1630 Nature poems

Just when he thought to loom the backyard for bud & Just when he came to admire, or thought to dote over Already he rues stick-thin arms, whose petals brave the late Whose middles freeze; we’ve gone without All ramose till now, empty skirts anxious to round back for It’s the fourth year lips have gone without any such Already hips full of leaves and none Else, years by last, the lone — it splat behind My back, it came to ache as the rake clawed at We’ve gone into partial burn, without even No matter for bloom, the seasons no longer allow The trouble with doting over blossoms is In a swollen tub of ruth, wanting nothing but his

Today in El Paso all the planes are asleep on the runway. The world is in a delay. All the political consultants drinking whiskey keep their heads down, lifting them only to look at the beautiful scarred waitress who wears typewriter keys as a necklace. They jingle when she brings them drinks. Outside the giant plate glass windows the planes are completely covered in snow, it piles up on the wings. I feel like a mountain of cell phone chargers. Each of the various faiths of our various fathers keeps us only partly protected. I don’t want to talk on the phone to an angel. At night before I go to sleep I am already dreaming. Of coffee, of ancient generals, of the faces of statues each of which has the eternal expression of one of my feelings. I examine my feelings without feeling anything. I ride my blue bike on the edge of the desert. I am president of this glass of water.

The fish are drifting calmly in their tank between the green reeds, lit by a white glow that passes for the sun. Blindly, the blank glass that holds them in displays their slow progress from end to end, familiar rocks set into the gravel, murmuring rows of filters, a universe the flying fox and glass cats, Congo tetras, bristle-nose pleocostemus all take for granted. Yet the platys, gold and red, persist in leaping occasionally, as if they can't quite let alone a possibility—of wings, maybe, once they reach the air? They die on the rug. We find them there, eyes open in surprise.

The world’s a world of trouble, your mother must have told you that. Poison leaks into the basements and tedium into the schools. The oak is going the way of the elm in the upper Midwest—my cousin earns a living by taking the dead ones down. And Jason’s alive yet, the fair- haired child, his metal crib next to my daughter’s. Jason is one but last saw light five months ago and won’t see light again. · Leaf against leaf without malice or forethought, the manifold species of murmuring harm. No harm intended, there never is. The new inadequate software gets the reference librarian fired. The maintenance crew turns off power one weekend and Monday the lab is a morgue: fifty-four rabbits and seventeen months of research. Ignorance loves as ignorance does and always holds high office. · Jason had the misfortune to suffer misfortune the third of July. July’s the month of hospital ro- tations; on holiday weekends the venerable stay home. So when Jason lay blue and inert on the table and couldn’t be made to breathe for three-and-a- quarter hours, the staff were too green to let him go. The household gods have abandoned us to the gods of juris- prudence and suburban sprawl. The curve of new tarmac, the municipal pool, the sky at work on the pock-marked river, fatuous sky, the park where idling cars, mere yards from the slide and the swingset, deal beautiful oblivion in nickel bags: the admitting room and its stately drive, possessed of the town’s best view. · And what’s to become of the three-year-old brother? When Jason was found face down near the dogdish—it takes just a cupful of water to drown— his brother stood still in the corner and said he was hungry and said that it wasn’t his fault. No fault. The fault’s in nature, who will without system or explanation make permanent havoc of little mistakes. A natural mistake, the transient ill-will we define as the normal and trust to be inconsequent, by nature’s own abundance soon absorbed. · Oak wilt, it’s called, the new disease. Like any such contagion—hypocrisy in the conference room, flattery in the halls—it works its mischief mostly unremarked. The men on the links haven’t noticed yet. Their form is good. They’re par. The woman who’s prospered from hating ideas loves causes instead. A little shade, a little firewood. I know a stand of oak on which my father’s earthly joy depends. We’re slow to cut our losses.

