Paterson (Revised Edition) (14 page)

engines, a beat of propellers.

The ears are water. The feet

listen. Boney fish bearing lights

stalk the eyes—which float about,

indifferent. A taste of iodine

stagnates upon the law of percent-

ages: thick boards bored through

by worms whose calcined husks

cut our fingers, which bleed

We walk into a dream, from certainty to the unascertained, in time to see     .     from the roseate past     .     a ribbed tail deploying

Tra la la la la la la la la

La tra tra tra tra tra tra

Upon which there intervenes

a sour stench of embers. So be it. Rain

falls and surfeits the river’s upper reaches,

gathering slowly. So be it. Draws together,

runnel by runnel. So be it. A broken oar

is found by the searching waters. Loosened

it begins to move. So be it. Old timbers

sigh—and yield. The well that gave sweet water

is sullied. So be it. And lilies that floated

quiet in the shallows, anchored, tug as

fish at a line. So be it. And are by their

stems pulled under, drowned in the muddy flux.

The white crane flies into the wood.

So be it. Men stand at the bridge, silent,

watching. So be it. So be it.

And there rises

a counterpart, of reading, slowly, overwhelming

the mind; anchors him in his chair. So be

it. He turns     .     O Paradiso! The stream

grows leaden within him, his lilies drag. So

be it. Texts mount and complicate them-

selves, lead to further texts and those

to synopses, digests and emendations. So be it.

Until the words break loose or—sadly

hold, unshaken. Unshaken! So be it. For

the made-arch holds, the water piles up debris

against it but it is unshaken. They gather

upon the bridge and look down, unshaken.

So be it. So be it. So be it.

The sullen, leaden flood, the silken flood

—to the teeth

to the very eyes

(light grey)

Henry’s the name. Just Henry,

ever’body

knows me around here: hat

pulled down hard on his skull, thick chested,

fiftyish     .

I’ll hold the baby.

That was your little dog bit me last year.

Yeah, and you had him killed on me.

(the eyes)

I didn’t know he’d been killed.

You reported him and

they come and took him. He never hurt

anybody.

He bit me three times.

They come and

took him and killed him.

I’m sorry but I had

to report him     .     .

A dog, head dropped back, under water, legs

sticking up   :

a skin

tense with the wine of death

downstream

on the swift current     :

Above the silence

a faint hissing, a seething hardly at first

to be noticed

—headlong!

Speed!

—marked

as by the lines on slate, mottled by petty

whirlpools

(to the teeth, to the very eyes)

a formal progression

The remains—a man of gigantic stature—were transported on the shoulders of the most renowned warriors of the surrounding country     . for many hours they travelled without rest. But half way on the journey the carriers had to quit overcome by fatigue—they had walked many hours and Pogatticut was heavy. So by the side of the trail, at a place called “Whooping Boys Hollow,” they scooped out a shallow hole and laid the dead chieftain down in it while they rested. By so doing, the spot became sacred, held in veneration by the Indians.

Arrived at the burial place the funeral procession was met by Pogatticut’s brothers and their followers. There was great lamentation and the Kinte Kaye was performed in sadness.

Wyandach, the most illustrious brother, performed the burial sacrifice. Having his favorite dog, a much loved animal, brought forth, he killed him, and laid him, after painting his muzzle red, beside his brother. For three days and three nights the tribes mourned     .

Pursued by the whirlpool-mouths, the dog

descends toward Acheron     .     Le Néant

.     the sewer

a dead dog

turning

upon the water:

Come yeah, Chi Chi!

turning

as he passes     .

It is a sort of chant, a sort of praise, a

peace that comes of destruction:

to the teeth,

to the very eyes

(cut lead)

I bin nipped

hundreds of times. He never done anybody any

harm     .

helpless     .

You had him killed on me.

About Merselis Van Giesen a curious story illustrative of the superstition of the day is to this effect: His wife was ill for a long time, confined to her bed. As she lay there, a black cat would come, night after night, and stare at her through the window, with wicked, blazing eyes. An uncanny fact about this visitation was that
no one else could see the cat.
That Jane was bewitched was the belief of the whole neighborhood. Moreover, the witch who exercised this spell, and who made these weird visits to the sufferer, in the guise of a cat invisible to everybody but the bewitched, was believed to be Mrs. B. who lived in the gorge in the hill beyond.

Happy souls! whose devils lived so near.

Talking the matter over with his neighbors, Merselis (he was called “Sale”) was told that if he could shoot the spectral cat with a silver bullet he would kill the creature, and put a stop to the spells exercised over his wife. He did not have a silver bullet, but he had a pair of silver sleeve buttons.

Who of us thinks so fast to switch the category

of our loves and hatreds?

Loading his gun with one of these buttons, he seated himself on the bed beside his wife, and declared his intention of shooting the witch cat. But how could he shoot a creature he could not see?

Are we any better off?

“When the cat comes,” said he to his wife, “do you point out just where it is, and I will shoot at that spot.” So they waited, she in a tremor of hope and dread—hope that the spells afflicting her would soon be ended; dread that some new torment might come to her from this daring attempt of her husband; he, in grim determination to forever end the unholy power exercised over his wife by Mrs. B., in the guise of the invisible feline. Long and silently they waited.

