Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser

by Janet Kaufman

  go back,

  when that heavy loaded blast went white, Come, let's go back,

  telling us hurry, hurry, into the falling rocks and muck.

  The water they would bring had dust in it, our drinking

  water,

  the camps and their groves were colored with the dust,

  we cleaned our clothes in the groves, but we always had

  the dust.

  Looked like somebody sprinkled flour all over the parks

  and groves,

  it stayed and the rain couldn't wash it away and it twinkled

  that white dust really looked pretty down around our ankles.

  As dark as I am, when I came out at morning after the

  tunnel at night,

  with a white man, nobody could have told which man was

  white.

  The dust had covered us both, and the dust was white.

  JUANITA TINSLEY

  Even after the letters, there is work,

  sweaters, the food, the shoes

  and afternoon's quick dark

  draws on the windowpane

  my face, the shadowed hair,

  the scattered papers fade.

  Slow letters! I shall be

  always—the stranger said

  “To live stronger and free.”

  I know in America there are songs,

  forgetful ballads to be sung,

  but at home I see this wrong.

  When I see my family house,

  the gay gorge, the picture-books,

  they raise the face of General Wise

  aged by enemies, like faces

  the stranger showed me in the town.

  I saw that plain, and saw my place.

  The scene of hope's ahead; look, April,

  and next month with a softer wind,

  maybe they'll rest upon their land,

  and then maybe the happy song, and love,

  a tall boy who was never in a tunnel.

  THE DOCTORS

  —Tell the jury your name.

  —Emory R. Hayhurst.

  —State your education, Doctor, if you will.

  Don't be modest about it; just tell about it.

  High school Chicago 1899

  Univ. of Illinois 1903

  M.A. 1905, thesis on respiration

  P & S Chicago 1908

  2 years' hospital training;

  at Rush on occupational disease

  director of clinic 2½ years.

  Ph.D. Chicago 1916

  Ohio Dept. of Health, 20 years as

  consultant in occupational diseases.

  Hygienist, U.S. Public Health Service

  and Bureau of Mines

  and Bureau of Standards

  Danger begins at 25%

  here was pure danger

  Dept. of Mines

  came in, was kept away.

  Miner's phthisis, fibroid phthisis,

  grinder's rot, potter's rot,

  whatever it used to be called,

  these men did not need to die.

  —Is silicosis an occupational disease?

  —It is.

  —Did anyone show you the lungs of Cecil Jones?

  —Yes, sir.

  —Who was that?

  —It was Dr. Harless.

  “We talked to Dr. L. R. Harless, who had handled many of the cases, more than any other doctor there. At first Dr. Harless did not like to talk about the matter. He said he had been subjected to so much publicity. It appeared that the doctor thought he had been involved in too many of the court cases; but finally he opened up and told us about the matter.”

  —Did he impress you as one who thought this was a very serious thing in that section of the country?

  “Yes, he did. I would say that Dr. Harless has probably become very self-conscious about this matter. I cannot say that he has retracted what he told me, but possibly he had been thrust into the limelight so much that he is more conservative now than when the matter was simply something of local interest.”

  Dear Sir: Due to illness of my wife and urgent professional duties, I am unable to appear as per your telegram.

  Situation exaggerated. Here are facts:

  We examined. 13 dead. 139 had some lung damage.

  2 have died since, making 15 deaths.

  Press says 476 dead, 2,000 affected and doomed.

  I am at a loss to know where those figures were obtained.

  At this time, only a few cases here,

  and these only moderately affected.

  Last death occurred November, 1934.

  It has been said that none of the men knew of the hazard connected with the work. This is not correct. Shortly after the work began many of these workers came to me complaining of chest conditions and I warned many of them of the dust hazard and advised them that continued work under these conditions would result in serious lung disease. Disregarding this warning many of the men continued at this work and later brought suit against their employer for damages.

  While I am sure that many of these suits were based on meritorious grounds, I am also convinced that many others took advantage of this situation and made out of it nothing less than a racket.

  In this letter I have endeavored to give you the facts which came under my observation….

  If I can supply further information….

  Mr. Marcantonio. A man may be examined a year after he has worked in a tunnel and not show a sign of silicosis, and yet the silicosis may develop later; is not that true?

  —Yes, it may develop as many as ten years after.

  Mr. Marcantonio. Even basing the statement on the figures, the doctor's claim that this is a racket is not justified?

  —No; it would not seem to be justified.

  Mr. Marcantonio. I should like to point out that Dr. Harless contradicts his “exaggeration” when he volunteers the following: “I warned many….”

  (Mr. Peyton. I do not know. Nobody knew the danger around there.)

  Dr. Goldwater. First are the factors involving the individual.

  Under the heading B, external causes.

