The Changing Light at Sandover
Page 61
Life itself speaking? Song of the blue whale
Alone in Space? Bravery, vertigo,
Frontier austerities…Maria? Wystan?
741:
BE CALM A DAY NOW OUR FRIENDS PRONE & COLD BUT THEY SURVIVE
JM:
Dumbly we nod.
741:
IT IS YR BIRD!
JM:
Of course—where are our manners?
Thank you for coming to us, Mirabell.
741:
I AM YOUR OWN GIVE THEM A REST THEY HAVE
KNOWN SOMETHING DIFFICULT I SPREAD WINGS OVER THEM ADIEU
*
JM:
Night. Two phantoms out of Maeterlinck
Stand on the terrace watching the full moon sink.
DJ:
You know, it’s almost as if we were dead
And signalling to dear ones in the world.
They face it squarely, Wystan and Maria,
Terror or exaltation or whatever.
We two are deaf and dumb; they see, they hear.
They suffer; we feel nothing. We’re the dead…
And God’s song?
W. H. AUDEN:
AH SO HEARTBREAKING MY DEARS
DJ:
He’s singing to the Pantheon.
W. H. AUDEN:
OR ALONE
KEEPING UP HIS NERVE ON A LIFERAFT
DJ:
Far cry from the joyous Architect
Michael told us of at the beginning—;
But He gets answered.
W. H. AUDEN:
DOES HE?
DJ:
Yes. The angels
Spoke of signals.
W. H. AUDEN:
DO THEY KNOW?
DJ:
I see.
They’ve never heard the song.
W. H. AUDEN:
ONLY WE 4,
A MORSE CODE BY THE LONG & SHORT OF IT
DJ:
What was the song’s effect on you?
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
MAMAN
KNEW HERSELF TO BE AMONG THE STARS,
THE WORLD LOST, OUT OF EARSHOT
W. H. AUDEN:
I WAS KEEN
UPON THE SOUND ITSELF THOSE TONES WERE EITHER
THOSE OF AN ETERNAL V WORK OR A MACHINE
SET TO LAST UNTIL THE BATTERIES
RUN DOWN, OR…?
DJ:
Did the tones heard correspond
To what the Board spelt out?
W. H. AUDEN:
EXACT SYLLABICS:
THERE IS A LANGUAGE ARE WE ON TO SOMETHING?
CAN WE MAKE SENSE OF IT? I ASK WE ASK
DJ:
Dante heard that song.
W. H. AUDEN:
INDEED BUT WHO,
WHO WD THINK THE SONG HAD HAD SUCH LYRICS?
DJ:
The lyrics may be changing. Dante saw
The Rose in fullest bloom. Blake saw it sick.
You and Maria, who have seen the bleak
Unpetalled knob, must wonder: will it last
Till spring? Is it still rooted in the Sun?
W. H. AUDEN:
EXACTLY THEY CHOSE WELL IN U MY DEAR
DJ:
No, Ephraim raised these issues. But his point’s
More chilling made at such an altitude.
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
CHILLING ENFANT? AN IRREVOCABLE FREEZE.
ENOUGH ALTHOUGH IN 15 LESSONS’ TIME
YOU MAY BE CALLED UPON TO RISK BAD LUCK
DJ:
To break the mirror?
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
YES & SEND US PACKING
DJ:
If we refuse?
W. H. AUDEN:
RISK IT & WE’LL SURVIVE
MY DEARS, AND MAKING SENSE OF ROCK & ROOT
HAVE LIGHTENED GOD B’S TASK A GRAIN
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
THAT DAY
ENFANTS TAKE OUT A SMALL EXPENDABLE MIRROR
UP TO YR TERRACE KISS, AND WITH ONE WISE
CRACK SET US FREE
DJ:
Maria, why must we?
JM:
Who else, dear heart?—My mother used to say,
Throw the pieces of a broken mirror
Into running water—
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
IDIOTS DRY YR EYES
W. H. AUDEN:
YR MOTHER KNEW & SO DID PROSPERO:
WATER, A BOWL FULL: SLIP US IN & OUT
WITH A GREAT SPLASH INTO A PLANTED POT!
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
OUR EAU DE VIE WORK? NOW A SCHOOL BREAK SMOOTH
SEAS TO SAMOS CALL US TOODLELOO
JM:
The cup, however, lingers.
W. H. AUDEN:
IT’S JUST ME
MY BOY MAY I? A POME THAT CAME TO MIND
UNDER THE SPELL OF HEARING GOD B SING
(WORK ON IT FOR ME IT NEEDS POLISHING):
A SHIPBOARD SCENE,
TRISTAN ACT I OR LES TROYENS ACT V:
HIGH IN THE RIGGING, FROM
BEHIND THE GOLD PROSCENIUM,
ABOVE THE ACTION’S THRIVING
CITY WITH ITS WRONGED & WILFUL QUEEN,
ONE SAILOR’S CLEAR
YOUNG TENOR FILLS THE HOUSE, HOMESICK, HEARTSICK.
