Paterson (Revised Edition) (15 page)

At this depth the attempt to bore through the red sandstone was abandoned, the water being altogether unfit for ordinary use…. The fact that the rock salt of England, and of some of the other salt mines of Europe, is found in rocks of the same age as this, raises the question whether it may not also be found here.

— to the teeth, to the very eyes

uh,     uh

FULL STOP

—and leave the world

to darkness

and to

me

When the water has receded most things have lost their

form. They lean in the direction the current went. Mud

covers them

—fertile (?) mud.

If it were only fertile. Rather a sort of muck, a detritus,

in this case—a pustular scum, a decay, a choking

lifelessness—that leaves the soil clogged after it,

that glues the sandy bottom and blackens stones—so that

they have to be scoured three times when, because of

an attractive brokenness, we take them up for garden uses.

An acrid, a revolting stench comes out of them, almost one

might say a granular stench—fouls the mind     .

How to begin to find a shape—to begin to begin again,

turning the inside out: to find one phrase that will

lie married beside another for delight     .     ?

—seems beyond attainment     .

American poetry is a very easy subject to discuss for

the simple reason that it does not exist

Degraded. The leaf torn from

the calendar. All forgot. Give

it over to the woman, let her

begin again—with insects

and decay, decay and then insects :

the leaves—that were varnished

with sediment, fallen, the clutter

made piecemeal by decay, a

digestion takes place     .

—of this, make it of
this
, this

this, this, this, this     .

Where the dredge dumped the fill,

something, a white hop-clover

with cordy roots (of iron) gripped

the sand in its claws—and blossomed

massively, where the old farm

was and the man broke his wife’s

cancerous jaw because she was

too weak, too sick, that is, to

work in the field for him as he

thought she should     .

So thinking, he composed

a song to her:

to entertain her

in her reading:

*     *     *

The birds in winter

and in summer the flowers

those are her two joys

—to cover her secret sorrow

Love is her sorrow

over which at heart

she cries for joy by the hour

—a secret she will not reveal

Her ohs are ahs

her ahs are ohs

and her sad joys

fly with the birds and blossom

with the rose

—the edema subsides

Who is it spoke of April? Some

insane engineer. There is no recurrence.

The past is dead. Women are

legalists, they want to rescue

a framework of laws, a skeleton of

practices, a calcined reticulum

of the past which, bees, they will

fill with honey     .

It is not to be done. The seepage has

rotted out the curtain. The mesh

is decayed. Loosen the flesh

from the machine, build no more

bridges. Through what air will you

fly to span the continents? Let the words

fall any way at all—that they may

hit love aslant. It will be a rare

visitation. They want to rescue too much,

the flood has done its work     .

Go down, peer among the fishes. What

do you expect to save, muscle shells?

Here’s a fossil conch (a paper weight

of sufficient quaintness) mud

and shells baked by a near eternity

into a melange, hard as stone, full of

tiny shells

—baked by endless desiccations into

a shelly rime—turned up

in an old pasture whose history—

even whose partial history, is

death itself

Vercingetorix, the only

hero     .

Let’s give the canary to that

old deaf woman; when he opens his

bill, to hiss at her, she’ll think he

is singing     .

Does the pulp need further maceration?

take down the walls, invite

the trespass. After all, the slums

unless they are (living)

wiped out they cannot be re-

constituted     .

The words will have to be rebricked up, the

—what? What am I coming to     .

pouring down?

When an African Ibibio man is slain in battle, married women who are his next of kin rescue the corpse. No man may touch it. Weeping and singing songs, the scouts bear the dead warrior to a forest glade called Owokafai—the place of those slain by sudden death. They lay him on a bed made of fresh leaves. Then they cut young branches from a sacred tree and wave the bough over the genital organs of the warrior to extract the spirit of fertilty into the leaves. Knowledge of the rites must be kept from men and from unmarried girls. Only married women, who have felt the fertility of men in their bodies, can know the secret of life. To them it was entrusted by their great goddess “in the days when woman, not man, was the dominant sex.     .     ; on the guarding of this secret depended the strength of the tribe. Were the rites once disclosed—few or no babies would be born, barns and herds would yield but scanty increase, while the arms of future generations of fighting men would lose their strength and hearts their courage.” This ceremony is conducted to the accompaniment of low, wailing chants, which only these wives of warriors have authority to sing, or even to know.

—in a hundred years, perhaps—

the syllables

(with genius)

or perhaps

two lifetimes

Sometimes it takes longer     .

Did I do more than share your guilt, sweet woman. The

cherimoya is the most delicately flavored of all

tropic fruit.     .     .      Either I abandon you

or give up writing     .

I was thinking about her all day long yesterday. You know she’s been dead four years? And that son of a bitch only has one more year to serve. Then he’ll be out and we can’t do a thing about it.—I suppose he killed her.—You
know
he killed her, just shot her to death. And do you remember that Clifford that used to follow her around, poor man? He’d do anything she asked him to—the most harmless creature in the world; he’s been sick. He had rheumatic fever when he was a child and can’t leave the house any more. He wrote to us to send him some dirty jokes because he can’t get out to hear them himself. And we can’t either of us think of one new one to send him.

