Paterson (Revised Edition) (20 page)

Johnson inquired why they had tied him, “what have I done?” …. He was taken to the scene of murder and shown the objects of his barbarous cruelty, but the sight produced no other sensible effect than to extort from him an expression of pity, he denying any knowledge of participation in the inhuman butchery.

Trip a trap o’troontjes

De vaarkens in de boontjes—

De koeien in de klaver—

De paarden in de haver—

De eenden in de waterplas,

Plis! Plas!

Zoo groot mijn kleine Derrick was!

You come today to see killed

killed, killed

as if it were a conclusion

—a conclusion!

a convincing strewing of corpses

—to move the mind

as tho’ the mind

can be moved, the mind, I said

by an array of hacked corpses:

War!

a poverty of resource     .     .

Twenty feet of

guts on the black sands of Iwo

“What have I done?”

—to convince whom? the sea worm?

They are used to death and

jubilate at it     .     .

Murder.

—you cannot believe

that it can begin again, again, here

again     .     here

Waken from a dream, this dream of

the whole poem     .     sea-bound,

rises, a sea of blood

—the sea that sucks in all rivers,

dazzled, led

by the salmon and the shad     .

Turn back I warn you

(October 10, 1950)

from the shark, that snaps

at his own trailing guts, makes a sunset

of the green water     .

But lullaby, they say, the tame sea is

no more than sleep is     .     afloat

with weeds, bearing seeds     .

Ah!

float wrack, float words, snaring the

seeds     .

I warn you, the sea is
not
our home.

the sea is not our home

The sea
is
our home whither all rivers

(wither) run     .

the nostalgic sea

sopped with our cries

Thalassa! Thalassa!

calling us home     .

I say to you, Put wax rather in your

ears against the hungry sea

it is not our home!

.     draws us in to drown, of losses

and regrets     .

Oh that the rocks of the Areopagus had

kept their sounds, the voices of the law!

Or that the great theatre of Dionysius

could be aroused by some modern magic

to release

what is bound in it, stones!

that music might be wakened from them to

melt our ears     .

The sea is not our home     .

—though seeds float in with the scum

and wrack     .     among brown fronds

and limp starfish     .

Yet you will come to it, come to it! The

song is in your ears, to Oceanus

where the day drowns     .

No! it is not our home.

You will come to it, the blood dark sea

of praise. You must come to it. Seed

of Venus, you will return     .     to

a girl standing upon a tilted shell, rose

pink     .

Listen!

Thalassa!     Thalassa!

Drink of it, be drunk!

Thalassa

immaculata: our home, our nostalgic

mother in whom the dead, enwombed again

cry out to us to return     .

the blood dark sea!

nicked by the light alone, diamonded

by the light     .     from which the sun

alone lifts undamped his wings

of fire!

.     .     not our home! It is NOT

our home.

What’s that?

—a duck, a hell-diver? A swimming dog?

What, a sea-dog? There it is again.

A porpoise, of course, following

the mackerel     .     No. Must be the up-

end of something sunk. But this is moving!

Maybe not. Flotsam of some sort.

A large, compact bitch gets up, black,

from where she has been lying

under the bank, yawns and stretches with

a half suppressed half whine, half cry     .

She looks to sea, cocking her ears and,

restless, walks to the water’s edge where

she sits down, half in the water     .

When he came out, lifting his knees

through the waves she went to him frisking

her rump awkwardly     .

Wiping his face with his hand he turned

to look back to the waves, then

knocking at his ears, walked up to

stretch out flat on his back in

the hot sand     .     there were some

girls, far down the beach, playing ball.

—must have slept. Got up again, rubbed

the dry sand off and walking a

few steps got into a pair of faded

overalls, slid his shirt on overhand (the

sleeves were still rolled up) shoes,

hat where she had been watching them under

the bank and turned again

to the water’s steady roar, as of a distant

waterfall     .     Climbing the

bank, after a few tries, he picked

some beach plums from a low bush and

sampled one of them, spitting the seed out,

then headed inland, followed by the dog

John Johnson, from Liverpool, England, was convicted after 20 minutes conference by the Jury. On April 30th, 1850, he was hung in full view of thousands who had gathered on Garrett Mountain and adjacent house tops to witness the spectacle.

This is the blast

the eternal close

the spiral

the final somersault

the end.

To the Memory

of

H
ENRI
T
OULOUSE
L
AUTREC
,

Painter

In old age

the mind

casts off

rebelliously

an eagle

from its crag

— the angle of a forehead

or far less

makes him remember when he thought

he had forgot

— remember

confidently

only a moment, only for a fleeting moment —

with a smile of recognition     .     .

It is early     .     .     .

the song of the fox sparrow

reawakening the world

of Paterson

— its rocks and streams

frail tho it is

from their long winter sleep

In March —

the rocks

the bare rocks

speak!

— it is a cloudy morning.

He looks out the window

sees the birds still there —

Not prophecy! NOT prophecy!

but the thing itself!

— the first phase,

Lorca’s
The Love of Don Perlimplin,

the young girl

no more than a child

leads her aged bridegroom

innocently enough

to his downfall —

—at the end of the play, (she was a hot little bitch but nothing unusual—today we marry women who are past their prime, Juliet was 13 and Beatrice 9 when Dante first saw her).