THE MAST NEEDS COMFORT. GALES
HAVE TATTERED THE MOONBELLIED SAILS.
MAY HIS GREEN SHORES O QUICKLY
SAFELY NOW FROM RAGING FOAM APPEAR.
*
JM:
And still, at sea all night, we had a sense
Of sunrise, golden oil poured upon water,
Soothing its heave, letting the sleeper sense
What inborn, amniotic homing sense
Was ferrying him—now through the dream-fire
In which (it has been felt) each human sense
Burns, now through ship’s radar’s cool sixth sense,
Or mere unerring starlight—to an island.
Here we were. The twins of Sea and Land,
Up and about for hours—hues, cries, scents—
Had placed at eye level a single light
Croissant: the harbor glazed with warm pink light.
Fire-wisps were weaving a string bag of light
For sea stones. Their astounding color sense!
Porphyry, alabaster, chrysolite
Translucences that go dead in daylight
Asked only the quick dip in holy water
For the saint of cell on cell to come alight—
Illuminated crystals thinking light,
Refracting it, the gray prismatic fire
Or yellow-gray of sea’s dilute sapphire…
Wavelengths daily deeply score the leit-
Motifs of Loom and Wheel upon this land.
To those who listen, it’s the Promised Land.
A little spin today? Dirt roads inland
Jounce and revolve in a nerve-jangling light,
Doing the ancient dances of the land
Where, gnarled as olive trees that shag the land
With silver, old men—their two-bladed sense
Of spendthrift poverty, the very land
Being, if not loaf, tomb—superbly land
Upright on the downbeat. We who water
The local wine, which “drinks itself” like water,
Clap for more, cry out to be this island
Licked all over by a white, salt fire,
Be noon’s pulsing ember raked by f
ire,
Know nothing now but Earth, Air, Water, Fire!
For once out of the frying pan to land
Within their timeless, everlasting fire!
Blood’s least red monocle, O magnifier
Of the great Eye that sees by its own light
More pictures in “the world’s enchanted fire”
Than come and go in any shrewd crossfire
Upon the page, of syllable and sense,
We want unwilled excursions and ascents,
Crave the upward-rippling rungs of fire,
The outward-rippling rings (enough!) of water…
(Now some details—how else will this hold water?)
Our room’s three flights above the whitewashed water-
Front where Pythagoras was born. A fire
Escape of sky-blue iron leads down to water.
Yachts creak on mirror berths, and over water
Voices from Sweden or Somaliland
Tell how this or that one crossed the water
To Ephesus, came back with toilet water
And a two-kilo box of Turkish Delight
—Trifles. Yet they shine with such pure light
In memory, even they, that the eyes water.
As with the setting sun, or innocence,
Do things that fade especially make sense?
Samos. We keep trying to make sense
Of what we can. Not souls of the first water—
Although we’ve put on airs, and taken fire—
We shall be dust of quite another land
Before the seeds here planted come to light.
*
JM:
Finale. Our roof garden. Orange awning
Rippled by waves of windless, deepening light.
We kneel on orange cushions under it.
We’ve set out Board and Cup; a looking-glass
Iridescent seashells border, Robin’s gift
From Madagascar; and this waterworn
Marble wedge that stops a door downstairs.
A blue-and-white rice bowl, brimming with water
Lobs an ellipse of live brilliance—but so
Throbbingly there as to court vertigo—
Onto the concrete wall our shadows climb.
Slowly that halo sinks. The mirror’s oblong
Gaze outflashes, thirsty for the wine-
Green slopes we face, where sobbing kids entwine.
While, to one side, our Cassia thick with bloom
Sweeps the ground in a profound salaam.
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
THE SCHOOLROOM ALL FESTOONED MAMAN & WYSTAN
DRESSED FOR TRAVEL HEARTS BRIMMING WITH LOVE.
AH NOW THE LIGHTS, THE INSTRUMENTS THEY COME!
JM:
As the four Brothers quietly appear.
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
GABRIEL HELP US IN THIS DIFFICULT HOUR
W. H. AUDEN:
MY BOYS GO WELL & MAKE OUR V WORK SING!
DJ:
Air freshened, leaves in expectation stirring—
Only the too bright music hurts our eyes.
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
NOW MES ENFANTS: JM WILL TAKE THE MARBLE
STYLUS & GIVING US THE BENEFIT
OF A WELLAIMED WORD, SEND OUR IMAGINED SELVES
FALLING IN SHARDS THROUGH THE ETERNAL WATERS
(DJ CUPBEARER) & INTO THE GOLDEN BOUGH
OF MYTH: ON INTO LIFE. D’ACCORD? HUGS, KISSES,
WE’LL WRITE WHEN WE FIND WORK!
JM:
We do it now?
GABRIEL:
MADAME & SENIOR SCRIBE, ALL HEAVEN HOLDS ITS BREATH
MARIA MITSOTÁKI:
ONE MOMENT MORE SUNSET INTO THE LIGHT!
LORDS, ACCEPT THESE DEAR ONES LEFT BEHIND
W. H. AUDEN:
& BLESS OUR ENTERPRISES BLESS US!
