemon yellow cooling off, sunlight graying Swainson’s hawk above our heads, says Vera “there’s a policeman’s car & it says ‘Whites’ live there” ... “now they collect interest instead of apples” back to the Platter people split off north into city nearly five o’clock clouds lit yellow-gray in the west twelve eagles in our wake & legions not seen, motionless on cottonwood braches they don’t care & I care but it’s ok “beautiful day” “beautiful day” looking into the sun makes it all seem light & dark home — mara & sierra fed ducks today sierra showed me her new blue car

Woke in the brume, lilacs like turf stars. The late fawn standing in his syrups; bucks down the swale chewing sedge. We move south to slopes of sleeping poppy, past the white alder, bending heads to scent of calx—in natural dark a man tries his hand at belonging. He with greave of hide, a born hood, lay with three spikes in the clay, green peak in the breeze. He whose breathing wrongs the still. You stir now to mend, to redress? To be one of us, after all this?