134 Winter poems

To the dim light and the large circle of shade I have clomb, and to the whitening of the hills, There where we see no color in the grass. Natheless my longing loses not its green, It has so taken root in the hard stone Which talks and hears as though it were a lady. Utterly frozen is this youthful lady, Even as the snow that lies within the shade; For she is no more moved than is the stone By the sweet season which makes warm the hills And alters them afresh from white to green Covering their sides again with flowers and grass. When on her hair she sets a crown of grass The thought has no more room for other lady, Because she weaves the yellow with the green So well that Love sits down there in the shade,– Love who has shut me in among low hills Faster than between walls of granite-stone. She is more bright than is a precious stone; The wound she gives may not be healed with grass: I therefore have fled far o’er plains and hills For refuge from so dangerous a lady; But from her sunshine nothing can give shade,– Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green. A while ago, I saw her dressed in green,– So fair, she might have wakened in a stone This love which I do feel even for her shade; And therefore, as one woos a graceful lady, I wooed her in a field that was all grass Girdled about with very lofty hills. Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills Before Love’s flame in this damp wood and green Burn, as it burns within a youthful lady, For my sake, who would sleep away in stone My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass, Only to see her garments cast a shade. How dark soe’er the hills throw out their shade, Under her summer green the beautiful lady Covers it, like a stone cover’d in grass.

Januarie. Ægloga prima. ARGVMENT. IN this fyrst Æglogue Colin clout a shepheardes boy complaineth him of his vnfortunate loue, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traueled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground. COLIN Cloute. A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call) when Winters wastful spight was almost spent, All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent. So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde, That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold. All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke, For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,) May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke: Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile. Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde. Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne, (if any gods the paine of louers pitie:) Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, And bowe your eares vnto my doleful dittie. And Pan thou shepheards God, that once didst loue, Pitie the paines, that thou thy selfe didst proue. Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted, Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight: Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted Thy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight. And now is come thy wynters stormy state, Thy mantle mard, wherein thou mas-kedst late. Such rage as winters, reigneth in my heart, My life bloud friesing wtih vnkindly cold: Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smarte, As if my yeare were wast, and woxen old. And yet alas, but now my spring begonne, And yet alas, yt is already donne. You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre: And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre: I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine, Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine. All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere, My timely buds with wayling all are wasted: The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare, With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted, And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, As on your boughes the ysicles depend. Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, Whose knees are weak through fast and evill fare: Mayst witnesse well by thy ill gouernement, Thy maysters mind is ouercome with care. Thou weak, I wanne: thou leabe, I quite forlorne: With mourning pyne I, you with pyning mourne. A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower, Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see: And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure, Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee. Yet all for naught: snch [such] sight hath bred my bane. Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne. It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine, Albee my loue he seeke with dayly suit: His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine, His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne: Colin them gives to Rosalind againe. I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?) And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?) Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue, And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne. Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake, And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make. Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please, Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would: And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to ease My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should: Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye. So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye. By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe, His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night Her mantle black through heauen gan overhaile. Which seene, the pensife boy halfe in despight Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe, Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.

The pond is sheathed in ice, a duck troubles the reeds, the air around us still enough to hear the baby stir, but we don’t know where it is yet. By the force of our longing it is getting made for us, as thrilled people, palms full of seed, long for the chickadees to light, and they do. Light.

My crown. My room. Surrounding snow. These are not my hands, my winter shoes carried off by uncertain music. There was a meadow behind my house and if I should see myself there she would tell me there was never a meadow and then walk through me as if through a cloud and carry on in her own solitary direction. Crows still caw in her palace garden— tram rails, rain, stammering moon. Once lilacs bloomed their huge white knuckles breaking the winter of my room— it was a dream—French windows on a Viennese street. Every street I cross angling alongside smoggy postwar artifices branches scratch against my sleep. How my body was a branch in my sleep. And when I woke years later I peered down upon it leafless and stiff. No roosts left, no caw. No birds blooming in my dream’s green crooks. Afternoons alone are labyrinthine. I wander the city, searching for what? Friends, we knew where to find each other, tapping the window of the winter room. We were thinner then, younger than the chestnut trees. Everything has its seed much later and on the other side of time.

The north wind whips through, in the streets papers and leaves are chased with resentment. Houses moan, dogs curl into balls. There is something in the afternoon’s finger, a catfish spine, a rusty nail. Someone unthinkingly smoked cigarettes in heaven, left it overcast, listless. Here, at ground level, no one could take their shadow for a walk, sheltered in their houses, people are surprised to discover their misery. Someone didn’t show, their host was insulted. Today the world agreed to open her thighs, suddenly the village comprehends that it is sometimes necessary to close their doors. Who can tell me why I meditate on this afternoon? Why is it birthed in me to knife the heart of whoever uncovered the mouth of the now whipping wind, to jam corncobs in the nose of the ghost that pants outside? The trees roar with laughter, they split their sides, they celebrate that you haven’t arrived at your appointment. Now bring me the birds that you find in the trees, so I can tell them if the devil’s eyelashes are curled.

Now winter nights enlarge The number of their hours; And clouds their storms discharge Upon the airy towers. Let now the chimneys blaze And cups o’erflow with wine, Let well-turned words amaze With harmony divine. Now yellow waxen lights Shall wait on honey love While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights Sleep’s leaden spells remove. This time doth well dispense With lovers’ long discourse; Much speech hath some defense, Though beauty no remorse. All do not all things well; Some measures comely tread, Some knotted riddles tell, Some poems smoothly read. The summer hath his joys, And winter his delights; Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, They shorten tedious nights.

