glean: 1. to gather slowly and laboriously, bit by bit. 2. to gather (grain or the like) after the reapers or regular gatherers. 3. to learn, discover, or find out, usually little by little or slowly. 4. to gather what is left by reapers.


March 2, 2018

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The silver sticker on the lower-right pane
Of the north-facing window of my childhood bedroom
Was to let the firefighters know that
There was a child up there

It was also what made fire possible
Depicting as it did a firefighter
Carrying an unconscious boy
Who looked like me in his arms

Had it not been for that sticker
I would never have lain awake
Imagining the tongues of flames
Flickering through the jambs

Crawling on hands and knees
Under the firmament of smoke
The ladder leaned against the sill
The axe shattering the glass

And me being carried
Down to earth rung by rung
To be told the hard truth and then
Sent to live with an aunt and uncle

The sticker that may have saved me
Suggested tragedy which is why
Some nights unable to sleep
I picked at it with my nail

But it could be peeled off
As easily as the moon can be
Peeled off the surface of a pond
Which is to say not easily at all

There are no stickers on the windows
Of the room in which I sleep now
No one knows anyone is here
And no child sleeps in that room

That I slept in as a boy
Though the sticker insists
One still sweetly does
As it waits for the axe to shatter it

The Village

February 10, 2018

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The bell startles me awake, and immediately it strikes me that I was mistaken about something, the first of many things I will be mistaken about here. I thought I had left Time behind, in Paris. But Time is here, too. Perhaps he could have been kept away if it weren't for the church. Those who built it must have known they could get away with leaving this place timeless, letting the forest act like a great, somnolent clock, its many hands of leaves turning. Perhaps they considered living free of him. Perhaps they took a vote, closing their eyes, raising their hands. But, having never lived without him before, they lost the courage to try, and brusquely put the clock on the tower, like a priest who, rushed, hastily anoints the last revenant's forehead with ash. Time had come with them here like a disease communicated by travelers. And so, even in this remote village, Time sits in his citadel, an aloof emperor ruling over an unthankful and distracted populace. Indeed, even the bells I woke to this morning have rebelled against him. Oh they toll when he tells them to, but no one pays them any attention. Time lives besieged here, like a missionary who, amongst the beauty of the pagan rituals, their customs, dress, songs, is beginning to lose his enthusiasm for converting the natives. Indeed, he begins to wonder if he isn't being converted by them. Maybe one day Time will go insane here, his black hands writhing together at midnight like the hands of a distraught neighbor at the door. Or perhaps his hands will, irrespective of his will, begin rowing backwards through the dark hours. It will be a great erasure, like a refugee scuffing out the marks her boots have made in the snow. And this valley will finally be rid of Time, and the very stones will rejoice for being out of the shadow of his dictatorship.

I had thought I could hold it together, but then that night in Paris... I was told later that I had tried to jump into the Seine to save Paul Celan. Or to save the ghost of Paul Celan. I made a scene that was embarrassing for everyone. My friend was trying to explain to the gendarmes that I had only been joking. They wanted to bring me in. When they finally walked away down the Quai she asked me in her beautiful, broken English what was wrong with me. I couldn't tell her that it was that book that had overthrown my mind so that I could no longer distinguish between my thoughts and the narrator's. The book that I had gotten rid of, leaving it in one of the bookstalls along the Seine, but that continued to haunt me. The book and the drinking and the heat were what did it. Without one of the three, I would have been fine, I think. But the book and the drinking and the heat conspired together to drive me mad, and my friends must have recognized the gravity of the situation, because in the morning they surrounded my bed and presented me with a plane ticket and instructions for how to reach this village. How I actually got here is not important. That I am here, alone, in my friend's ancestral house, the friend who made the cops walk away, that is what matters.

