growsricher;thefog,
shifting,salty,thin,
comesclosingin.
Itscold,roundcrystals
formandslideandsettle
inthewhitehens’feathers,
ingrayglazedcabbages,
onthecabbageroses
andlupinslikeapostles;
thesweetpeascling
totheirwetwhitestring
onthewhitewashedfences;
bumblebeescreep
insidethefoxgloves,
andeveningcommences.
OnestopatBassRiver.
ThentheEconomies—
Lower,Middle,Upper;
FiveIslands,FiveHouses,
whereawomanshakesatablecloth
outaftersupper.
Apaleflickering.Gone.
TheTantramarmarshes
andthesmellofsalthay.
Anironbridgetrembles
andalooseplankrattles
butdoesn’tgiveway.
Ontheleft,aredlight
swimsthroughthedark:
aship’sportlantern.
Tworubberbootsshow,
illuminated,solemn.
Adoggivesonebark.
Awomanclimbsin
withtwomarketbags,
brisk,freckled,elderly.
“Agrandnight.Yes,sir,
allthewaytoBoston.”
Sheregardsusamicably.
Moonlightasweenter
theNewBrunswickwoods,
hairy,scratchy,splintery;
moonlightandmist
caughtinthemlikelamb’swool
onbushesinapasture.
Thepassengerslieback.
Snores.Somelongsighs.
Adreamydivagation
beginsinthenight,
agentle,auditory,
slowhallucination.…
Inthecreakingsandnoises,
anoldconversation
—notconcerningus,
butrecognizable,somewhere,
backinthebus:
Grandparents’voices
uninterruptedly
talking,inEternity:
namesbeingmentioned,
thingsclearedupfinally;
whathesaid,whatshesaid,
whogotpensioned;
deaths,deathsandsicknesses;
theyearheremarried;
theyear(something)happened.
Shediedinchildbirth.
Thatwasthesonlost
whentheschoonerfoundered.
Hetooktodrink.Yes.
Shewenttothebad.
WhenAmosbegantopray
eveninthestoreand
finallythefamilyhad
toputhimaway.
“Yes…”thatpeculiar
affirmative.“Yes…”
Asharp,indrawnbreath,
halfgroan,halfacceptance,
thatmeans“Life’slikethat.
Weknow it(alsodeath).”
Talkingthewaytheytalked
intheoldfeatherbed,
peacefully,onandon,
dimlamplightinthehall,
downinthekitchen,thedog
tuckedinhershawl.
Now,it’sallrightnow
eventofallasleep
justasonallthosenights.
—Suddenlythebusdriver
stopswithajolt,
turnsoffhislights.
Amoosehascomeoutof
theimpenetrablewood
andstandsthere,looms,rather,
inthemiddleoftheroad.
Itapproaches;itsniffsat
thebus’shothood.
Towering,antlerless,
highasachurch,
homelyasahouse
(or,safeashouses).
Aman’svoiceassuresus
“Perfectlyharmless.…”
Someofthepassengers
exclaiminwhispers,
childishly,softly,
“Surearebigcreatures.”
“It’sawfulplain.”
“Look!It’sashe!”
Takinghertime,
shelooksthebusover,
grand,otherworldly.
Why,whydowefeel
(weallfeel)thissweet
sensationofjoy?
“Curiouscreatures,”
saysourquietdriver,
rollinghis r’s.
“Lookatthat,wouldyou.”
Thenheshiftsgears.
Foramomentlonger,
bycraningbackward,
themoosecanbeseen
onthemoonlitmacadam;
thenthere’sadim
smellofmoose,anacrid
smellofgasoline.
12O’ClockNews
As you all know, tonight is the night of the full moon, half the world over. But gooseneck here the moon seems to hang motionless in the sky. It gives very little light; it lamp
couldbedead.Visibilityispoor.Nevertheless,weshalltrytogiveyousomeidea ofthelayofthelandandthepresentsituation.
Theescarpmentthatrisesabruptlyfromthecentralplainisinheavyshadow,but theelaborateterracingofitssouthernglacisgleamsfaintlyinthedimlight,like typewriter fishscales.Whatendlesslaborthosesmall,peculiarlyshapedterracesrepresent!
Andyet,onthemthewelfareofthistinyprincipalitydepends.
Aslightlandslideoccurredinthenorthwestaboutanhourago.Theexposedsoil pileof
appears to be of poor quality: almost white, calcareous, and shaly. There are mss.
believedtohavebeennocasualties.
Almost due north, our aerial reconnaissance reports the discovery of a large typed
rectangular “field,” hitherto unknown to us, obviously man-made. It is dark-sheet
speckled.Anairstrip?Acemetery?
Inthissmall,backwardcountry,oneofthemostbackwardleftintheworldtoday, envelopes communications are crude and “industrialization” and its products almost nonexistent.Strangetosay,however,signboardsareonatrulygiganticscale.