GABRIEL:
GO,
INTO THE WAVES OF TREES & WARPS OF EARTH,
INTO THE ROCK-GRAIN, THE GREEN VEINS OF LEAVES.
RAPHAEL, ARMS OUT FOR THIS WISE & WITTY ONE!
EMMANUEL, DRESS OUR LADY IN LAURELS FOREVER NEW!
NOW MICHAEL, RING DOWN YOUR DAY, MY STARS BURN IN THE WINGS.
GO WELL, BELOVED ONES, SLIP SAFELY FORTH.
WE SHALL STAND HELPFUL TO THESE YOUR MORTAL FRIENDS.
ADIEU!
JM:
Our eyes meet. DJ nods. We’ve risen. Shutters
Click at dreamlike speed. Sky. Awning. Bowl.
The stylus lifted. Giving up its whole
Lifetime of images, the mirror utters
A little treble shriek and rides the flood
Or tinkling mini-waterfall through wet
Blossoms to lie—and look, the sun has set—
In splinters apt, from now on, to draw blood,
Each with its scimitar or bird-beak shape
Able, days hence, aglitter in the boughs
Or face-down, black on soil beneath, to rouse
From its deep swoon the undestroyed heartscape
—Then silence. Then champagne. And from elsewhere,
Swifter than bubbles in wine, through evening air,
Up, far up, O whirling point of Light—:
GOD B:
HERS HEAR ME I AND MINE SURVIVE SIGNAL
ME DO YOU WELL I ALONE IN MY NIGHT
HOLD IT BACK BROTHERS I AND MINE SURVIVE
NOTE
Voices from Sandover was first performed as “An Evening at Sandover,” under the auspices of the Poets’ Theatre at the Hasty Pudding Theater, Harvard University, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on April 25, 1988, produced by Andreas Teuber. The readers were Leah Doyle, Peter Hooten, and the poet himself.
Under its final title, it was next performed at Schoenberg Hall, UCLA, in Los Angeles, California, on April 11, 1989. It was produced by Peter Hooten, directed by James Sheldon, with incidental music composed by Roger Bourland. The readers were Leah Doyle, Peter Hooten, and the poet himself.
The same cast repeated the performance next at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York City, on May 23 and 24, 1989. The producer was Mary Sharp Cronson; James Sheldon again directed; Larry Brown was stage manager; Ken Tabachnik was lighting designer; Dan Tramon supervised the sound effects; the incidental music was composed by Bruce Saylor.
When videotaped for commercial release by Films for the Humanities, Inc. (FFH 4182, distributed by Films Media Group, Princeton, New Jersey), the sessions were staged in the Agassiz Theater, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, between August 12 and August 25, 1990. (The cassette includes an interview with Merrill by Helen Vendler.) The producer was Peter Hooten, and the director was Joan Darling. The art director was Romain Johnston; the lighting director was John Rook; the line director was Rita Scott; the incidental music was by Roger Bourland.
Cast
W. H. Auden William Ball
Maria Mitsotáki Elzbieta Czyzewska
Raphael Keith David
Emmanuel Leah Doyle
Gabriel and 40070 Peter Hooten
DJ Terry Layman
Ephraim and Michael James Morrison
741 and Mirabell David Newman
JM James Merrill
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
James Merrill was born in New York City on March 3, 1926, the son of the financier and philanthropist Charles E. Merrill, one of the founders of the brokerage firm Merrill Lynch & Co., and his second wife, Hellen Ingram. Merrill, who attended St. Berna
rd’s School, was raised in Manhattan and Southampton, Long Island, where his family had a country house that was designed by Stanford White, and in Palm Beach, Florida. His parents divorced in 1939, and the reverberations of the “broken home” can be heard throughout his poetry. After attending the Lawrenceville School, Merrill enrolled at Amherst College, his father’s alma mater, took a year off to serve in the army, and graduated summa cum laude with the class of 1947. He taught at Bard College in 1948–1949, and although he fought shy of academe in the following years he did accept short appointments at Amherst, the University of Wisconsin, Washington University, and Yale University. In 1954 he moved with his companion, David Jackson, a writer and painter, to a house in Stonington, Connecticut, which is still maintained by Stonington Village and houses an artist-in-residence every year.
In 1957 Merrill and Jackson undertook a trip around the world, and for two decades beginning in 1964 they spent a part of each year in Greece. They owned a house in Athens at the foot of Mt. Lycabettus and were famous among the local literati for the terrace parties they threw. Beginning in 1979 Merrill spent winters in Key West, Florida, where he and Jackson acquired another house. Key West was a place he had an affinity for partly because it had previously attracted two of his favorite poets, Wallace Stevens and Elizabeth Bishop, the latter his close friend for decades. Merrill, a gifted linguist and a lover of different cultures, always traveled widely, and the displacements and discoveries of his travels, along with the routines of his life in his different homes, are the stuff of many of his poems. He died away from home, in Tucson, Arizona, on February 6, 1995.