Midsummer Night

I am well-met by moonlight:

Bats line the graveyard trees,

   hanging from pine and maple boughs.

   Not hundreds of bats,

          but thousands —

Their slant inverted eyes regard me.

  In their world I’m the strange one,

   a two-leg walker

     stuck to the ground,

dim-sighted, inarticulate,

deaf to their ultrasonic Sanskrit.

I love their wing-beats, their

startled flight when I clap my hands —

their comradeship for my monologues,

their brotherly listening —

And though they darken the trees

so the beacon moon,

the stars cannot intrude,

fireflies assemble

like landing lights,

my faerie pathway clearly marked

into the grove and the elder gravestones,

out to the lake and the quiet streets,

or — to nowhere

I can remain as their midsummer king,

a willing captive of Mab or Oberon,

regent of their passing luminance,

crowned in an aureole of foxfire

for this night of nights,
      summer's briefest,

its joys packed frenzied, feverish,

from long-drawn dusk till

     teasing dawn

when bat-wings fold invisible

into the foliage and the ill-met

day people rise from their beds,

cock-crow, and  assume their power.

Keep me now and forever,

     Thou sable Night!

Hearing the Wendigo

All the Native Americans from Appalachia to the Hudson Bay in Canada share a common dread of an elemental creature comprised entirely of wind. Algernon Blackwood documented the myth in in horror tale, "The Wendigo." Wendigo stories have been campfire horror tales for generations, embellished with each telling. I first wrote about the Wendigo in 1989, and I have mentioned it in several other poems. Here is the original in a new revision, suitable considering all the tornadoes we have had lately.

HEARING THE WENDIGO

There is a place

     where the winds meet howling

cold nights in frozen forest

     snapping the tree trunks

     in haste for their reunion.

Gone is the summer they brooded in,

     gone the autumn of their awakening.

Now at last they slide off glaciers,

     sail the spreading ice floes,

     hitch a ride with winter.

Great bears retreat and slumber,

     owls flee

          and whippoorwills shudder.

Whole herds of caribou

     stampede on the tundra

     in the madness of hunger,

     the terror of thunder-winds..

The snow-piled Huron packs tight
     the animal skins around his doorway,
hopes his small fire and its thin smoke
escape the notice of boreal eyes.
He will not look out at the night sky,
     for fear of what might look back.

Only brave Orion witnesses

     as icy vectors collide in air.

Trees break like tent poles,

     earth sunders to craters

     beneath the giant foot-stamps.

Birds rise to whirlwind updraft

     and come down bones and feathers.

I have not seen the Wendigo —
     (I scarcely dare to name it!) —

     the wind’s collective consciousness,

     id proud and hammer-hard.

To see is to be plucked

     into the very eye of madness.

Yet time and again as I walked here,
     alone in the snow
     by this solitary and abandoned lake,
I have felt its upward urge

     like hands beneath my shoulders,

     lifting and beckoning.

It says, You dream of flying?

     Then fly with me!

I answer No,

not with your hungry eye above me,

not with those teeth like roaring chain saws,

not with those pile-driving footsteps —

Like the wise Huron sachem,
     the long-gone Erie, the Mingo,
     the Seneca, the Onondaga,
like all Hodenosaunee-born,

     I too avert my eyes

     against the thing that summons me.

Screaming, the airborne smiter

     rips off the tops of conifers,

crushes a row of power-line towers,

peppers the hillside with saurian tracks,

then leaps straight up at the Dog Star,

as though its anger could crack the cosmos,

as though the sky bowl were not infinite,

and wind alone could touch the stars

     and eat them.

Op. 525, 1989
Rev 2011 as Op. 856

Sleeping with Thor

There might as well be a neon sign outside
that flashes “Vacancy,” for all the talk I get from you.
Your great blond hulk beside me, breathing,
that one arm holding me, tight as a battle trophy:
all fine and good. Dane, or Viking, or as you joked
when you dragged me back here, “The great God Thor
in exile from Asgard,” your open mouth is wordless,
as animal slumber, not quite a snore but a rumble
rolls over me. At the foot of the bed, your sandals,
somewhere safely off, that hammer named Mjolnir
that I think means more to you than boyfriends:
all fine. I should just relax and enjoy this, but for
the fact that you are sleeping with both eyes open
and I am staring into two tenantless holes where once
those commanding blue orbs had sundered my resistance.

