Collecte Works (38 page)

PAEAN TO PLACE

And the place
was water

Fish

      fowl

             flood

     Water lily mud

My life

in the leaves and on water

My mother and I

                        born

in swale and swamp and sworn

to water

My father

thru marsh fog

      sculled down

            from high ground

saw her face

at the organ

bore the weight of lake water

       and the cold—

he seined for carp to be sold

that their daughter

might go high

on land

        to learn

Saw his wife turn

deaf

and away

She

      who knew boats

            and ropes

no longer played

She helped him string out nets

for tarring

      And she could shoot

             He was cool

to the man

who stole his minnows

by night and next day offered

       to sell them back

              He brought in a sack

of dandelion greens

if no flood

No oranges—none at hand

      No marsh marigolds

            where the water rose

He kept us afloat

I mourn her not hearing canvasbacks

their blast-off rise

      from the water

             Not hearing sora

rails's sweet

spoon-tapped waterglass-

descending scale-

      tear-drop-tittle

            Did she giggle

as a girl?

His skiff skimmed

the coiled celery now gone

      from these streams

            due to carp

He knew duckweed

fall-migrates

toward Mud Lake bottom

       Knew what lay

              under leaf decay

and on pickerel weeds

before summer hum

To be counted on:

      new leaves

            new dead

leaves

He could not

—like water bugs—

       stride surface tension

             He netted

loneliness

As to his bright new car

my mother—her house

      next his—averred:

            A hummingbird

can't haul

Anchored here

in the rise and sink

       of life—

              middle years' nights

he sat

beside his shoes

rocking his chair

      Roped not “looped

             in the loop

of her hair”

I grew in green

slide and slant

      of shore and shade

            Child-time—wade

thru weeds

Maples to swing from

Pewee-glissando

       sublime

             slime-

song

Grew riding the river

Books

       at home-pier

             Shelley could steer

as he read

I was the solitary plover

a pencil

       for a wing-bone

From the secret notes

I must tilt

upon the pressure

execute and adjust

       In us sea-air rhythm

“We live by the urgent wave

of the verse”

Seven year molt

for the solitary bird

      and so young

Seven years the one

dress

for town once a week

One for home

      faded blue-striped

as she piped

her cry

Dancing grounds

my people had none

      woodcocks had—

      backland-

air around

Solemnities

such as what flower

      to take

      to grandfather's grave

unless

water lilies—

he who'd bowed his head

       to grass as he mowed

       Iris now grows

on fill

for the two

and for him

       where they lie

       How much less am I

in the dark than they?

Effort lay in us

before religions

       at pond bottom

             All things move toward

the light

except those

that freely work down

      to oceans' black depths

            In us an impulse tests

the unknown

River rising—flood

Now melt and leave home

      Return—broom wet

             naturally wet

Under

soak-heavy rug

water bugs hatched—

      no snake in the house

             Where were they?—

she

who knew how to clean up

after floods

       he who bailed boats, houses

             Water endows us

with buckled floors

You with sea water running

in your veins sit down in water

       Expect the long-stemmed blue

              speedwell to renew

itself

O my floating life

Do not save love

      for things

            Throw
things

to the flood

ruined

by the flood

       Leave the new unbought—

             all one in the end—

water

I possessed

the high word:

      The boy my friend

            played his violin

in the great hall

On this stream

my moonnight memory

      washed of hardships

             maneuvers barges

thru the mouth

of the river

They fished in beauty

      It was not always so

             In Fishes

red Mars

rising

rides the sloughs and sluices

      of my mind

             with the persons

on the edge

Alliance

Hunger

       with wonder

Mites wintering

       in rabbits' ears

Pronuba

       with yucca

Bash
's

        backwater

moon-pull

       He was full

at the port

       of Tsuruga

Bash

beholds the moon

            in the water

He is full

at the port

            of Tsuruga

The man of law

          on the uses

                       of grief

The poet

           on the law

                   of the oak leaf

Not all harsh sounds displease—

Yellowhead blackbirds cough

           through reeds and fronds

as through pronged bronze

JEFFERSON AND ADAMS

1

Jefferson: I was confident

the French Revolution would end well