Or do the other days enrich the one?
And is the queen humble as she seems to be,
The charitable majesty of her whole kin?
The bristling soldier, weather-foxed, who looms
In the sunshine is a filial form and one
Of the land’s children, easily born, its flesh,
Not fustian. The more than casual blue
Contains the year and other years and hymns
And people, without souvenir. The day
Enriches the year, not as embellishment.
Stripped of remembrance, it displays its strength –
The youth, the vital son, the heroic power.
VI
The rock cannot be broken. It is the truth.
It rises from land and sea and covers them.
It is a mountain halfway green and then,
The other immeasurable half, such rock
As placid air becomes. But it is not
A hermit’s truth nor symbol in hermitage.
It is the visible rock, the audible,
The brilliant mercy of a sure repose,
On this present ground, the vividest repose,
Things certain sustaining us in certainty.
It is the rock of summer, the extreme,
A mountain luminous half way in bloom
And then half way in the extremest light
Of sapphires flashing from the central sky,
As if twelve princes sat before a king.
VII
Far in the woods they sang their unreal songs,
Secure. It was difficult to sing in face
Of the object. The singers had to avert themselves
Or else avert the object. Deep in the woods
They sang of summer in the common fields.
They sang desiring an object that was near,
In face of which desire no longer moved,
Nor made of itself that which it could not find …
Three times the concentred self takes hold, three times
The thrice concentred self, having possessed
The object, grips it in savage scrutiny,
Once to make captive, once to subjugate
Or yield to subjugation, once to proclaim
The meaning of the capture, this hard prize,
Fully made, fully apparent, fully found.
VIII
The trumpet of morning blows in the clouds and through
The sky. It is the visible announced,
It is the more than visible, the more
Than sharp, illustrious scene. The trumpet cries
This is the successor of the invisible.
This is its substitute in stratagems
Of the spirit. This, in sight and memory,
Must take its place, as what is possible
Replaces what is not. The resounding cry
Is like ten thousand tumblers tumbling down
To share the day. The trumpet supposes that
A mind exists, aware of division, aware
Of its cry as clarion, its diction’s way
As that of a personage in a multitude:
Man’s mind grown venerable in the unreal.
IX
Fly low, cock bright, and stop on a bean pole. Let
Your brown breast redden, while you wait for warmth.
With one eye watch the willow, motionless.
The gardener’s cat is dead, the gardener gone
And last year’s garden grows salacious weeds.
A complex of emotions falls apart,
In an abandoned spot. Soft, civil bird,
The decay that you regard: of the arranged
And of the spirit of the arranged, douceurs,
Tristesses, the fund of life and death, suave bush
And polished beast, this complex falls apart.
And on your bean pole, it may be, you detect
Another complex of other emotions, not
So soft, so civil, and you make a sound,
Which is not part of the listener’s own sense.
X
The personae of summer play the characters
Of an inhuman author, who meditates
With the gold bugs, in blue meadows, late at night.
He does not hear his characters talk. He sees
Them mottled, in the moodiest costumes,
Of blue and yellow, sky and sun, belted
And knotted, sashed and seamed, half pales of red,
Half pales of green, appropriate habit for
The huge decorum, the manner of the time,
Part of the mottled mood of summer’s whole,
In which the characters speak because they want
To speak, the fat, the roseate characters,
Free, for a moment, from malice and sudden cry,
Complete in a completed scene, speaking
Their parts as in a youthful happiness.
The World as Meditation
J’ai passé trap de temps a travailler mon violon, a voyager. Mais l’exercice essentiel du compositeur – la méditation – rien ne l’a jamais suspendu en moi … Je vis un rêve permanent, qui ne s’arrête ni nuit ni jour.
– Georges Enesco
Is it Ulysses that approaches from the east,
The interminable adventurer? The trees are mended.
That winter is washed away. Someone is moving
On the horizon and lifting himself up above it.
A form of fire approaches the cretonnes of Penelope,
Whose mere savage presence awakens the world in which she dwells.
She has composed, so long, a self with which to welcome him,
Companion to his self for her, which she imagined,
Two in a deep-founded sheltering, friend and dear friend.
The trees had been mended, as an essential exercise
In an inhuman meditation, larger than her own.
No winds like dogs watched over her at night.
She wanted nothing he could not bring her by coming alone.
She wanted no fetchings. His arms would be her necklace
And her belt, the final fortune of their desire.
But was it Ulysses? Or was it only the warmth of the sun
On her pillow? The thought kept beating in her like her heart.
The two kept beating together. It was only day.
It was Ulysses and it was not. Yet they had met,
Friend and dear friend and a planet’s encouragement.
The barbarous strength within her would never fail.
She would talk a little to herself as she combed her hair.
Repeating his name with its patient syllables,
Never forgetting him that kept coming constantly so near.