Twice you have stirred, and wordless, twice
we have done everything you thought I wanted — god,
things I never even dreamt of! Even with all that armor on,
each touch was just at the cusp between joy and too much
to bear. If that was mead we drank, I’ll toast the maker,
but must I go eyeless too into some zombie slumber?

Are you in Asgard, where Odin even now scolds you
for your college-boy dalliance? Remember to tell him
I am a poet, and a fit companion and confidant!
Your strong hand will not release me; clad
in the tatters of what you tore from me, I must wait
for the next installment, or canto, or conquest.

Are you in and out of yourself as it conveniences?
Those blue eyes drilled me, as you enjoyed the spoils
of my all too easy surrender. But what I win
is this manikin semblance of a lover,
the fox’s calling card, a henhouse full of carnage
and a room chill-blasted with Arctic air.
(Good trick, since it is July outside.)

If you are phantom, a frosty incubus,
perhaps the rest of you will follow your errant eyes.
I will wake then, embracing a suit of armor,
a limp red cape and leggings.

I’ll look down empty corridors of clothes, find no one

either up your sleeves or down your trousers, the shape
of your strong legs only an imprint on the mattress.

If I reach in those vacant sockets, I’d feel my fingers touch.
I’d know the embrace that holds me was death’s rigor;
I’d feel for the cold hand inside the chain-mail glove:
try as I might for a pulse I'd find none. I’d dare
to place my lips to yours, expecting no respiration.

Dark raven wings flutter.
I think I hear a distant wind, a sigh between your ears
and mine. Perhaps it comes from Asgard, perhaps
you ride the Bifrost to return to me. Can I be bard
to your impossible beauty? Or when those eyes
assume their blueness, will the only words you mutter
be something about hockey practice, too much to drink,
and the need for a serious breakfast?

I expect nothing. I tell myself
I imagined most of this. But there,
the armored breastplate presses me still from behind,
and that arm refuses to release me,
and there, next to our hastily thrown off jackets,
reposes Mjolnir, the square-ended hammer of Thor.

The Vanished Chapel

I returned to Edinboro PA last fall for the first time in years, and found that the Episcopal Center, in whose garret I had lived, had utterly vanished. I had written about the place in a poem called "Seeds from My Garden," in which I counseled my successor tenant in gardening. But seeing the building itself gone made me reflect deeper, and the rewritten poem is very different, and more revealing. (It's amazing I wasn't burned at the stake in that town!)

THE VANISHED CHAPEL

Back for a holiday some years ago, I visited

my home, that old Episcopal chapel,
whose attic garret I lived in
(scandal unheard-of in those days,
an atheist-poet-pervert
doing who knows what under the eaves)

I conduct the new tenant over the grounds,
say, “Here are the onions, back
from last year — I planted these.
A little ground fire in spring
will weed through those blackberries,
in summer they’ll go to eight feet.
The sod here is cleared, for last summer
I took shovel and planted peas, lettuce,

carrot, red radish. Rabbits, oh yes,
they ate the peas right down to the ground.
A sour kind of clover, oxalis I think it’s called,
grows here on the lawn,
boon to salads. Wild flowers,
good for a week in the house.”

(By the wall, a garrulous stalk,
alien seed pods clumped in the sun,
six feet of rhubarb — don’t know
who planted the stuff. Even the kids

     keep away, too much
resemblance to Body Snatcher pods.)

A year passed.
The tenant was gone, they told me.
The grocer’s kind,
     he ate no onions, left
     the berries for birds;

They covered the lot with deep gravel,
     for cars.

