Circling returns! the city wreathed in rivers,
streaked skies surrounding islands of blank stone—
into this mythic track travelling breakneck,
a streaming furnace of escape, you, fox,
pursued, brick-red and vicious, circling bricks,
are followed as nimbly all mottled cloudy night;
fastened upon your path, the Floating Man
face down above the city, as shadow, changing shape,
as shadow of clouds, flying, and swiftly as
indifference running mad around the world.
Speed now! see city, houses across the water,
mosaic and bright over the riverfall
remote from the bursting eye, the open nostril,
flared lip (an image of angels singing speed),
caught in a nightlong visionary chase.
See the entire scene bright as you fly
round lots pauper all year, shacks lame with weather,
this sour fertile time teeming and ramshackle
before you, loving, clean sight in spyglass air.
And around town again. River, river.
Why do people live on islands?
GIFT-POEM
December steel done, flowers open color,
unshadowed brilliance enters the air again,
lets fear dissolve,
and convalescent brightness brush the face
until the subtlest rivers of sleep descend
over all eyelids,
and air lies gracious, lavishing general gold,
warming the lips, touching the salt away,
unlocking wishes,
until the lifelong travellers find their rest
in prodigal evening, marvel day, moonblaze,
superb ambassadors
whose power discloses sensual ease again
to these who come bringing flowers, standing still
past wandering arrived at open spring.
WOMAN AND EMBLEMS
WOMAN AND BIRD
A bird flew out of a cloud
(with a beak, flying),
broke its beak on my bone,
cried bird-cries over crying.
Sky, stranger, wilderness
(flying starry through flesh),
make an end; be me, bird.
It reverses my one wish.
Bird screams slavery among bones.
(I watch with a bird's eyes.)
Quarrel, wings; if I travel,
bird stays—stand, bird flies.
Bird sets feathers where flesh was
(my claws slide away on space).
Bird, here—now, bird, we fly!
Mourns, mourns, it turns a captive face.
THE BIRTHDAY
A sound lying on the fantastic air
opens the night and the child is born;
as the wind moves, the solemn crying
pioneers in the air, changes
to flame crusading among the grasses
fire-whitened, aroused before it,
rippled crops—and blazing races
into a central arena
where it stands as a fighting-cock
conqueror head, aggressive spur,
and the gilt feather, the bronze, the greenish,
flicker and threaten.
The feathers of the fighting-cock
become a tree, and casting seed,
raise potent forests at its side—
birth among burning.
The great magnetic branches sign
meaning on the record sky—
now rise, moon, stiffen, bird, and flames,
kill and engender.
Reversal, chameleon,
pursuing images—
recurrent birth offering other names,
a spool of brightness.
WOMAN AND MUSIC
This is a tall woman walking through a square
thinking what is a woman at midnight in a park
under bells, in the trivial and lovely hours
with images, violins, dancers approaching?
This is a woman sitting at a mirror
her back to the glass and all the dancers advancing,
or in a chair laughing at a bone
sitting upright in a chair
talking of ballet, flesh's impermanence.
This is a woman looking at a stage—
dancer receiving the floral blue and white,
balanced against a tallest blue decor,
dancing—and all the parks, walks, hours
descend in brilliant water past the eyes
pursuing and forgotten and subdued
to blinding music, the deliberate strings.
OUTPOST
After the last cold mountain
turns loaded with rock, the green iceberg
wheels at the ship
and gulls pass screaming:
sail out on trembling decks that cut
deepdigging into the ring of sea:
End of America! not so far out
as the home-storm of sickness,
furious seas, not like the arranged waves here
foreign in green, austere,
but, bright as household scene,
all the equipment of dismay,
teaching grave civilized man
nothing, feeding his sickest
dread of strong icy seas,
disgust with sunlight.
After the mountains turn, the Floating Man
raises his head (his shoulders are cold rock),
his face takes on the home-look : suffering,
sinking beneath the last iceberg horizon,
reminding us, risen to find us this last time.
He carries in his eyes street-images,
on forehead, protest, on sinking face, goodbye,
the sombre, bright, the unpredictable wind
laying a flag across his lips.
End of America! the ocean opening,
lighthouse and iceberg, vestige of vegetable green,
the sad face everywhere sinking backward last:
not rock, not ice, but here most civilized man,
outpost survivor,
the last and floating trace, streaming down every river
into the sea whose foreign colors waver,
hold to the end the images of violence
on rising overwave and underwave,
slave and slavedriver.