We have also received reports of a mysterious, oddly shaped, black structure, at an undisclosed distance to the east. Its presence was revealed only because its highly polished surface catches such feeble moonlight as prevails. The natural resources of the country being far from completely known to us, there is the possibilitythatthismaybe,ormaycontain,somepowerfulandterrifying“secret ink-bottle weapon.”Ontheotherhand,givenwhatwe doknow,orhavelearnedfromour anthropologists and sociologists about this people, it may well be nothing more thana numen, oragreataltarrecentlyerectedtooneoftheirgods,towhich,in their present historical state of superstition and helplessness, they attribute
magicalpowers,andmayevenregardasa“savior,”onelasthopeofrescuefrom theirgravedifficulties.
Atlast!Oneoftheelusivenativeshasbeenspotted!Heappearstobe—rather,to have been—a unicyclist-courier, who may have met his end by falling from the typewriter heightoftheescarpmentbecauseofthedeceptiveillumination.Alive,hewould eraser
havebeensmall,butundoubtedlyproudanderect,withthethick,bristlingblack hairtypicaloftheindigenes.
Fromoursuperiorvantagepoint,wecanclearlyseeintoasortofdugout,possibly a shell crater, a “nest” of soldiers. They lie heaped together, wearing the camouflage “battle dress” intended for “winter warfare.” They are in hideously contorted positions, all dead. We can make out at least eight bodies. These ashtray
uniformsweredesignedtobeusedinguerrillawarfa
reonthecountry’sonesnow-coveredmountainpeak.Thefactthatthesepoorsoldiersarewearingthem here, on the plain, gives further proof, if proof were necessary, either of the childishnessandhopelessimpracticalityofthisinscrutablepeople,ouropponents, orofthesadcorruptionoftheirleaders.
Poem
Aboutthesizeofanold-styledollarbill,
AmericanorCanadian,
mostlythesamewhites,graygreens,andsteelgrays
—thislittlepainting(asketchforalargerone?)
hasneverearnedanymoneyinitslife.
Uselessandfree,ithasspentseventyyears
asaminorfamilyrelic
handedalongcollaterallytoowners
wholookedatitsometimes,ordidn’tbotherto.
ItmustbeNovaScotia;onlythere
doesoneseegabledwoodenhouses
paintedthatawfulshadeofbrown.
Theotherhouses,thebitsthatshow,arewhite.
Elmtrees,lowhills,athinchurchsteeple
—thatgray-bluewisp—orisit?Intheforeground
awatermeadowwithsometinycows,
twobrushstrokeseach,butconfidentlycows;
twominusculewhitegeeseinthebluewater,
back-to-back,feeding,andaslantingstick.
Upcloser,awildiris,whiteandyellow,
fresh-squiggledfromthetube.
Theairisfreshandcold;coldearlyspring
clearasgrayglass;ahalfinchofbluesky
belowthesteel-graystormclouds.
(Theyweretheartist’sspecialty.)
Aspecklikebirdisflyingtotheleft.
Orisitaflyspecklookinglikeabird?
Heavens,Irecognizetheplace,Iknowit!
It’sbehind—Icanalmostrememberthefarmer’sname.
Hisbarnbackedonthatmeadow.Thereitis,
titaniumwhite,onedab.Thehintofsteeple,
filamentsofbrush-hairs,barelythere,
mustbethePresbyterianchurch.
WouldthatbeMissGillespie’shouse?
Thoseparticulargeeseandcows
arenaturallybeforemytime.
Asketchdoneinanhour,“inonebreath,”
oncetakenfromatrunkandhandedover.
Wouldyoulikethis?I’llprobablynever
haveroomtohangthesethingsagain.
YourUncleGeorge,no,mine,myUncleGeorge,
he’dbeyourgreat-uncle,leftthemallwithMother
whenhewentbacktoEngland.
Youknow,hewasquitefamous,anR.A.…
Ineverknewhim.Webothknewthisplace,
apparently,thisliteralsmallbackwater,
lookedatitlongenoughtomemorizeit,
ouryearsapart.Howstrange.Andit’sstillloved,
oritsmemoryis(itmusthavechangedalot).
Ourvisionscoincided—“visions”is
tooseriousaword—ourlooks,twolooks:
art“copyingfromlife”andlifeitself,
lifeandthememoryofitsocompressed
they’veturnedintoeachother.Whichiswhich?
Lifeandthememoryofitcramped,
dim,onapieceofBristolboard,
dim,buthowlive,howtouchingindetail
—thelittlethatwegetforfree,
thelittleofourearthlytrust.Notmuch.
Aboutthesizeofourabidance
alongwiththeirs:themunchingcows,
theiris,crispandshivering,thewater
stillstandingfromspringfreshets,
theyet-to-be-dismantledelms,thegeese.
OneArt
Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster;
somanythingsseemfilledwiththeintent
tobelostthattheirlossisnodisaster.
Losesomethingeveryday.Acceptthefluster
oflostdoorkeys,thehourbadlyspent.
Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster.
Thenpracticelosingfarther,losingfaster:
faces,andnames,andwhereitwasyoumeant
totravel.Noneofthesewillbringdisaster.
Ilostmymother’swatch.Andlook!mylast,or
next-to-last,ofthreelovedhouseswent.
Theartoflosingisn’thardtomaster.
Ilosttwocities,lovelyones.And,vaster,
somerealmsIowned,tworivers,acontinent.