Decades passed. I came again
and hardly recognized the spot.
The chapel fell to ruin, then burned.
The garden is a weed-lot. Trees,
already thick and sturdy, assert
the primacy of forest. One more place
I have lived in, obliterated. How long
did the chapel stand empty, shunned,
the object of lingering rumors
of things that went on in that attic?
How many come back, to look and remember,
not the Episcopal mumbling
that went on downstairs, but the mad
poetic ramblings and strange seductions
that nearly rove the roof off as Wagner
and Shostakovich and Mahler rattled
the windows and sent the single bat
(too poor for a belfry) helter skelter
then out the open casement?
No need for hauntings
when you have poets in the attic!

Hawkflight

A revision of one of my earliest extant poems. Gloomy adolescent infatuation, ah!

HAWKFLIGHT

The place I fell in love

with you was not a place at all:
it was a chasm whose entryway
was two black eyes.
I fell there and found you, Hawk.

When, after many refusals
you finally permitted me to hold you,
your wings were laden with nettles.
Perhaps you needed me to remove them,
to speak comforting words, to assure you
of a beauty you did not know you possessed.

Still your feathered breast resisted me,

     aspired to the dark flight

     against a sky of no stars --

You flew, o into blackness,

infinity your satellite and silhouette.

The same moment I rejoiced in possessing you,
I saw you move away in sadness.

Each time my hand,

was permitted to caress you,

your wings stirred skyward

at the hint of dawn.

                     My arms,

acquired wings, too, a mantle of despair
that only let me plummet downward.

Striving to reach you,

I fell deadweight at the black limn'd

          treetop.

          You soaring,

I a world-bound Leonardo

tracing the the arc of your envied ascent
as I sank into my own abyss of longing.

You circled. You returned.
One thunderstruck night
you thrust your beak
into my open window,
fluttered as though by right
to the foot of my bed.
Assuming that native form
that could always seduce me,
you pressed yourself against me
and offered everything
if I would forsake all
to follow you. And yes, I said yes,
for the proof of love is this:
if you love someone
you will go anywhere
to be with him. Anywhere.

I was this foolish once.
I have been this foolish each time
beauty coins words
it thinks I want to hear.

Somewhere, amid the mountains
that separate us, you have your eyrie,
the lone crag of your solitude.
Your days have been busy.
You have your pride, and your prey.
I do not think of you much.
I have my pride,
and five hundred poems.

Sentences

The original of this poem was written during the Vietnam War. It fell under my pen again tonight for a touch-up, as fresh as ever.

SENTENCES

the army came home,
to parade on the soft graves
of the war dead.
the general faced the orphan child
with his little folded flag
and had nothing to say.
the universe stopped
while something that called itself god
pondered the full implications of his beliefs.
in January, a fresh-baked doughnut
crystallizes in the cold air
before you can finish eating it.
the stringy-haired girl who told me
“just pray and God will grant your wishes”
made me laugh as I thought
of my stepfather eaten by oversized rats.
does the great eagle know
that its eggs will not hatch?
yes we will over your dead body.

About Marge Piercy

Marge Piercy came to Providence last April to judge the Philbrick Poetry Prize and to read from her work. I had the honor of introducing her, but did not know, to my regret, that she hates being introduced by people who quote from her work. So, my sincere and well-prepared remarks about this significant poet were somewhat curtailed. I just came across the text and thought I would share it, since Marge Piercy's work is truly outstanding. I know that our devoted poetry audience in Providence had gone out to the local bookstores and gobbled up every Piercy book they could find in anticipation of the event. So should you.

When I said, again and again to our judging committee and to various friends, “Marge Piercy.” I was told, “Watch out! She’s fierce! She has three husbands, lives on a compound with 120 cats and a pride of lions. She’ll snap your head off.” I said, “Now that’s the kind of poet I want to meet!” back in the early 1970s, when I started my little press in New York City, I published mostly women poets, and all of them, young and old, were always carrying Marge Piercy books around with them. They connected with her in an intense way: a female writer who, at an early point in her career, had “arrived” in a way that women accepted and admired, and which men acknowledged with the grudging admission that she did everything as well as, or better than, they did.