3 Two Voyages
THE CRUISE
“Goodbye!” called the stockholders as the ship pulled out
from the dock,
“Good trip, good luck!” as the captain saluted;
and the crew stared down from the top rungs, the passengers
stormed confetti
from all the rails of the luxury liner, crowding
in imitation of a travel poster.
But the last words issued from the pier loudspeaker,
the admiral-president, shouting, guardian and serious,
“Orders: above all, not to put in at any port
doubtful or dangerous.”
Already, sea
rose livid, boiling over the white expensive hull,
imperious completely, undeniable.
Beginning of a voyage, quiet and gay; dancing and games,
deck lectures, visits to polo ponies in the hold,
bulletins, engines, radio operator's important earphones,
poet, barmaid polishing bottles, union man, news,
deck-conversations, visits to the bridge,
the sailor wit, music and promenade,
scrolls watched in the water, the glaze, the celadon,
high sunrise lustre on the fretted waves.
Persons emerge:
gossip the captain walking with the blond,
emigrants, pleasure party, financier.
The exotic flowers were wilting in the staterooms.
Log's entry:“Quiet short voyage, last night unpleasant
>
weather;
passengers sturdy, no sea-sickness, but the barmaid
fainted before lunch; waiting for diagnosis.” Captain
writing, found confirmation in his heirloom mirror
freckled with tarnish, wishing him well, swaying. “Tomorrow, land.”
About the bows, flyingfish, and island in the sea,
dove and appeared, and the chain of foam
followed the boat;
a spume of cirrus vanished with the sun,
safe water entertained a cloudless night.
Fourth day: first sight of rocks, a street of islands,
hazy and permanent, live green, the blues of mist,
bargaining cry of gulls. At the rail, radio operator
scouted for signs of houses. The blond stood alone. The captain
hardly looked at the land, a doubtful country.
“Very welcome,” said passengers, watching swimming sea-grasses,
felt trigger joy the ocean should be past,
and foreign cities, doorless countries come.
No landing-place;
only the rock, moss, mist, a chiffon pageant,
suggesting harbors, a shore-image.
Deep cobalt morning sky, spring's melting ice in the sky,
softness in air, the port's nearness.
But, the flavor of smoke
drifting across the bow like the last loudspeaker words;
but, the hypnotic thunder: cannon in that direction,
but, turning the promontory, the explosive city.
Flares, bombardments! Diamond hallucinations,
depth-bombs, ocean of waterspouts, fountains with strenuous
trunks;
city of safety. The planted captain, straddled on his deck
thinks, Doubtful, thinks
grinning, Dangerous; must head for the next port:
radio asking advice, amuse all passengers.
Chimes, clocks, rehearsals the radio invents.
Stay away from here, there are planes falling,
airliner crashes over Appalachians,
two big amphibians lost above the Bay,
no passengers recovered. Rumor: war,
passages cancelled, no transatlantic sailings.
One minute. Flash. One minute. Flash.
Explosion!
Death of children, none over thirteen injured,
total unverified. Flash. Statement, song.
Strange clouds visible over the prairies,
blight on the wheat, dust in the middle air,
unprecedented weather. To all planes:
fly low, no flying blind, there will be flares on the ground.
To all ships: make for port.
The deckrail hangs on the unaltered sea. Leaning, the poet
mentions danger. The pregnant barmaid half-hears his begging voice.
“Over the pointed hills, over the spit of sand,
harbor, we hurry down. Do you know the familiar
cat of superstition, feline terror?”
Sailors' mottoes. The barmaid dreads to make the land again,
losing her work; she watches. Clear sea, definite wave,
the picture of the last port taken fighting
deep on the brain;
“Talk to the union man,” she volunteers,
“his cure is for your trouble.”
The lighthouse seen at the spur, coastal clew, token.
But, over the new city, black, thunder of smoke,
the chilly shoal warm at the ship, the charred log rolling,
extensive flame, cries, broken walls. Laughter of falling glass.
Fiery capital, and the sea running hot, surf filmed with oil,
burning, the warehouses burning blue, sugar-blue,
and shadowless orange fire creeping seaward quickly.
Cliffs by the town metallic; menace of gold reflection,
and on their faces
pale of retreat, flattered by fire. The captain
orders backwater. The child says, “I want to stand on the ground.”
But a boat can run down the coast, the shore is long,
(they said), one city stands by itself, unfortunate islands
breathe other air. We are equipped. We have
machines, being extensions of the hand and eye,
directile and very proud, discovering safety.
With foreign ports at war, foreign prime cities
burned to the ground, still we are navigators.