  Some of the factors which I have in mind—

  those are the facts upon the blackboard,

  the influencing and controlling factors.

  Mr. Marcantonio. Those factors would bring about acute silicosis?

  Dr. Goldwater. I hope you are not provoked when I say “might.”

  Medicine has no hundred percent.

  We speak of possibilities, have opinions.

  Mr. Griswold. Doctors testify answering “yes” and “no.”

  Don't they?

  Dr. Goldwater. Not by the choice of the doctor.

  Mr. Griswold. But that is usual, isn't it?

  Dr. Goldwater. They do not like to do that.

  A man with a scientific point of view—

  unfortunately there are doctors without that—

  I do not mean to say all doctors are angels—

  but most doctors avoid dogmatic statements.

  avoid assiduously “always,” “never.”

  Mr. Griswold. Best doctor I ever knew said “no” and “yes.”

  Dr. Goldwater. There are different opinions on that, too.

  We were talking about acute silicosis.

  The man in the white coat is the man on the hill,

  the man with the clean hands is the man with the drill,

  the man who answers “yes” lies still.

  —Did you make an examination of those sets of lungs?

  —I did.

  —I wish you would tell the jury whether or not those lungs

  were silicotic.

  —We object.

  —Objection overruled.

  —They were.

  THE CORNFIELD

  Error, disease, snow, sudden weather.

  For those given to contemplation : this house,

  wading in snow, its cracks are sealed with clay,

  walls papered with pr
int, newsprint repeating,

  in-focus grey across the room, and squared

  ads for a book : HEAVEN'S MY DESTINATION,

  HEAVEN'S MY…HEAVEN…. THORNTON WILDER.

  The long-faced man rises long-handed jams the door

  tight against snow, long-boned, he shivers.

  Contemplate.

  Swear by the corn,

  the found-land corn, those who like ritual. He

  rides in a good car. They say blind corpses rode

  with him in front, knees broken into angles,

  head clamped ahead. Overalls. Affidavits.

  He signs all papers. His office : where he sits.

  feet on the stove, loaded trestles through door,

  satin-lined, silk-lined, unlined, cheap,

  The papers in the drawer. On the desk, photograph

  H. C. White, Funeral Services (new car and eldest son);

  tells about Negroes who got wet at work,

  shot craps, drank and took cold, pneumonia, died.

  Shows the sworn papers. Swear by the corn.

  Pneumonia, pneumonia, pleurisy, t.b.

  For those given to voyages : these roads

  discover gullies, invade, Where does it go now?

  Now turn upstream twenty-five yards. Now road again.

  Ask the man on the road. Saying, That cornfield?

  Over the second hill, through the gate,

  watch for the dogs. Buried, five at a time,

  pine boxes, Rinehart & Dennis paid him $55

  a head for burying these men in plain pine boxes.

  His mother is suing him : misuse of land.

  George Robinson : I knew a man

  who died at four in the morning at the camp.

  At seven his wife took clothes to dress her dead

  husband, and at the undertaker's

  they told her the husband was already buried.

  —Tell me this, the men with whom you are acquainted,

  the men who have this disease

  have been told that sooner or later they are going to die?

  —Yes, sir.

  —How does that seem to affect the majority of the people?

  —It don't work on anything but their wind.

  —Do they seem to be living in fear

  or do they wish to die?

  —They are getting to breathe a little faster.

  For those given to keeping their own garden:

  Here is the cornfield, white and wired by thorns,

  old cornstalks, snow, the planted home.

  Stands bare against a line of farther field,

  unmarked except for wood stakes, charred at tip,

  few scratched and named (pencil or nail).

  Washed-off. Under the mounds,

  all the anonymous.

  Abel America, calling from under the corn,

  Earth, uncover my blood!

  Did the undertaker know the man was married?

  Uncover.

  Do they seem to fear death?

  Contemplate.

  Does Mellon's ghost walk, povertied at last,

  walking in furrows of corn, still sowing,

  do apparitions come?

  Voyage.

  Think of your gardens. But here is corn to keep.

  Marked pointed sticks to name the crop beneath.

  Sowing is over, harvest is coming ripe.

  —No, sir; they want to go on.

  They want to live as long as they can.

  ARTHUR PEYTON

  Consumed. Eaten away. And love across the street.

  I had a letter in the mail this morning

  Dear Sir,…pleasure…enclosing herewith our check…

  payable to you, for $21.59

  being one-half of the residue which

  we were able to collect in your behalf

  in regard to the above case.

  In winding up the various suits,

  after collecting all we could,

  we find this balance due you.

  With regards, we are

  Very truly,

  After collecting

  the dust the failure the engineering corps

  O love consumed eaten away the foreman laughed

  they wet the drills when the inspectors came

  the moon blows glassy over our native river.