Along the way, Marge Piercy moved from being “that poet that women read and cling to” to a poet everyone read, and a novelist whose books you couldn’t put down. She rip-roared into science fiction, a veritable boy’s club, and made her mark there, along with Ursula LeGuin and the woman who called herself “James Tiptree, Jr.”

The poet is always the outsider. “When I flirt I feel like an elephant/ in a pink tutu balancing on a beach ball,/ a tabby wearing a doll’s dress.” Elsewhere she describes herself as a young girl:

I did not want to be a boy. Most
of them were imbeciles, I thought,
nor did I want to be a girl or woman.
Maybe I would grow up to be a cat.
Maybe I was an alien, a changeling.

She is a satirist worthy of the Roman Juvenal, often at her best when turning her focus on her own gender. She can mock women with giant purses, “women who hang leather hippos from their shoulders” but there is self mockery when she Whitman-lists the purse’s contents: “Ten pens, because the ink may run out … maps, a notebook in case” Of course only a writer would say this! “Women like kangaroos with huge purses bearing hidden  / our own helplessness and it s fancied cures.” When she mocks “The Beauty Myth” she describes “hair like a museum piece, daily/ ornamented with ribbons, vases,/ grottoes, mountains, frigates in full/ sail, balloons. Baboons, the fancy/ of a hairdresser turned loose” and reminds us “It is not for male or female dogs ... that poodles are clipped … to topiary hedges.” “If I had a $400 haircut,” she asks, “would people buy calendars just me on every month grinning?” Satire is an unlicensed firearm. When she writes about horrible gifts no one wants to receive and which no one can get rid of, she might have inspired,or may have been inspired by, the wicked Edward Gorey cartoon that shows Edwardian ice skaters hurling wrapped objects into a hole in the ice. The caption: “FRUITCAKE.”

Those wonderful flarings-up, as she confesses “but oh, oh, in me/ lurks a tyrant with a double-edged ax who longs/ to swing it wide and shining, who longs to stand/ and shriek, You Shall Do As I Say, pig bastards”. She can say, on spying an ex in a supermarket, “Now I could walk through him like smoke/ and only sneeze.” On the arrogance of America invading everybody: “The harder you push, the harder what you never bothered to notice pushes back.” On same-sex marriage: “In earlier times and different cultures and tribes, men married men and women married women, and the sky never fell …” On the Patriot Act, which results in an FBI interrogation, “collected receipts from your/ restaurant meals for the past five years. You have ordered hummus six times, falafel twice and lamb four times. … Welcome to the Inquisition!” In a poignant little grouping called “No one came home,” she recalls the horror and emptiness of never knowing what become of a loved one, from a single lost cat, to the thousands in Argentina “disappeared” by their own government. Her poem, “Buyer Beware,” on the cost of war, should be pinned to the lapels of certain former government officials should anyone have the god fortune to arrest them.

I love her poem about opera, the most artificial and intense of all art forms.  No skinny blonds here, she tells us: “The heroine is fifty and weighs/ as much as a ’65 Chevy with fins. She could crack our jaw in her fist. She can hit high C lying down.”

But who also comes to the peace and calm of rituals, of the year’s turning points, to the outer skin of ancestry we all wear and cannot really put off, coming home to her own Jewish heritage but in her own words, who can invert the old rabbinic saying of “Thank God I was not born a woman,” with  “Thank God I was.”

A social poet too, able to compress the evils of society into just a few words. Leaving urban Detroit, her family sold the house to a black family. The consequence, Piercy writes: “my old boyfriend next door poisoned/ my cat … It took him all night to die.” She writes of a women working in a women’s clinic,. Threatened with murder every day by an anonymous phone caller. Our penchant as a species to invent tortures made her write “We could erect a Smithsonian of pain’s / little helpers, racks, prods, all the mechanical, electrical, computerized/ vehicles for imposing hostile will.” When Piercy recalls, in detail, a Detroit neighbor who brutally beat his wife and children every payday, and how no one did anything about it because half the other neighbor men did the same, or worse, she packs the poetic payload of the poem into the title, “Family Values.”