I went to sleep early last night, like a child, in the room I was told to sleep in: the bedroom of my friend's deceased grandmother, a woman of whom I know nothing but what I can divine from the photograph of her that hangs on the wall, one of those old portraits that hover in the center of a fuzzy white space that seems a crude image of the afterlife. In her great deep bed I might have slept well had the window shutters not kept blowing open and shut with a startling clap. I found a long piece of lumber that seemed to be leaning there just for the purpose I put it to. Finally, I fell asleep, and dreamt I was in a bookstore, looking for a particular book of poems. Poetry was shelved upstairs, of course. I struggled to climb the steps, being quite drunk and the steps being steep. The man who owned the place stood at their feet, accusing me of dereliction. I turned and mumbled something about poetry. He followed me up, and I knew from the sound of his ascent that he was lame: the sole of one shoe was three times as thick as the sole of the other. When I got upstairs, there was just one little shelf of mystical poetry: Rumi, Rilke, Whitman. I asked him where the other poetry books were and he said, "What do you mean? It's all here," pointing to the little shelf. As if the house was frustrated that I had managed to brace the windows, I woke out of this dream to the sound of the door yawning open, and for the rest of the night, no matter how firmly I shut it, it kept opening in the same somnolent way. It reminded me of how a parent opens the bedroom door to check on a sick child. It opened inquisitively, as if the rest of the house was curious about who had come to sleep in it. Every time I shut the door it seemed to promise me that it wouldn't open again, only to wake me (though it made a sound as soft as the bell-shaped sweeping of a dress along the floor). Somehow in the dark I found Swann's Way and braced the door closed with Proust's childhood. Surely, I thought, that world with its weight of faces, churches, flowers, could hold a door. And it did.

The bell tower itself was built in 1819. Whoever carved that date, their hands were alive as the two birds on this stonewall. When I came around the corner of the church, touching the stones like a blind woman, the bells peeled, the pigeons burst forth from the tower, sprung from time's blue hand. Moments later, down the valley, the bells of the nunnery rang. The nuns, sweet and weary in their habits, looked down at the rosaries in their hands. They prayed for us, we lost ones living up the valley.

How beautiful is the breathing of stones! All night they inhale the cold like people drowning themselves, like Paul Celan inhaled the green water of the Seine. All day they inhale the heat until they become warm as fresh loaves of bread. If we could see them breathing we might have more regard for them. We might even take the time to build stonewalls again. But you must touch them with the back of your hand, like checking a child for fever, to know this thing they do.

The families of this village keep tombs. When you die, you are buried where you lived. Your grandchildren bring fresh flowers to your grave. It is one of their chores. I had thought at first that it would be lonely to be buried alone like that, in a plot, the path to which requires constant work to keep open. But they seem to keep it open somehow, as if to lose the path to the grave would be akin to losing the person who lies there. And then I began to see it as a sweet thing, being buried all alone like that, off by yourself. There is room here to die your own death. One isn't doomed to a room in the vast subterranean motel of the cemetery. In your death you are like one of those hermit haiku poets who only received a visit from a friend or a student every few years.

The sound of crockery at suppertime: I imagine the bowls are brown and white, of heavy clay that breaks easy. Passing under their window, I think of the care with which husband and wife pass the dishes back and forth, asking one another with their eyes who's outside.

Dents in the wall where the window handles have gently slammed for ages from the rushed harassments of the wind. Old floral-stamped bedspreads, humbly festooned chairs, rickety wardrobes in which are stacked thin folded linens. Paintings hung high on the walls, haphazard: Mediterranean scenes in blue and sere yellow, the painters unknown, their hands plumes of bone rayed open in graves. The cupboards full of old china, the baby teeth of the house. The stillness and patience of this little cup, waiting to be filled, to be needed, holding its concavity through the years like the spirit in hiding in the attic of the flesh. The old iron door-locks that close with a weighty click, like the click of a pistol hammer thumbed back nine steps into the duel. This house was young once, unsure of itself but proud amongst these old mountains, like a young woman in a strange city with a letter of introduction in her hand. For a time the stones that compose it gloated for having been raised into a house. They carried themselves like aristocrats whom business has brought into a rough quarter of the city. But over time they grew humble again, and the house as a whole acquired as if through osmosis some of the wisdom of this place. While the world was shivering through its memes, these stones stayed stacked one atop the other like the vertebrae of stargazers. The walls only let me sleep within them because they know I am weary, and was a child once. They will never quite accept me. It is a long apprenticeship. They are like men who come back from a war and cannot love their wives because of what their hands have done.