William Carlos Williams 1883–1963
From Al Que Quiere!
SPRING STRAINS
In a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds
crowded erect with desire against the sky
tense blue-grey twigs
slenderly anchoring them down, drawing
them in –
two blue-grey birds chasing
a third struggle in circles, angles,
swift convergings to a point that bursts
instantly!
Vibrant bowing limbs
pull downward, sucking in the sky
that bulges from behind, plastering itself
against them in packed rifts, rock blue
and dirty orange!
But –
(Hold hard, rigid jointed trees!)
the blinding and red-edged sun-blur –
creeping energy, concentrated
counterforce – welds sky, buds, trees,
rivets them in one puckering hold!
Sticks through! Pulls the whole
counter-pulling mass upward, to the right
locks even the opaque, not yet defined
ground in a terrific drag that is
loosening the very ta
p-roots!
On a tissue-thin monotone of blue-grey buds
two blue-grey birds, chasing a third,
at full cry! Now they are
flung outward and up – disappearing suddenly!
Overture to a Dance of Locomotives
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.
The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.
Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round! Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.
A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock;
discordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated –
two – twofour – twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
– important not to take
the wrong train!
Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but –
Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow – inviting entry –
pull against the hour. But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till –
The whistle!
Not twoeight. Not twofour. Two!
Gliding windows. Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen. Taillights –
In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!
– rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
The dance is sure.
Spring and All
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast – a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines –
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches –
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind –
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined –
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance – Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
Poem
As the cat
climbed over
the top of
the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot
carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
To a Poor Old Woman
munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her
You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand
Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to he
The Term
A rumpled sheet
of brown paper
about the length
and apparent bulk
of a man was
rolling with the
wind slowly over
and over in
the street as
a car drove down
upon it and
crushed it to
the ground. Unlike
a man it rose
again rolling
with the wind over
and over to be as
it was before.
Philomena Andronico
With the boys busy
at ball
in the worn lot
nearby
She stands in
the short street
reflectively bouncing
the red ball
Slowly
practiced
a little awkwardly
throwing one leg over
(Not as she had done
formerly
screaming and
missing
But slowly
surely) then
pausing throws
the ball
With a full slow
very slow
and easy motion
following through
With a slow
half turn –
as the ball flies
and rolls gently
At the child’s feet
waiting –
and yet he misses
it and turns
And runs while she
slowly
regains her former
pose
Then shoves her fingers
up through
her loose short hair
quickly
Draws one stocking
tight and
waiting
tilts
Her hips and
in the warm still
air lets
her arms
Fall
Fall
loosely
(waiting)
at her sides
From Paterson
THE FALLS
What common language to unravel?
The Falls, combed into straight lines
from that rafter of a rock’s
lip. Strike in! the middle of
some trenchant phrase, some
well packed clause. Then …
This is my plan. 4 sections: First,
the archaic persons of the drama.
An eternity of bird and bush,
resolved. An unraveling:
the confused streams aligned, side
by side, speaking! Sound
married to strength, a strength
of falling – from a height! The wild
voice of the shirt-sleeved
Evangelist rivaling, Hear
me! I am the Resurrection
and the Life!
echoing
among the bass and pickerel, slim
eels from Barbados, Sargasso
Sea, working up the coast to that
bounty, ponds and wild streams –
Third, the old town: Alexander Hamilton
working up from St Croix,
from that sea! and a deeper, whence
he came! stopped cold
by that unmoving roar, fastened
there: the rocks silent
but the water, married to the stone,
voluble, though frozen; the water
even when and though frozen
still whispers and moans –
And in the brittle air
a factory bell clangs, at dawn, and
snow whines under their feet. Fourth,
the modern town, a
disembodied roar! the cataract and
its clamor broken apart – and from
all learning, the empty
ear struck from within, roaring …
EPISODE 17
Beat hell out of it
Beautiful Thing
spotless cap
and crossed white straps
over the dark rippled cloth –
Lift the stick
above that easy head
where you sit by the ivied
church, one arm
buttressing you
long fingers spread out
among the clear grass prongs –
and drive it down
Beautiful Thing
that your caressing body kiss
and kiss again
that holy lawn –
And again: obliquely –
legs curled under you as a
deer’s leaping –
pose of supreme indifference
sacrament
to a summer’s day
Beautiful Thing
in the unearned suburbs
then pause
the arm fallen –
what memories
of what forgotten face
brooding upon that lily stem?
The incredible
nose straight from the brow
the empurpled lips
and dazzled half-sleepy eyes
Beautiful Thing
of some trusting animal
makes a temple
of its place of savage slaughter
revealing
the damaged will incites still
to violence
consummately beautiful thing
and falls about your resting
shoulders –
Gently! Gently!
as in all things an opposite
that awakes
the fury, conceiving
The Penguin Book of American Verse Page 24