She is a nature poet, proving that poets see, and know the names of things. “I can get drink on color, lured like a bee/ to drench myself in reds and blues and purples,” she says. She writes of Cape Cod, her adopted home since 1971, with the enraptured eye of the newcomer, the naturalist, the seeker. “Voice of the Grackle.” “A Long and Busy Night” “Tracks”  “Crow Babies.” Her poem, “The Rush at Equinox”, free as it is, is as compressed and cogent as the best of Robert Frost. Yet she does not flinch at nature’s cruel side. She knows her cat has gone to the coyote’s dinner, that life eats life, and that animals do not run about in Disney costumes. Writing of our mammal cousins, the great whales, she says “Each is a poet, a composer, a scholar of the roads/ below. They are always singing, and what they know/ is as alien to us as if they swim past Sirius.”

Writing of her mother’s death, she makes no claim to prophecy or premonition, an uncanny modesty for a poet. “That day,” she recalls, “opened like any ordinary can of tomatoes. … I was caught by surprise/ like the trout that takes the fly/ and I gasped in the fatal air.” Death seems repeatedly to arrive by surprise in Piercy’s poems, as when she encounters a wounded and drying deer, “the thing that strikes in the middle of the morning.” Even the Holocaust, which many of us feel compelled to document from its obscure origins to the last detailed survivor’s memory, sweeps across her poems like a whirlwind:

I remember my grandmother’s cry
when she learned the death of all she had
remembered, girls she bathed with,
young men with whom she shyly
flirted, wooden shul where
her father rocked and prayed…

Piercy resists death: “I go to charm death like Sheherezade / with stories I refuse to end until my wish is granted.”

There are some poets we know, and whom we trust to take us through pain and anger and loss, because they come to tell truth, to shed light on the dark inside us, ultimately, to heal. Piercy’s older brother, her Everyman, refused to read her poems of childhood memories. We can and must. What does she tell us when she recounts the Detroit father beating his wife and children, and everyone looking the other way?

That so long as we do so on the minutest level – person to person, man to woman, parent to child – then we shall continue to do as much, or worse to anyone we deem the Other.

If Piercy were only a social and political poet, we would owe her a great debt, but I am glad that she dwells in a place where sea and sun and all of nature fill her palette as well. Like Robinson Jeffers on the west coast, she embraces the long arc of geologic and ocean time and sees us a part of an animal spectrum.

Seldom it is that a poet knows, at the beginning of a career, the solemn mission ahead. Marge Piercy wrote,sometime before 1969, the last lines of her collection, Hard Loving:

It is time to loosen and make new.

We are sacs of mad cells that have forgotten how to grow.

It is time to close ourselves to the steel probes

of the corporate generals and devisers.

It is time to open ourselves to the other with respect …

Time to learn we are part of one wave and each other.

Sisters and brothers in movement,

we carry the wet cuneiform of proteins

the long history of working to be human …

We must be healed at last to our soft bodies

and our hard planet

to make live and conscious history in common.

A Year and a Day

I found this poem in an old journal, a fragment. In its new reworking I suddenly found myself recalling the terrifying scene in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein when Victor Frankenstein unexpectedly encounters the monster while hiking alone on a glacier -- a sublime and terrifying place in and of itself -- so that found its way into the poem as well. This was another obsessive, self-absorbed love poem, in language unabashedly hyperbolic, but I hope it is now redeemed. It is as true to me as a "Howl" was to Ginsberg.

A YEAR AND A DAY

A year since last I saw you. No: a year and a day.
The round red sun struck an octave falling,
rung out the interval as turning earth
returned to the self-same place in its orbit:
and what should happen, but nothing at all.
Nothing, or rather, another day void
to add to a year of days without you,
the same fields dressed up in the same green trees,
the same indifferent sky accepting bursts
of egomaniacal seedpods
attempting escape velocity.