The rain crushed in ten minutes all the mint in this immense valley and now in the aftermath the scent rises like a swelling of cellos during a rehearsal that will neither be recorded nor remembered.

Memorials on either side of the church door for soldiers who died in the world wars. I think of the charred bodies being carried back here, along these winding roads. Of their fathers standing unhatted in doorways, of their mothers wringing dishrags so hard they groaned. And the spirit walking alongside the body, one hand on the coffin as if to steady it.

At night they light the church with floodlights set in the ground. As I go under green waves of sleep that break solemnly over me, she stands, roseate, blushing, like a young woman being courted, her name-book growing thick with the florid signatures of suitors.

Dogs of this village, lend me some of your patience. Please. You stare at me, dole-eyed and kind. You do not bark. I bow to you, beg your pardon for disturbing your silence. You were born in vague litters that scattered soon after. Your mothers are long dead and your fathers never were. It is as if these very mountains engendered you. Perhaps this is why you are so patient.

On the floor of the room in which I am sleeping there is a footprint singed into the boards next to the bed. I have no way of knowing how it got there, or how a foot got so hot it burned its impression that deep into wood. Whoever's burning foot made that mark, they must have been huge, gigantic. If their foot was burning, I assume their whole body was, too, which means that once upon a time there was a gigantic burning person in the room in which I sleep. Being next to the bed, and pointing towards the door, I can only conclude that this giant woke up in bed burning. The room is small, the bed short: I imagine the giant curled up to fit in it. One night he woke to find himself on fire and got out of bed and walked out of the room and down the stairs and out into the night, incandescent in the music box dark of the valley. Every night, getting in bed, I must step around this singed impression. I am learning to live with this, to accept that this is the way things are here. The burning giant jumped into the river and extinguished himself in a hiss heard clear down the valley, a great shushing of the childlike land. Now a blackened giant stumbles disoriented through these woods. He wants to go back to bed. He is tired and wants to curl up and sleep. His body will blacken the sheets but he won't care. He will sleep clear through the tolling of the bells. He is lost now, but he will find this house because he must. I pray that I will not be asleep when he returns. I leave Saturday: it is Wednesday now. I do not think he will return before then, but three nights are three nights: anything can happen in them, even the return of a blackened giant. He may be nearing even as I write this, but I am tired and a guest of this house and this is the place I was told I could sleep. Who am I to complain? I'm doing my best not to worry. Really I am trying my hardest to be brave.

I should mention also, before turning off the light, that in the corner of this room there is a staircase that leads nowhere. The stones where it ends are different from the stones that compose the rest of the ceiling. They look older. I should mention also that the stairs are inaccessible (not that one would need to access them: they lead nowhere) because each step is completely lined with pair after pair of old shoes.

What I had imagined was a nunnery down the valley is in fact another village. There is no young nun down there reading the Gospels in French, a woman whom the world tried to defile but who escaped and has found refuge here, where I too have found refuge. Our eyes will never meet as I pass under the window because there is no nun because there is no nunnery. There may be a window and a woman gazing out of it, she may even be reading the Gospels in French, but she will not be a nun and she will not be free of the world, even here, in this isolated valley on this isolated island. This is too difficult a truth for me to accept, so I've decided that there has been some mistake, that it is, in fact, a nunnery, a nunnery that has disguised itself as a village so as not to be destroyed.

I can hear the goats down in the valley. The bells they wear gossip about them. They call out,
"Here they are! Here they are!" I wonder if the goats get annoyed, if they want, for once, to go in secret, like pilgrims, but are always betrayed by their bells, those albatrosses hanging from their necks, those beautiful necks that will be cut because the farmer who will raise the ax has never not known where his goats are.

After going into this little chapel, dimly lit with candles at dusk, I can never again endure the grandiosity of Notre-Dame. God doesn't pay any attention to big cathedrals because they are too full of people with cameras, brochures, neck aches, Rick Steeves books, prayer intentions, check lists. God loves better this little chapel dedicated to St. Anthony, and loves the woman who limps up here every morning and evening and lights three candles: one for her dead husband, one for her dead son, and one for you. I don't know that I can go back into Notre-Dame after seeing those three candles burning and thinking of how they will go out one by one while I sleep, the church darkening in stages until the only light is the lambent light the white statues cast like shadows.