1 Just as there were reeds along the riverbank, Just as there were clouds Above my head, my lute was lying beside me on the grass. I placed the little finger of my right hand on the soundboard, Just below the strings. Not the tip of the finger, the side. I curled the palm of my right hand towards me, Covering the strings, so that I played The bass note with the thumb, The next with the index, And the top note with the third. The sun retreated, the night turned cold. Rain began to fall, softly at first, Though surely rain had fallen here before, as rain falls everywhere. With my left hand, I positioned my thumb and index finger Opposite each other, bearing no weight, As if the neck of the lute were not there. 2 At this they all laughed. Then the Count began afresh: My lords, he said, I am not pleased with the young man if he is not also a musician, and if, besides his cunning upon the book, he have not skill in like manner on sundry instruments. There is no ease of labor more honest and more praiseworthy, especially at court, where many things are taken in hand to please women, whose tender breasts are soon pierced with melody. Then the Lord Gasper: I believe music, he said, together with other vanities, is mete for women, also for them that have the likeness of men, but not for them that be men indeed, who ought not with such delicacies womanize their minds and so bring themselves to dread death. — The First Booke of the Courtyer of Count Baldessar Castilio 3 For many years I lived apart, in happy oblivion. In retrospect, I understand I’d been a child, Though lacking comparisons I couldn’t have said so. I learned things, things no child, left to himself, could possibly know. My head, which had been empty, now was full. My head would grow larger. How could it not? At night, standing in the shower, I closed my eyes. The water trickled down my forehead To my nose, from my nose to my lips, my chin, then disappeared. But some of what stayed in my head Should not have been there. 4 Listen, said the reeds along the riverbank: the nymphs Are weeping for Daphnis. His mother embraces his body, railing against the stars. Nobody drives his cattle to the cool stream, no one could drink; The mountains echo with the beasts of the desert. Daphnis, it was you who yoked them to the chariot, Who led us in the dance, weaving Together vine leaves with reeds. The vine exceeds the tree on which it climbs. The grape exceeds the vine, The calf the herd, the corn the field. Now, where we planted barley, thistles grow. Where once were violets, hyacinths — nothing but weeds. Scatter the ground with flowers, shepherds, Set out two bowls, One of milk and one of oil. Then carve these lines from Virgil on his tomb: I was Daphnis in these woods.The stars knew my name.Beautiful the flock, more beautiful the shepherd.

The sudden thuck of landing The arrow made in the mark Of the center lifted and Loosened his skin. And so he Stood, hearing it like many Thrusting breaths driven to ground. He abandoned the long light Flight of arrows and the slow Parabolas bows dream of For the swifter song beyond Flesh. Song of moments. The earth Turned its molten balance. He stood hearing it again: The precise shudder the arrow Sought and returned to, flaming.

Heigho! the lark and the owl! One flies the morning, and one lulls the night: Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light. "A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. "There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound."

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers, Of April, May, of June, and July flowers. I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes. I write of youth, of love, and have access By these to sing of cleanly wantonness. I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris. I sing of Time's trans-shifting; and I write How roses first came red, and lilies white. I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing The court of Mab, and of the fairy king. I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

On the way to the village store I drive through a down-draft from the neighbor’s chimney. Woodsmoke tumbles from the eaves backlit by sun, reminding me of the fire and sulfur of Grandmother’s vengeful God, the one who disapproves of jeans and shorts for girls, dancing, strong waters, and adultery. A moment later the smoke enters the car, although the windows are tight, insinuating that I might, like Judas, and the foolish virgins, and the rich young man, have been made for unquenchable fire. God will need something to burn if the fire is to be unquenchable. “All things work together for the good for those who love God,” she said to comfort me at Uncle Hazen’s funeral, where Father held me up to see the maroon gladiolus that trembled as we approached the bier, the elaborate shirred satin, brass fittings, anything, oh, anything but Uncle’s squelched and made-up face. “No! NO! How is it good to be dead?” I cried afterward, wild-eyed and flushed. “God’s ways are not our ways,” she said then out of pity and the wish to forestall the argument.

Stasis in darkness. Then the substanceless blue Pour of tor and distances. God’s lioness, How one we grow, Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow Splits and passes, sister to The brown arc Of the neck I cannot catch, Nigger-eye Berries cast dark Hooks— Black sweet blood mouthfuls, Shadows. Something else Hauls me through air— Thighs, hair; Flakes from my heels. White Godiva, I unpeel— Dead hands, dead stringencies. And now I Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas. The child’s cry Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.