Love’s whole gamut, the wedding night’s promiscuity in the girl’s mind, her determination not to be left out of the party, as a moral gesture, if ever there was one

The moral

proclaimed by the whorehouse

could not be better proclaimed

by the virgin, a price on her head,

her maidenhead!

sharp practice

to hold on to that

cheapening it:

Throw it away! (as she did)

The Unicorn

the white one-horned beast

thrashes about

root toot a toot!

faceless among the stars

calling

for its own murder

Paterson, from the air

above the low range of its hills

across the river

on a rock-ridge

has returned to the old scenes

to witness

What has happened

since Soupault gave him the novel

the Dadaist novel

to translate —

The Last Nights of Paris.

“What has happened to Paris

since that time?

and to myself”?

A WORLD OF ART

THAT THROUGH THE YEARS HAS

SURVIVED!

— the museum became real

The Cloisters —

on its rock

casting its shadow —

“laréa lité! la réalité!

la réa, la réa, la réalité!”

Dear Bill:

I wish you and F. could have come. It was a grand day and we missed you two, one and all missed you. Forgetmenot, Wild columbine, white and purple violets, white narcissus, wild anemones and yards and yards of delicate wild windflowers along the brook showed up at their best. We didn’t have hard cider or applejack this time but wine and vodka and lots of victuals. The farm buildings are not “long gone” but exactly as you saw them. The erstwhile chicken house has been a studio for years, one D.E. envied when he saw it and it has been occupied by one person or another writing every summer when I am here which has been pretty continuously for some time. The barn too has a big roomy floor which anyone who finds a table and a chair in space enlivening is welcome to. E’s even fondled the idea of “doing something” about the barn and I wish they would. Their kids went in bathing in the brook, painted pictures and explored. If you ever feel like coming and get transportation please come. E’s will be up again before leaving Princeton in June. They will be in H. next year. J.G. is occupying the “Guest House” now.

How lovely to read your memories of the place; a place is made of memories as well as the world around it. Most of the flowers were put in many years ago and thrive each spring, the wild ones in some new spot that is exciting to see. Hepatica and bloodroot are now all over the place, and trees that were infants are now tall creatures filled this season with orioles, some rare warblers like the Myrtle and magnolia warbler and a wren has the best nest in the garage (not to be confused with any uptodate shelter) where I had a coat lined with sheepskin hanging and the wren simply used it to back her nest against where she is sitting warm and pretty on five eggs.

Best wishes and love from everyone who was here

Josie

The whore and the virgin, an identity:

— through its disguises

thrash about — but will not succeed in breaking free     .

an identity

Audubon (Au-du-bon), (the lost Dauphin)

left the boat

downstream

below the falls of the Ohio at Louisville

to follow

a trail through the woods

across three states

northward of Kentucky     .     .

He saw buffalo

and more

a horned beast among the trees

in the moonlight

following small birds

the chicadee

in a field crowded with small flowers

.     .     its neck

circled by a crown!

from a regal tapestry of stars!

lying wounded wounded on his belly

legs folded under him

the bearded head held

regally aloft     .

What but indirection

will get to the end of the sphere?

Here

is not there,

and will never be.

The Unicorn

has no match

or mate     .     the artist

has no peer     .

Death

has no peer:

wandering in the woods,

a field crowded with small flowers

in which the wounded beast lies down to rest

We shall not get to the bottom:

death is a hole

in which we are all buried

Gentile and Jew

The flower dies down

and rots away     .

But there is a hole

in the bottom of the bag.

It is the imagination

which cannot be fathomed.

It is through this hole

we escape     .     .

So through art alone, male and female, a field of

flowers, a tapestry, spring flowers unequaled

in loveliness,

through this hole

at the bottom of the cavern

of death, the imagination

escapes intact

.     he bears a collar round his neck

hid in the bristling hair.

Dear Dr. Williams:

Thanks for your introduction. The book is over in England being printed, and will be out in July sometime. Your foreword is personal and compassionate and you got the point of what has happened. You should see what strength & gaiety there is beyond that though. The book will contain   .   .   .   I have never been interested in writing except for the splendor of actual experience etc. bullshit, I mean I’ve never been really crazy, confused at times.

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I am leaving for the North pole this time on a ship in a few weeks.   .   .   .   I’ll see icebergs and write great white polar rhapsodies. Love to you, back in October and will pass thru Paterson to see family on my first trip to Europe. I have NOT absconded from Paterson. I have a whitmanesque mania & nostalgia for cities and detail & panorama and isolation in jungle and pole, like the image you pick up. When I’ve seen enough I’ll be back to splash in the Passaic again only with a body so naked and happy City Hall will have to call out the Riot Squad. When I come back I’ll make big political speeches in the mayoralty campaigns like I did when I was 16 only this time I’ll have W. C. Fields on my left and Jehovah on my right. Why not? Paterson is only a big sad poppa who needs compassion.   .   In any case Beauty is where I hang my hat. And reality. And America.

There is no struggle to speak to the city, out of the stones etc. Truth is not hard to find   .   .   .   I’m not being clear, so I’ll shut up   .   .   .   I mean to say paterson is not a task like milton going down to hell, it’s a flower to the mind etc   etc

A magazine will be put out   .   .   .   etc.

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Adios.
A.G.