During the year, I fled the quotidian,
twisting with maple propellers,
out and upward to the highest cirrus.
I sought the place of your waiting
somewhere in orbit beneath the Dog Star.
All too soon I fell, repelled
by a single graze of your cheekbones.

I thought the sun, unbent by atmosphere,
would melt your cold heart ;
the rain that came
we mistook for a sign of advent —
o roots, o tendrils, o new shoots twining,
abandoned as abruptly
to summer’s drought,
to hoarfrost cold,
and now, to this barren anniversary.

Each height I sought
you had already abandoned.
Each bloom thrust up —
whether the frail violet
     or the tight-fisted peony —
beautiful to me only
in some resemblance, passing,
to some aspect of you,
fell petal by petal to cindered ash.
Earth’s autumn hecatombs
were burned in vain at your altar.

I know you were always there,
just one horizon beyond me,
hurrying on, pursued, and pursuing
(I dread to name whom or what!)
Must I follow you to desert rim,
the unforgiving edge of the glacier,
the Mere de Glace where Monster
and Maker (for what else are lover
and beloved?) meet once,
soliloquize and part, sworn enemies?

For a year and a day you have fled me —
(Ah! it is a year and a day, times thirty now!) —
and still the secret lives, as flowers shriek
in fields the winds italicize with longing,
in wan birch forests that topple and fall
at your departing slant. The secret lives;
the long count of calendar days resumes,
and we (myself and all things living)
tread on in quest of that one contrary wind
that would be harbinger of your return.
I will not die waiting, but you will wait
’til your own death to plumb regret’s full sea.
Green things will bloom, mute, melancholic, doomed,
beneath a kettle of iron-gray storm-clouds.
Life will go on somehow, though gods are fled
and I, of words and love, am but a ghost.

Something There Is In the Attic

Every human body is a haunted house.

Something there is in the attic

that drives it and sets its course.
Are the shutters half-drawn?
Are they nailed against sunrise?
Do spiders spin in the tenantless rooms?
Who lives there? Ahab and his mono-
Moby madness? Emily with her dry-
leaf poems like money under a bed?
Or no one at all? Does no one hear
as each flaked shingle falls,
as varicose ivy beards up, as sun
and sag gray-wash the porch beams
and lintels? Something there is
in the attic that drives it and
sets its course. Whose will? An old
man’s will? A boy’s? A loud-mouthed
betrayer of dreams? A dreamer
paralyzed? Why does this house
not fall, but stand at elmward avenue,
accusing all, begging a moon,
a clean sweep, a neighbor’s knock,
a letter? Something there is
in the attic that drives it and
sets its course. This house is
Ahab’s ship, Usher’s manse, Lovecraft’s
infirmary, a witch house, feast
hall, love nest and chapel, sanctum
of Solitude, the Capulets’ tomb.
 

If every human body is a haunted
house, shall we not choose
these ghosts? Can I not summon
a typing poltergeist, a coloratura
howler, a phantom raconteur
to teach me all dead languages,
a gourmet chef insomniac,
someone for whom the 1812 Overture
has not (as for me) ever lost its charm,
a friend who hovers over Batman comics
and knows every line poor Bela Lugosi
was ever made to utter? Room enough,
and beds, and food and tea, for them all!

In October this house is avalanched,
as leaves, and ghosts of leaves
from every tree that ever crisped
in the tug between slant-sun and frost,
pile high in ziggurats of oak,
maple and sumac, hawthorne and willow,
each with a tale of hope and sorrow
waiting its turn for harvest.
 

They almost obscure the house, so high
that one lone cupola, the poet’s watch,
stands apex at its pyramid,
as one mad vane whirls at the whim
of indecisive winds, as lightning rod
trembles for discharge of the weighted sky
into the attic haunter’s cranium.

