Collected Poems

from THE GREEN WALL

A FIT AGAINST THE COUNTRY

The stone turns over slowly,

Under the side one sees

The pale flint covered wholly

With whorls and prints of leaf.

After the moss rubs off

It gleams beneath the trees,

Till all the birds lie down.

Hand, you have held that stone.

The sparrow’s throat goes hollow,

When the tense air forebodes

Rain to the sagging willow

And leaves the pasture moist.

The slow, cracked song is lost

Far up and down wet roads,

Rain drowns the sparrow’s tongue.

Ear, you have heard that song.

Suddenly on the eye

Feathers of morning fall,

Tanagers float away

To sort the blackberry theft.

Though sparrows alone are left

To sound the dawn, and call

Awake the heart’s gray dolor,

Eye, you have seen bright color.

Odor of fallen apple

Met you across the air,

The yellow globe lay purple

With bruises underfoot;

And, ravished out of thought,

Both of you had your share,

Sharp nose and watered mouth,

Of the dark tang of earth.

Yet, body, hold your humor

Away from the tempting tree,

The grass, the luring summer

That summon the flesh to fall.

Be glad of the green wall

You climbed across one day,

When winter stung with ice

That vacant paradise.

THE SEASONLESS

When snows begin to fill the park,

It is not hard to keep the eyes

Secure against the flickering dark,

Aware of summer ghosts that rise.

The blistered trellis seems to move

The memory toward root and rose,

The empty fountain fills the air

With spray that spangled women’s hair;

And men who walk this park in love

May bide the time of falling snows.

The trees recall their greatness now;

They were not always vague and bowed

With loads that build the slender bough

Till branches bear a tasteless fruit.

A month ago they rose and bore

Fleshes of berry, leaf, and shade:

How painlessly a man recalls

The stain of green on crooked walls,

The summer never known before,

The garden heaped to bloom and fade.

Beyond the holly bush and path

The city lies to meet the night,

And also there the quiet earth

Relies upon the lost delight

To rise again and fill the dark

With waterfalls and swallows’ sound.

Beyond the city’s lazy fume,

The sea repeats the fall of spume,

And gulls remember cries they made

When lovers fed them off the ground.

But lonely underneath a heap

Of overcoat and crusted ice,

A man goes by, and looks for sleep.

The spring of everlastingness.

Nothing about his face revives

A longing to evade the cold.

The night returns to keep him old,

And why should he, the lost and lulled,

Pray for the night of vanished lives,

The day of girls blown green and gold?

THE HORSE

. . . the glory of his nostrils is terrible.

Job 39:20

He kicked the world, and lunging long ago

Rose dripping with the dew of lawns,

Where new wind tapped him to a frieze

Against a wall of rising autumn leaves.

Some young foolhardy dweller of the barrows,

To grip his knees around the flanks,

Leaped from a tree and shivered in the air.

Joy clawed inside the bones

And flesh of the rider at the mane

Flopping and bounding over the dark banks.

Joy and terror floated on either side

Of the rider rearing. The supreme speed

Jerked to a height so spaced and wide

He seemed among the areas of the dead.

The flesh was free, the sky was rockless, clear,

The road beneath the feet was pure, the soul

Spun naked to the air

And lanced against a solitary pole

Of cumulus, to curve and roll

With the heave that disdains

Death in the body, stupor in the brains.

Now we have coddled the gods away.

The cool earth, the soft earth, we say:

Cover our eyes with petals, let the sky

Drift on while we are watching water pass

Among the drowsing mass

Of red and yellow algae in green lanes.

Yet earth contains

The horse as a remembrancer of wild

Arenas we avoid.

One day a stallion whirled my riding wife,

Whose saddle rocked her as a cradled child,

Gentle to the swell of water; yet her life

Poised perilously as on a shattered skiff.

The fear she rode, reminded of the void

That flung the ancient rider to the cold,

Dropped her down. I tossed my reins,

I ran to her with breath to make her rise,

And brought her back. Across my arms

She fumbled for the sunlight with her eyes.

I knew that she would never rest again,

For the colts of the dusk rear back their hooves

And paw us down, the mares of the dawn stampede

Across the cobbled hills till the lights are dead.

Here it is not enough to pray that loves

Draw grass over our childhood’s lake of slime.

Run to the rocks where horses cannot climb,

Stable the daemon back to shaken earth,

Warm your hands at the comfortable fire,

Cough in a dish beside a wrinkled bed.

THE FISHERMEN

We tossed our beer cans down among the rocks,

And walked away.

We turned along the beach to wonder

How many girls were out to swim and burn.

We found old men:

The driftwood faces

Sprawled in the air

And patterned hands half hidden in smoke like ferns;

The old men, fishing, letting the sea fall out,

Their twine gone slack.

You spoke of saurian beards

Grown into layers of lime,

Of beetles’ shards and broad primeval moths

Lashing great ferns;

Of bent Cro-Magnon mothers beating

Their wheat to mash;

And salty stones

Stuck to the fin and scale

Of salmon skeleton,

And lonely fabulous whorls of wood

Drawn to the shore,

The carping nose, the claws, not to be known

From those dried fishermen:

Who watched the speedboat swaying in the scum

A mile offshore,

Or, nearer, leaping fish

Butting the baby ducks before their climb;

And last of all, before the eyes of age,

The calves of graceful women flashing fast

Into the fluffy towels and out of sight.

You pointed with a stick, and told me

How old men mourning the fall

Forget the splendid sea-top combed as clean as bone,

And the white sails.