  O love tell the committee that I know:

  never repeat you mean to marry me.

  In mines, the fans are large (2,000 men unmasked)

  before his verdict the doctor asked me How long

  I said, Dr. Harless, tell me how long?

  —Only never again tell me you'll marry me.

  I watch how at the tables you all day

  follow a line of clouds the dance of drills,

  and, love, the sky birds who crown the trees

  the white white hills standing upon Alloy

  —I charge negligence, all companies concerned—

  two years O love two years he said he gave.

  The swirl of river at the tidy house

  the marble bank-face of the liquor store

  I saw the Negroes driven with pick handles

  on these other jobs I was not in tunnel work.

  Between us, love

  the buses at the door

  the long glass street two years, my death to yours

  my death upon your lips

  my face becoming glass

  strong challenged time making me win immortal

  the love a mirror of our valley

  our street our river a deadly glass to hold.

  Now they are feeding me into a steel mill furnace

  O love the stream of glass a stream of living fire.

  ALLOY

  This is the most audacious landscape. The gangster's

  stance with his gun smoking and out is not so

  vicious as this commercial field, its hill of glass.

  Sloping as gracefully as thighs, the foothills

  narrow to this, clouds over every town

  finally indicate the stored destruction.

  Crystalline hill: a blinded field of white

  murdering snow, seamed by convergent tracks;

  the travelling cranes reach for the silica.

  And down the track, the overhead conveyor

  slides on its cable to the feet of chimneys.

  Smoke rises, not white enough, not so barbaric.

  Here the severe flame speaks from the brick throat,

  electric furnaces produce this precious, this clean,

  annealing the crystals, fusing at last alloys.

  Hottest for silicon, blast furnaces raise flames,

  spill fire, spill steel, quench the new shape to freeze,

  tempering it to perfected metal.

  Forced through this crucible, a million men.

  Above this pasture, the highway passes those

  who curse the air, breathing their fear again.

  The roaring flowers of the chimney-stacks

  less poison, at their lips in fire, than this

  dust that is blown from off the field of glass;

  blows and will blow, rising over the mills,

  crystallized and beyond the fierce corrosion

  disintegrated angel on these hills.

  POWER

  The quick sun brings, exciting mountains warm,

  gay on the landscapers and green designs,

  miracle, yielding the sex up under all the skin,

  until the entire body watches the scene with love,

  sees perfect cliffs ranging until the river

  cuts sheer, mapped far below in delicate track,

  surprise of grace, the water running in the sun,

  magnificent flower on the mouth, surprise

  as lovers who look too long on the desired face

  startle to find the remote flesh so warm.

  A day of heat shed on the gorge, a brilliant

  day when love sees the sun behind its man


  and the disguised marvel under familiar skin.

  Steel-bright, light-pointed, the narrow-waisted towers

  lift their protective network, the straight, the accurate

  flex of distinction, economy of gift,

  gymnast, they poise their freight; god's generosity! give

  their voltage low enough for towns to handle.

  The power-house stands skin-white at the transmitters' side

  over the rapids the brilliance the blind foam.

  This is the midway between water and flame,

  this is the road to take when you think of your country,

  between the dam and the furnace, terminal.

  The clean park, fan of wires, landscapers,

  the stone approach. And seen beyond the door,

  the man with the flashlight in his metal hall.

  Here, the effective green, grey-toned and shining,

  tall immense chamber of cylinders. Green,

  the rich paint catches light from three-story windows,

  arches of light vibrate erratic panels on

  sides of curved steel. Man pockets flashlight,

  useless, the brilliant floor casts tiled reflection up,

  bland walls return it, circles pass it round.

  Wheels, control panels, dials, the vassal instruments.

  This is the engineer Jones, the blueprint man,

  loving the place he designed, visiting it alone.

  Another blood, no cousin to the town;

  rings his heels on stone, pride follows his eyes,

  “This is the place.”

  Four generators, smooth green, and squares of black,

  floored-over space for a fifth.

  The stairs. Descend.

  “They said I built the floor like the tiles of a bank,

  I wanted the men who work here to be happy.”

  Light laughing on steel, the gay, the tall sun

  given away;mottled; snow comes in clouds;

  the iron steps go down as roads go down.

  This is the second circle, world of inner shade,

  hidden bulk of generators, governor shaft,

  round gap of turbine pit. Flashlight, tool-panels,

  heels beating on iron, cold of underground,

  stairs, wire flooring, the voice's hollow cry.

  This is the scroll, the volute case of night,

  quick shadow and the empty galleries.

  Go down; here are the outlets, butterfly valves

  open from here, the tail-race, vault of steel,

  the spiral staircase ending, last light in shaft.

  “Gone,” says the thin straight man.

  “‘Hail, holy light, offspring of Heav'n first-born,