I am that attic Something: I drive
this house unchanging, wall-to-wall
with mad cargo. My gambrel roof
is an upside-down Mayflower
as I sail against the leaf-tide. Monsters
would block my passage: great whales
of Doubt breach above a maple current;
the baleful skyward eye and tentacles
of the giant squid of Loneliness float by
in a sea-tide of weeping willow.

Yet something there is in the attic
that billows the sails, and drives me on.
The madness that fills these pages
is self-sustaining: some days
these scratchings seem meaningless,
unmusical; some days I read and gasp
and shudder to think that somehow I wrote
or was written through, to reach this apogee.
Alone? Well, lacking the guests
I crave, I must split and become them.
Books, cat and bed, a galaxy of music,
teapot that fills as fast as I empty it:
it is not a bad life,
to be the haunter of one’s cobwebbed self.

Mill Towns

Old factories:

          how painfully forgotten!

Once, the hopeful immigrants flocked to them.

Workers and foremen built cities around them,

     if not exactly blessing the ground they stood on,
     grateful at least to have escaped the whip
         or starvation where they came from.

The railroads webbed out to meet them,

     branch lines and sidings eager to take

     the crates and bundles from their gates.

Without them

     the towns have forgotten the reason

          of their founding.

What did they make?

     cotton and calico prints,

     steam engines and locomotives

     parts of machines uncountable

     and the tools to make other machines

     and their parts uncountable,

     rope walks, brass foundries,

     lace- and jewelry-making,

     lightbulb assembly lines,

     refrigerators and fountain pens,

     and glory! a piano factory –

all now only names in peeling paint

checkered on bricks and falling signs.

The nearby houses are humbled now
     with torn clapboards,

     rot beneath the stage paint of shingles,

     the cheap bluster of aluminum siding,

     walls bloated, foundations shifted,

     split into rat-cell studios for commuters.

Many are boarded-up, foreclosed.

No one remembers when mansard slate

     and gable and cupola gleamed new,

when a smokestack with a man's name on it

was a place arrived at as a good sign
    of a continued paycheck.

Things that got made here,

     kept getting made.

Now these sad brick temples accuse us:

     their plywood-covered windows,

     their undecipherable placards,

     the weed trees on their loading docks,

the mystery of abandonment.

Like unburied dead they haunt the roadside,

sombre in daylight, shunned and abhorred

when their shadows grow long at dusk.

They will not burn, their wearing away

protracted by fences and guardians.

(Heirs living on compounded interest

preserve them like Chinese puzzle boxes

they cannot open or understand.)

At night, another commerce lights up
the sidewalks along the chain-link fence
as women sell the only thing they have
from the pavement, and men in cars
circle, circle, hands offering dollars,

other hands offering, and taking small
envelopes of powders and crystals.

Some midnights, the ghost machines awaken,

their ungreased axles screaming,

drive shafts spinning of their own accord.

A dynamo turns, furnace mouths flickering

in cool blue flame of St. Elmo's Fire.

The power looms weave an invisible shroud:

it is long enough to enclose a city.

Tombs without occupants,

they wait for the rites that no one will pronounce.

The Secret Tree

I am dry. A circle of bark
peels stiffly from my crumbling limbs.
The itch of mold and termites
gives me no rest from entropy.
Leaves have not come this year.
It is rough everywhere:
parched earth has matted straw for hair
and desperate creatures huddle, homeless.
What the hot wind implies, I follow:
push out my roots to where the rains have gone,
deep, deeper, search for new rhythms
in crack and crevice, beyond the worm-world.

Dead to the wind above, bare-boned and tall,
I weave no banner poems in air, no seeds
fly out that other green may imitate:
making another like me is not the answer.
Mine is a secret growth, a sunless tree,
a new thing never seen before.
I plummet toward earth’s mantle,
sprout from the roofs of caves,
make roost for the lightless chatterers,
the bats, my only friends in this sightless
and nearly soundless chasm.
Through the bottom and beyond, I grow.
Above, my seeming corpse, that monument,
betrays no life to deadly air. The dead things
around me are truly dead. I sway
in secret winds of magma, magnetic,
I drink salt waters from the hearts of geodes.
I bloom in the dark heart of everything,
that place, not Hades, but equally dreaded,
to which everything wants to, but cannot
fall. I have more branches now
than I ever could have imagined.