Stars come, a rose of stars, perfumed, circle of winds,
black Galileo
has taught us mastery. Choose southern voyage,
sun provides gentler beaches, the languid warless lands.
Easy to go south into the warm daybreak, faith in the course restored,
prepare to land, a captain to insure a safe end;
they filled the bar, stuck labels on their baggage,
planned weekends over roadmaps, walked the deck,
nodded, handled field-glasses, spied on the pasture water,
and the ship's new position was advanced in ink,
admired for accuracy, predicted by science,
the map consulted in nervous argument.
Only, the weakness;
only, the night sent rocking into
the floating ocean and the storm's renown.
When the light changed at last, the wake ran concentrated silver
and the blue northern sea dissolved to green, brightened,
the union man questioned the captain, urged a landing,
spoke to small groups.(Official entry, “First signs of
passengers' unrest. Insults, high temperatures.”)
“They must be fighting for something we know,” he said,
“I saw men advancing down those inspired hills,
guns and grenades are timed now against tyrants,
a wish to keep
us all alive! under its strictest grip
logical strength challenges conscience up.”
“We must arrive at land,” the union man kept saying,
“there's work.” “You!” said the poet, “a wandering motive!
The captain knows here's a hot country coming
among rich water, I see it! the city at ease,
the islands braceletted with cloud, sky blue of mania.”
“So long as we land.” “We'll land in a port fit to receive us,
fleshly and bright, set in a frivolous growth,
giraffe plants, monster flowers.”
Far off, the beach
lay white at the white water's edge, proclaiming
the hostile beauty of that savage coast.
Hot city, terraced by color, tropical among green,
vermilion blossom; and the mulatto cinnamon.
“This,” said the poet, “my terror, my superstition,
here's a perfect city that we will dare not enter,
point me perfection, I'll show you warning and Captain's Orders,
or dangerous action; or tenderness, prelude to violence,
any promise painted in terms of acid Picasso
is signed Beware.” And a small boat put smoothly out from harbor
and the man called
from it, below the ship, his least words taking on
significance, being in a foreign language.
The radio operator, translating; “I am here for Quarantine.
No quarantine man. Dead. Plague in the town—epidemic,
the ships bring it in, says the mayor. The doctors do not know.
Most of the town is dead. They have voted. Are laying mines
all through the harbor. Around you now. I'm instructed:
Torpedo all craft attempting to come in.
Our rich have donated handsomely for explosives.”
Sand, green water, litter of wavy sunlight.
“No landing place,”
the captain, “you guessed,” to the poet. He
shivers, laughing,
“let them come after and make me cliché.”
“But you're original now,” said the captain; “we're sailing
to Nothing
doubtful or dangerous, predict a landing-place.” “I'll make
my own landfall,”
answered the poet. “Not alone,” said the union man.
Individual harbor,
and you'll discover yours—man, most successful animal,
can disembark according to his need; you!” he accused the women,
“I must have love,” insisted the blond; “What do you want,”
asked the captain,
“another botched affair?” “My child,” said the barmaid.
“And you'll leave the ship!”
“Let them alone, they're right,” said the union man. And
the crew sang from the
lower deck—
‘Wade…in the water, chillen, wade…in the water, chillen, wade
…in the water, chillen,
Gods's a-gone to trouble the water.’
“Where is the cruise the travel posters promised? The dancing
partners, quick landing?”
the blond demanded. “The epidemic harbor's faded, is the
radio dead?”
“It answers only War.” “Put in to port, if war is everywhere,”
the union man, “accept obtainable things.” “I have my
orders,” answered the captain.
“Arbitrary commands!” “Do not be cynic at the captain's religion,”
the financier. “Commands are dead, he's a dead priest, the
other's living,
this is a new voyage that you have not known.”
“I've thought it out through orders,” said the captain.
The sailor cried,
“We have our orders from you; but I saw a book,
and I saw a book, and I'll attempt before I die.”
The poet called to the sailor, “What do you make of that city?
Of this rich water? Of captain's rules?” “I'll wait,” shouted the sailor.
“If we are named,” said the poet, “it is guilty generation.”
“I'll wait a bit; and claim not guilt but anger,
and I see land!” The city on the cape
stood straight ahead, assuming the quality of dream,
silent, receptive, under the summer air.
The passengers sighted these last-chance piers, the towers
and over them,
over the color of street, roof, public pier,
and house : the vision, the puzzle in mid-air.
Is it the cloud? What's falling out of the sky? Is it
a storm falling? for a flame shot down, trailing
a falling plane, dropping behind the turning wings,
Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser Page 17