Imissthem,butitwasn’tadisaster.
—Evenlosingyou(thejokingvoice,agesture
Ilove)Ishan’thavelied.It’sevident
theartoflosing’snottoohardtomaster
thoughitmaylooklike( Writeit!)likedisaster.
TheEndofMarch
forJohnMalcolmBrinninandBillRead:Duxbury
Itwascoldandwindy,scarcelytheday
totakeawalkonthatlongbeach.
Everythingwaswithdrawnasfaraspossible,
indrawn:thetidefarout,theoceanshrunken,
seabirdsinonesortwos.
Therackety,icy,offshorewind
numbedourfacesononeside;
disruptedtheformation
ofaloneflightofCanadageese;
andblewbackthelow,inaudiblerollers
inupright,steelymist.
Theskywasdarkerthanthewater
— itwasthecolorofmutton-fatjade.
Alongthewetsand,inrubberboots,wefollowed
atrackofbigdog-prints(sobig
theyweremorelikelion-prints).Thenwecameon
lengthsandlengths,endless,ofwetwhitestring,
loopinguptothetide-line,downtothewater,
overandover.Finally,theydidend:
athickwhitesnarl,man-size,awash,
risingoneverywave,asoddenghost,
fallingback,sodden,givinguptheghost.…
Akitestring?—Butnokite.
Iwantedtogetasfarasmyproto-dream-house,
mycrypto-dream-house,thatcrookedbox
setuponpilings,shingledgreen,
asortofartichokeofahouse,butgreener
(boiledwithbicarbonateofsoda?),
protectedfromspringtidesbyapalisade
of—aretheyrailroadties?
(Manythingsaboutthisplacearedubious.)
I’dliketoretirethereanddo nothing,
ornothingmuch,forever,intwobarerooms:
lookthroughbinoculars,readboringbooks,
old,long,longbooks,andwritedownuselessnotes,
talktomyself,and,foggydays,
watchthedropletsslipping,heavywithlight.
Atnight,a grogàl’américaine.
I’dblazeitwithakitchenmatch
andlovelydiaphanousblueflame
wouldwaver,doubledinthewindow.
Theremustbeastove;there isachimney,
askewbutbracedwithwires,
andelectricity,possibly
—atleast,atthebackanotherwire
limplyleashesthewholeaffair
tosomethingoffbehindthedunes.
Alighttoreadby—perfect!But—impossible.
Andthatdaythewindwasmuchtoocold
eventogetthatfar,
andofcoursethehousewasboardedup.
Onthewaybackourfacesfrozeontheotherside.
Thesuncameoutforjustaminute.
Forjustaminute,setintheirbezelsofsand,
thedrab,damp,scatteredstones
weremulti-colored,
andallthosehighenoughthrewoutlongshadows,
individualshadows,thenpulledtheminagain.
Theycouldhavebeenteasingthelionsun,
exceptthatnowhewasbehindt
hem
—asunwho’dwalkedthebeachthelastlowtide,
makingthosebig,majesticpaw-prints,
whoperhapshadbattedakiteoutoftheskytoplaywith.
Objects&Apparitions
forJosephCornell
Hexahedronsofwoodandglass,
scarcelybiggerthanashoebox,
withroominthemfornightandallitslights.
Monumentstoeverymoment,
refuseofeverymoment,used:
cagesforinfinity.
Marbles,buttons,thimbles,dice,
pins,stamps,andglassbeads:
talesofthetime.
Memoryweaves,unweavestheechoes:
inthefourcornersofthebox
shadowlessladiesplayathide-and-seek.
Fireburiedinthemirror,
watersleepingintheagate:
solosofJennyColonneandJennyLind.
“Onehastocommitapainting,”saidDegas,
“thewayonecommitsacrime.”Butyouconstructed
boxeswherethingshurryawayfromtheirnames.
Slotmachineofvisions,
condensationflaskforconversations,
hotelofcricketsandconstellations.
Minimal,incoherentfragments:
theoppositeofHistory,creatorofruins,
outofyourruinsyouhavemadecreations.
Theatreofthespirits:
objectsputtingthelaws
ofidentitythroughhoops.
“GrandHoteldelaCouronne”:inavial,
thethreeofclubsand,verysurprised,
Thumbelinaingardensofreflection.
Acombisaharpstrummedbytheglance
ofalittlegirl
borndumb.
Thereflectoroftheinnereye
scattersthespectacle:
Godallaloneaboveanextinctworld.
Theapparitionsaremanifest,
theirbodiesweighlessthanlight,
lastingaslongasthisphraselasts.
JosephCornell:insideyourboxes
mywordsbecamevisibleforamoment.
TranslatedfromtheSpanishofOctavioPaz.
FiveFlightsUp
Stilldark.
Theunknownbirdsitsonhisusualbranch.
Thelittledognextdoorbarksinhissleep
inquiringly,justonce.
Perhapsinhissleep,too,thebirdinquires
onceortwice,quavering.
Questions—ifthatiswhattheyare—
answereddirectly,simply,
bydayitself.
Enormousmorning,ponderous,meticulous;
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