Squid sing to me in the ocean trenches,
plates moan tectonic as I wrap new rings
of iron and nickel around myself.
If leaf and blossom come to me now,
who shall see them? No one.
If seeds, or something like them,
issue from my branch-ends, where
will they go? Volcano-vented upward?
Or hoarded here in darkness?
The tree above seems only a dream now,
but so long as no one cuts it
and no storm dares to topple it,
I am only its bad dream. Pray
I do not awaken.

Not A Hymn to Venus

Among my suppressed poems from the 1970s, I found a draft of this poem, which was inspired by my reading of the crackpot book, "Worlds in Collision," by Immanuel Velikovsky, who claimed that Venus and Mars had a near collision within human memory before Venus settled into its current orbit. Velikovsky claimed that the Biblical Flood occurred because of this planetary catastrophe. Under the bizarre spell of this book I encountered Lucretius's great scientific poem, De Rerum Naturum ("The Way Things Are," or "Concerning the Nature of Things,") which begins with a hymn to Venus the goddess. I never published the poem, as any reader would assume that I subscribed to Velikovsky's theories, even though it was more a whimsical piece asking "How would you address the goddess/planet if it really had done us that much harm?"

This revision includes an epigraphic opening verse that recounts the Velikovksy ideas so that the poem pretty much self-explicates, and then the mock-hymn commences. I think it's fun now, and I am happy to welcome this poem into my garden of little monsters and blasphemies. Lord knows, Venus has never done me any favors, anyway.



I. EPIGRAPH
Unfair to Luna to call mad Velikovsky a lunatic,
so let us call him merely a madman. In Worlds
In Collision this self-taught astronomer declared fair Venus
a cosmic interloper, whose gravity-war with Mars
and brush with Earth produced the Biblical Great Flood
and a race memory of planetary dread. Nonsense
of course, but argued with passion and the paste-pot
of history and art, psycho- and anthro- pology:
Planets as billiard balls; humans remembering
the cataclysm as a universal shriek of “Ia!”.
Under its spell, I rewrote the hymn of old Lucretius
who commenced The Way Things Are with Aphrodite-praise.

II.
Not to you, o shining ascendant world,
morning and evening the brightest of all
in the cold night sky, not to you, Venus,
do I bring my praise and supplication.
I know from what dark nebula you came,
an apple of discord sent hurtling on
by One resenting our sweet yellow sun.
I know that man’s love is not your care
for does not loveless marriage fill the earth
with more than enough starving progeny?
Young men befooled, and maidens, may worship
and make offerings at your temple door,
while in the sad garden out back, old maids
sit in a line for whoever takes them,
the last and least bargain you offer them
before they’re only fit for winding sheets.
Seen from far off, so close to horizon,
your distance blinds us to your jagged teeth
which once unskinned the rock-strewn globe and sent
men howling back into ancestral caves;
nor can we see your fiery white tresses
which once ripped through our virgin atmosphere,
your poison breath of naphtha upon us,
oceans ripped into a tidal tumult,
a watery death that spared no lovers.
Your palpitations were not welcome then,
fair Venus, and even less welcome now.
Mars kicked you sunward; Earth lay in ruins
from just one passing toss of your girdle.

Meanwhile, we humans have outgrown panic.
Outward we look to the far suns, the blackness
nearly infinite between the galaxies.
We yearn to find our place of origin,
the place from which the oldest life blew down
athwart the wind between worlds, as we yearn
to endlessly invent new poems and songs,
vast fugues and operas and symphonies,
inwardly big as the outwardly vast.
We no longer backward-looking, blinded
no more by the sun we orbit, are winged.
That we yet live, upon a bleeding earth,
and dream such wide-eyed dreams, I do rejoice.
And you, Cytherean Venus — stay put!