—what a picture of marital fidelity! dreaming as one.

At last, when their feelings had been wrought up, by the suspense to the highest pitch, Jane exclaimed “There is the black cat!” “Where?” “
At
the window, it’s walking on the sill, it is in the lower left-hand corner!” Quick as a flash “Sale” raised his gun and fired the silver bullet at the black cat which he could not see. With a snarl that was a scream the mysterious creature vanished forever from the gaze of Mrs. Van Giesen, who from that hour began to recover her health.

The next day “Sale” started out on a hunt through what is now known as Cedar Cliff Park. On the way he met the husband of the suspected witch. There was the usual exchange of courteous neighborly inquiries regarding the health of their respective families. Mr. B. said his wife was troubled with a sore on her leg for some time. “I would like to see that sore leg,” said “Sale.” After some demur he was taken to the house, and on one plea or another was finally permitted to examine the sore. But what particularly attracted his notice was a fresh wound, just where his silver sleeve button had struck the unfortunate creature when she had last visited his wife in the form of the spectral black witch cat! Needless to say Mrs. B. never more made those weird visitations. Perhaps it was from a sense of thanksgiving for her miraculous deliverance that Mrs. Van Giesen joined the First Presbyterian Church on Confession, Sept. 26, 1823. Merselis Van Giesen was assessed in 1807 for 62 acres of unimproved land, two horses and five cattle.

—   62 acres of unimproved land, two horses

and five cattle   —

(that cures the fantasy)

The Book of Lead,

he cannot lift the pages

(Why do I bother with this

rubbish?)

Heavy plaits

tumbling massive, yellow into the cleft,

bellowing

—giving way to the spread

of the flood as it lifts to recognition in a

rachitic brain

(the water two feet now on the turnpike

and still rising)

There is no ease.

We close our eyes,

get what we use

and pay. He owes

who cannot, double.

Use. Ask no whys?

None wants our ayes.

But somehow a man must lift himself

again—

again is the magic word     .

turning the in out   :

Speed against the inundation

He feels he ought to
do
more. He had

a young girl there. Her mother told her,

Go jump off the falls, who cares? —

She was only fifteen. He feels so frustrated.

I tell him, What do you expect, you

have only two hands     .     ?

It was a place to see, she said, The White Shutters. He said I’d be perfectly safe there with him. But I never went. I wanted to, I wasn’t afraid but it just never happened. He had a small orchestra that played there,
The Clipper Crew
he called it—like in all the speakeasies of those days. But one night they came leaping downstairs from the banquet hall tearing their clothes off, the women throwing their skirts over their heads, and joined in the dancing, naked, with the others on the main floor. He took one look and then went out the back window just ahead of the police, in his dress shoes into the mud along the river bank.

Let me see, Puerto Plata is

the port of Santo Domingo.

There was a time when

they didn’t want any whites

to own anything—to

hold anything—to say, This

is mine     .

I see things,     .     .

—the water at this stage no lullaby but a piston,

cohabitous, scouring the stones     .

the rock

floating on the water (as at Mt Katmai

the pumice-covered sea was white as milk)

One can imagine

the fish hiding or

at full speed

stationary

in the leaping stream

—it’s undermining the railroad embankment

Hi, open up a dozen, make

it two dozen! Easy girl!

You wanna blow a fuse?

All manner of particularizations

to stay the pocky moon     :

January sunshine     .

1949

Wednesday, II 

(10,000,000 times plus April)

—a red-butted reversible minute-glass

loaded with

salt-like
white crystals

flowing

for timing eggs

Salut à Antonin Artaud pour les

lignes, très pures     :

“
et d’évocations plastiques

d’éléments de
”

and

“Funeral
designs
”

(a beautiful, optimistic

word     .     .     )
and

“Plants”

(it should be explained that

in this case “plants” does NOT refer to interment.)

“Wedding bouquets” 

—the association

is indefensible.

S. Liz
13 Oct

(re. C.O.E.     Panda Panda   )

Fer got sake don’t so exaggerate

I never told you to
read
it.

let erlone REread it.     I didn’t

say it
wuz   !   !   henjoyable
readin.

I sd the guy had done some honest

work devilupping his theatre technique

That don’t necess/y mean making

reading matter @ all.

Enny how there must be

one hundred books (
not

that one) that you
need
to

read fer yr/mind’s sake.

re read
all
the Gk tragedies in

Loeb. — plus Frobenius, plus Gesell.

plus Brooks Adams

ef you ain’t read him all. —

Then Golding’s Ovid is in

Everyman’s lib.

& nif you want a readin

list ask papa—but don’t

go rushin to
read
a book

just cause it is mentioned

eng passang—is fraugs.

S U B S T R A T U M

A
RTESIAN WELL AT THE
P
ASSAIC
R
OLLING
M
ILL
, P
ATERSON
.

The following is the tabular account of the specimens found in this well, with the depths at which they were taken, in feet. The boring began in September, 1879, and was continued until November, 1880.