O! wonderful for weight and whiteness! Ideolog whose absolutes Are always proven right By white and then More white and white again, Winning the same argument year After year by making the opposition Disappear! O! dear miniature of infinity with no End in sight and no snow- Flake exactly like Another, all A little different no Matter how many may fall, Just like our own DNA or the human face Eternal! O! still keep covering the street And sidewalks, cemeteries, even Our twice-shoveled drive, And all that is alive, With geometries that sleet Will freeze into Death's Impromptu vision of a heaven Wholly white! For we know who your sponsor is, whose will You so immensely serve, Whose chill is more severe Than any here. Though his name may be unspoken, His commandments are unbroken, And every monument that you erect Belongs to him!

for Ihab Hassan 1 Closing the door is supposed to open some inward source—as with, for example, the prayer- closet: the text says go in and “shut thy door.” It's a stroke of luck when traditional wisdom so matches the turning of the season. 2 I've ofen thought of writing a poem of grotesque length (an epic, yes) and setting the entire argument the instant after Gautama's enlightenment, while it seemed to him he would pass directly into Nirvana, while the powers of good trembled thinking man was lost. It was only an instant, because of course the Buddha reconsidered. 3 Bulls for the bull-fight must (this is absolutely essential) be innocent. The very brightest are certainly, by human standards, stupid, but after a few fights the dullest among them would learn not to charge an empty cape but turn and massacre the fancy-pants who dances there for a bloody crowd. But, as Hemingway noted, the bull never survives. I can't, myself, get excited about “life and death, i.e., violent death,” and have never been able to work up much sympathy for the brute who runs with his head down or for the show-off, who has it coming. I'll probably never develop a taste for battle or get seven novels written or kill myself. 4 History is hard for me. I’ve no sense for it. 5 The world—and if ever there was a self-evident proposition, here it is—the world is a big fish. I've caught it in my net. And now, long into the winter nights, wearily, I study my net. The fish stinks. 6 A friend talks passionately in favor of silence. I listen to him. He says, “Silence dissolves the categories” and “Silence renews the potential of consciousness.” And it strikes me that I should say something. But I've never been able to argue. And whenever there’s been a choice between speaking and keeping still, I’ve kept my mouth shut. Well, usually. And only after a certain amount of prodding I’ve produced the necessary conventional sounds, feeling the thread of words I spew inordinately fragile, certainly nothing to depend on. Whereas the craw of silence is vast and, anyway, already has us—it’s the scorching sunlight of a Nilescape or the wind across the Great Plains, burying us. Friend, waist deep in dust or sand, maybe we’d contrive a gesture. 7 I passed the peak of my energy at the age of—it's hard to believe— twelve. Since then, little by little, I've collected the furniture of my house. I teach meanwhile, and I study, but no one knows my specialty. 8 XMAS [after Pessoa] A God is born. Some other Gods die. Truth has neither come nor gone, only the Error has changed. We have now another Eternity, and the world is no better off than it was. Blind Knowing plows a sterile plain Lunatic Faith lives a dream of worship. A new God is nothing but a word. Seek not. Nor believe. All is occult. 9 Time is molecular—so much for Zeno—and each moment brings everything out of nothing. In the beginning (each beginning) the universe is only a point—no dimension—and then it’s a world, for a moment, and each moment is apocalypse.Continuous creation it used to be called, and now we say expanding universe because (I forgot to say) each moment is more. Whatever else it may be, it's always more. No wonder the poet cries “Oh,Oh,” or, on a higher level, lyrical verses. But don’t worry. I’m not violent. We all live in a residue of bright pulsations, a gob of time, an after-image. 10 How naive can you get?—I was wondering, when the Great Year comes around to this point again and the next me sits signing his poems Keith Waldrop, will he remember back across the void of Decembers to where I drift into these speculations? And a moment’s thought answers my stupid question: I remember nothing. 11 When I think of the books you could fill with what I don’t know,oof. The pressing need’s for a phenomenology of ignorance. Everything has horizons, and they’re not just out of sight, they loom. Yes, and they beckon. An open door is plain and simple, like a wall. A closed door is an invitation. But if the knob is turning . . . ? Well, I’m closing in, or opening up. I’ve been so bloody finicky the mysteries catch me sometimes with my lids down. But I’m preparing. I need many voices for my revenge.

Ice on the puddles, in the cups of fallen leaves. I’d walk with Dad and a handful of other men, the setters working the fields, the underbrush. It was my job to carry the birds. I’d have them all plucked by the time we got back to the car. On the walk out I’d look for puddles I’d missed and break them. Though many moonless nights have fallen on the grave like a negative of snow, Dad’s wheelchair sometimes flashes in my mind, and I hear the bleating down the hall, a voice berating its god, his worthless anodynes, and the doctors who were at that very moment increasing his morphine, having failed to note the word alcoholic on his chart, meaning that his damaged liver routed the opiates straight to his brain, his beautiful fragile brain, which I had not yet finished loving. My father, who still had manners, who was a hardwood, a tough tree. That was his first death.

At dusk, a great flare of winter lightning photographed the bay: Waves were broken scrolls.          Beyond Donegal, white mountains hung in a narrow bas-relief frozen on sky. Later, there was sleet: trees down on the Drumholm road; near Timoney’s farm, a frantic goose pinned under branches. All night long, we spoke of loneliness, long winter, while winter sang in the chimneys. Then the sky cleared and a marvel began: The hills turned blue; in the valley a blue cottage sent up the day’s first plume of smoke. It gathered like a dream drenched in frost. That should have been all.                           We had worn out night. But single-file,  deliberate,  five heifers,  a black bull,  three calves stepped  through the broken fence. They arranged themselves between the house and hedge: a kind of diagram: a shifting pattern grazing frozen weeds. Their image is with me still.               The backs of the cattle are patchy with frost blue as morning.