The neighbor lady is calling for an animal. There is a black cat cowering guiltily behind this wall. I don't want to embarrass myself trying to ask her if she is looking for this cat, nor do I want to betray this cat in hiding. She is still calling. The cat just yawned.

Just back from a walk, on which I watched two dung beetles rolling a ball of manure across the road. One pushed and the other pulled. It wasn't graceful. They fell and tipped over but tirelessly they went on, like any two workers anywhere on earth. When they came to a crack in the asphalt, the ball of dung rolled down the fissure against their will. Summoning what must have been their last reserves of energy, they succeeded in crossing the divide and continued across the road, fully convinced of the importance of their task, knowing only their world, the exhaustion on one another's faces, the globe of dung between them. We too believe in our lives this way. We are essentially no different from dung beetles. But how easily I could have crushed them.

The white butterfly that rises up off the stonewall because I peered too close and disturbed it with my breathing lightens the stonewall: the stonewall, so heavy, so set in its purpose, goes floating through the air vicariously through the butterfly. In this way it is like an old man watching children catching fireflies and feels again what it feels like to be a child.

This mountain is too big to go online. It won't fit. People have tried to get it online, people in Palo Alto, who've managed to get most everything on there, but this mountain is too big. It's bigger even than Everest, than Denali, because those two mountains fit snugly side by side in my mind, while this mountain looms before me, massive and nameless, and it's going to stay right here, though they've tried to drag it online with chains, come-alongs, barges, trains, you name it. It won't budge. It's a really fucking big mountain.

On a stone at the corner of the bell tower someone has etched a cross, thin as the t's in this sentence, the horizontal line crossing the vertical line about a third of the way down... How clumsy is this description of such a simple and beautiful thing! I've ruined it. I may as well have taken a penknife and scribbled over this fine-lined, vivid cross someone carved into the stone, as if the church had somehow gotten it all wrong and they wished to start Christianity over again.

The water here tastes old. No one would say it's great water. It's not very cold. It has a murky quality to it, like someone trying to decide whether to lie down and read in midday. It doesn't seem quite content to be in my glass, in my water bottle, in my mouth. I think it misses the secret aquifers from which it was drawn. There it knew itself, down amongst the stones, barely remembering when it had fallen as rain, like an old man who has forgotten the ardent kisses of his youth. I beckon it come to me through the broke-necked faucets and it comes but reluctantly, and it fills me with shame to piss it out.

These stones will never be turned into bread. They could be, every stone can be if touched by the right hands, but no one who can accomplish this miracle will come up here and touch them. Well, I shouldn't be so certain. Maybe there is a child in this very village who is beginning to go off alone, after chores, who goes away for hours but always returns when he should, like all saints. I hope there is such a child in this village. Otherwise these stones will never be turned into bread.

Yesterday I was sitting outside and a man and a boy appeared, pushing an old man in a wheelchair with difficulty over the cobblestones. They reached the flight of stone stairs that wends its way up to the higher tiers of the village and the boy beckoned me over to help carry him. It reminded me of carrying my grandfather's coffin: it had been so light I felt he was floating through the air and we grandsons chosen to be pallbearers were merely accompanying him. The wheelchair was similarly light. I merely held the handle. Neither of us seemed to be exerting ourselves, as if the old man had lightened himself for us out of kindness. When we reached the house there was a flurry of hands, and I returned to my book on the sunlit patio. The old man never said a word and I never saw his face. Then I remembered that my friend had mentioned that her elderly uncle was going to return to the village to die, and so I assume that this is the man I helped carry. Her uncle had a twin brother, and the two of them were once amongst the most famous singers in France. They sang all night in the cafes of Paris to the artists and painters Hemingway described, who had worked all day in solitude and gathered at night to forget about it all and listen to these twin brothers sing. I think of the two of them, almost identical in appearance, the source of arguments and bets: which brother was which? They're voices too must have blended into one. Girls must have lain in bed with their hands over their hearts, suffering in indecision about which twin they loved more. Now, this crippled singer I helped carry has lost his brother and suffered a stroke. He can't speak anymore, much less sing, and he is still above the earth while his brother is below it. His gestures and mannerisms, paralleled by his brother all his life, are his alone now. I wonder what he does in that dark house we carried him up to. I wonder if he listens to his own voice on scratchy records that spin with all the somnolence of the earth itself. I believe he sits there in silence singing, full-throated and strong, and that no one can hear him but his brother, the one he sings for, smiling on his back in the earth.