You showed me how their faces withered

Even as we looked down

To find where they left off and sea began.

And though the sun swayed in the sea,

They were not moved:

Saurian faces still as layered lime,

The nostrils ferned in smoke behind their pipes,

The eyes resting in whorls like shells on driftwood,

The hands relaxing, letting out the ropes;

And they, whispering together,

The beaten age, the dead, the blood gone dumb.

A GIRL IN A WINDOW

Now she will lean away to fold

The window blind and curtain back,

The yellow arms, the hips of gold,

The supple outline fading black,

Bosom availing nothing now,

And rounded shadow of long thighs.

How can she care for us, allow

The shade to blind imagined eyes?

Behind us, where we sit by trees,

Blundering autos lurch and swerve

On gravel, crawling on their knees

Around the unfamiliar curve;

Farther behind, a passing train

Ignores our lost identity;

So, reassured, we turn again

To see her vanish under sky.

Soon we must leave her scene to night,

To stars, or the indiscriminate

Pale accidents of lantern light,

A watchman walking by too late.

Let us return her now, my friends,

Her love, her body to the grave

Fancy of dreams where love depends.

She gave, and did not know she gave.

ON THE SKELETON OF A HOUND

Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float

Tendril and string against the crumbling wall,

Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief,

His locks for comfort curled among the leaf.

Shuttles of moonlight weave his shadow tall,

Milkweed and dew flow upward to his throat.

Now catbird feathers plume the apple mound,

And starlings drowse to winter up the ground.

Thickened away from speech by fear, I move

Around the body. Over his forepaws, steep

Declivities darken down the moonlight now,

And the long throat that bayed a year ago

Declines from summer. Flies would love to leap

Between his eyes and hum away the space

Between the ears, the hollow where a hare

Could hide; another jealous dog would tumble

The bones apart, angry, the shining crumble

Of a great body gleaming in the air;

Quivering pigeons foul his broken face.

I can imagine men who search the earth

For handy resurrections, overturn

The body of a beetle in its grave;

Whispering men digging for gods might delve

A pocket for these bones, then slowly burn

Twigs in the leaves, pray for another birth.

But I will turn my face away from this

Ruin of summer, collapse of fur and bone.

For once a white hare huddled up the grass,

The sparrows flocked away to see the race.

I stood on darkness, clinging to a stone,

I saw the two leaping alive on ice,

On earth, on leaf, humus and withered vine:

The rabbit splendid in a shroud of shade,

The dog carved on the sunlight, on the air,

Fierce and magnificent his rippled hair,

The cockleburs shaking around his head.

Then, suddenly, the hare leaped beyond pain

Out of the open meadow, and the hound

Followed the voiceless dancer to the moon,

To dark, to death, to other meadows where

Singing young women dance around a fire,

Where love reveres the living.

I alone

Scatter this hulk about the dampened ground;

And while the moon rises beyond me, throw

The ribs and spine out of their perfect shape.

For a last charm to the dead, I lift the skull

And toss it over the maples like a ball.

Strewn to the woods, now may that spirit sleep

That flamed over the ground a year ago.

I know the mole will heave a shinbone over,

The earthworm snuggle for a nap on paws,

The honest bees build honey in the head;

The earth knows how to handle the great dead

Who lived the body out, and broke its laws,

Knocked down a fence, tore up a field of clover.

THREE STEPS TO THE GRAVEYARD

When I went there first,

In the spring, it was evening,

It was long hollow thorn

Laid under the locust,

And near to my feet

The crowfoot, the mayapple

Trod their limbs down

Till the stalk blew over.

It grew summer, O riches

Of girls on the lawn,

And boys’ locks lying

Tousled on knees,

The picknickers leaving,

The day gone down.

When I went there again,

I walked with my father

Who held in his hand

The crowfoot, the mayapple,

And under my hands,

To hold off the sunlight,

I saw him going,

Between two trees;

When the lawn lay empty

It was the year’s end,

It was the darkness,

It was long hollow thorn

To wound the bare shade,

The sheaf and the blade.

O now as I go there

The crowfoot, the mayapple

Blear the gray pond;

Beside the still waters

The field mouse tiptoes,

To hear the air sounding

The long hollow thorn.

I lean to the hollow,

But nothing blows there,

The day goes down.

The field mice flutter

Like grass and are gone,

And a skinny old woman

Scrubs at a stone,

Between two trees.

FATHER

In paradise I poised my foot above the boat and said:

Who prayed for me?

But only the dip of an oar

In water sounded; slowly fog from some cold shore

Circled in wreaths around my head.

But who is waiting?

And the wind began,

Transfiguring my face from nothingness

To tiny weeping eyes. And when my voice

Grew real, there was a place

Far, far below on earth. There was a tiny man —

It was my father wandering round the waters at the wharf.

Irritably he circled and he called

Out to the marine currents up and down,

But heard only a cold unmeaning cough,

And saw the oarsman in the mist enshawled.

He drew me from the boat. I was asleep.

And we went home together.

ELEGY IN A FIRELIT ROOM

The window showed a willow in the west,

But windy dry. No folly weeping there.

A sparrow hung a wire about its breast

And spun across the air.

Instead of paying winter any mind,

I ran my fingerprints across the glass,

To feel the crystal forest sown by wind,

And one small face:

A child among the frozen bushes lost,

Breaking the white and rigid twigs between

Fingers more heavenly than hands of dust,

And fingernails more clean.

Beyond, the willow would not cry for cold,

The sparrow hovered long enough to stare;

The face between me and the wintered world

Began to disappear;

Because some