The past above, the future below

and the present pouring down: the roar,

the roar of the present, a speech—

is, of necessity, my sole concern     .

They plunged, they fell in a swoon     .

or by intention, to make an end—the

roar, unrelenting, witnessing     .

Neither the past nor the future

Neither to stare, amnesic—forgetting.

The language cascades into the

invisible, beyond and above : the falls

of which it is the visible part—

Not until I have made of it a replica

will my sins be forgiven and my

disease cured—in wax:
la capella di S. Rocco

on the sandstone crest above the old

copper mines—where I used to see

the images of arms and knees

hung on nails (de Montpellier)     .

No meaning. And yet, unless I find a place

apart from it, I am its slave,

its sleeper, bewildered—dazzled

by distance     .     I cannot stay here

to spend my life looking into the past:

the future’s no answer. I must

find my meaning and lay it, white,

beside the sliding water: myself —

comb out the language—or succumb

—whatever the complexion. Let

me out! (Well, go!) this rhetoric

is real!

A
N
   I
D Y L

Corydon & Phyllis

Two silly women!

(Look, Dad, I’m dancing!)

What’s that?

I didn’t say anything     .

except
you
don’t look silly     .

Semantics, my dear     .

—and I know
I’m
not     .

Ouch! you have hands like a man     .     Some day,

sweetheart, when we know each other better

I’ll tell you a few things     .     .

Thank you. Very satisfactory. My secretary

will be at the door with your money     .

No.     I prefer it that way

O. K.

Good-bye

Miss     .     eh

Phyllis

Tiens!
I’ll phone the agency     .

Until tomorrow, then, Phyllis, at the same hour.

Shall I be walking again soon, do you think?

Why not?

.     .     .     .     .     .

A Letter

Look, Big Shot, I refuse to come home until you promise to cut out the booze. It’s no use your talking about Mother needs me and all that bologney. If you thought anything of her you wouldn’t carry on the way you do. Maybe your family did once own the whole valley. Who owns it now? What you need is to be slapped down.

I’m having a fine time in the Big City as a Professional Woman, ahem! Believe me there’s plenty of money here—if you can get it. With your brains and ability this should be your meat. But you’d rather hit the bottle.

That’s all right with me—only I won’t wrestle with you all night on the bed any more because you got the D.Ts. I can’t take it, your too strong for me. So make up your mind—one way or the other.

.     .     .     .     .     .

Corydon & Phyllis

And how are you today, darling?

(She calls me darling now!)

What sort of life can you lead

in that horrid place     .     Rach-a-mo, did

you say?

Ramapo

To be sure,

how stupid of me.

Right.

What was that?

Really you’ll have to speak louder

I said     .

Never mind.

You mentioned a city?

Paterson, where I trained

Paterson!

Yes, of course.     Where Nicholas Murray Butler was

born     .     and his sister, the lame one.     They

used to have silk mills there     .

until the unions ruined them. Too bad. Wonderful

hands! I completely forget myself     .

Some hands are silver, some gold and some,

a very few, like yours, diamonds (If only I

could keep you!) You like it here?     .     Go

look out of that window     .

That is the East River. The sun rises there.

And beyond, is Blackwell’s Island.     Welfare Island,

City Island     .     whatever they call it now     .

where the city’s petty criminals, the poor

the superannuated and the insane are housed     .

Look at me when I talk to you

—and then

the three rocks tapering off into the water all     .

that’s left of the elemental, the primitive

in this environment. I call them my sheep     .

Sheep, huh?

Docile, are they not?

What’s the idea?

Lonesomeness perhaps. It’s a long story. Be

their shepherdess Phyllis. And I

shall be Corydon     .     inoffensively, I hope?

Phyllis and Corydon. How lovely! Do you

care for almonds?

Nope. I hate all kinds of

nuts.     They get in your hair     .     your

teeth, I mean     .

.     .     .     .     .     .

A Letter

Lay off that stuff. I can take care of myself. And if not, so what?

This is a racket, all I got to do is give her “massage” — and what do I know about massage? I just rub her, and how I rub her! And does she like it! And does she pay! Oh boy! So I rub her and read to her. The place is full of books—in all languages!

But she’s a nut, of the worst kind. Today she was telling me about some rocks in the river here she calls her three sheep. If they’re sheep I’m the Queen of England. They’re white all right but it’s from the gulls that crap them up all day long.

You ought to see this place.

There was a hellicopter (?) flying all over the river today looking for the body of a suicide, some student, some girl about my age (she says     .     a Hindu Princess.) It was in the papers this morning but I didn’t take notice. You ought to have seen the way those gulls were winging it around. They went crazy     .

.     .     .     .     .     .

Corydon & Phyllis

You must have lots of boy friends, Phyllis