Last evening the neighboring family returned. Three daughters, a bright-eyed baby, mom and dad, uncle, grandpa and grandma. They're goat farmers down in the valley, their lives entranced by milk. The old man has a face weathered by laughter. He comes up the steps, spritely at 83. He berates the baby for being a baby. He berates the dog for being a dog. He points at me and seems to say, "You are you and there's nothing can be done for that." He talks all night in a continuous stream, pausing from time to time to talk to me in broken English. I've only understood a handful of things he's said. He said Americans drink whiskey like tea and then they put on their little hats. While looking through his binoculars at his sheep high up on the mountain, he pointed and said, "Hunting season." He asked me if I'm a cowboy and when I said "Sure" he asked how I stay on a horse. I gripped invisible reins in the air. He shook his head no and slapped the insides of his bare thighs. He asked me how long pigs are pregnant for. I guessed five months. He said I was dead wrong, they're pregnant for three moons. He has beautiful eyes and the expressions of a Shakespearean actor, equally capable of tragedy and comedy at any moment. Out of the blue he told me he'd like to burn his own house down before he dies. He explained very seriously that all five of his sons built their houses without having their heads lopped off. While smoking a cigarette he told me I shouldn't smoke cigarettes, pointing to each lung deliberately, as if making the sign of the cross. He said rich Americans come to his country and throw their money down on the ground and stomp on it. When I asked him would he like some chocolate he said, "No, but I won't refuse."

It's time to leave. I doubt I will be remembered. I doubt that anything I have said or done will remain here. All vestiges of my presence will be swept away. The house will recover its composure, the bed will smooth itself, my fingerprints and footsteps will fade. My time here has been a life within my life, like the endosperm in the seed. And my leaving is dying. I am practiced now in death, and I have the village to thank.

The Cellar

February 8, 2018

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I open the cellar doors slowly
First one then the other
Laying them by the way
The pastor's hungover son
Asked to read the epistle Sunday
Morning opens the heavy book
And begins to read the letter Paul
Wrote to the Corinthians
Feeling the eyes of the girl
Who finally refused him
In the bed of his pickup last night
Burning through him
Where she sits in the pew
Remembering the sweet way
She said she was sorry
As she buttoned her blouse
A blue bag of white salt
Over my shoulder
Tear it open with my teeth
Soften the water

Space Between Lightning and Thunder: Childhood, Illinois

February 6, 2018

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Between the lighting and the thunder was space
Enough for the land to lie long as a man
Laughing while being measured
For his coffin
Straining so as to be sure not to suffer
A crick in his neck for eternity
Space for the geraniums their petals
Like tissues used to staunch stab wounds
Space for the porch swing that slipped
One of its eye-hooks
Like a man who claimed to have given up
Space for the screens curling at the corners
Like wallpaper hung when it's too humid
Space for the boy with the book in his hands
Space for the book in his hands
The span of the war
Manassas to Appomattox
Half a million dead
They all fit
In the space between when
The sapling of light that won't take disappears
And the thunder reaches him
Like the poem he'll write
Decades from then


February 6, 2018

He was feeding calves when his cousin called out to him from where he was filling up his truck. “How about I take you fishing tonight?” The boy nodded, but, figuring his cousin would forget like he always had, put it out of his mind so as not to be disappointed. But that afternoon, feeding calves again, his cousin came walking up from the milk house with a Folger’s can and told him to gather up some worms. He’d be over in an hour to pick him up. Shy, the boy peered in at the eyebrow of grounds at the bottom. When his cousin was gone, he licked his finger and tasted it, an earthy, slightly-bitter flavor that he carried back over to the other house along with the can itself, slung over one handlebar.

His mother was on the porch, talking on the cordless. When she saw him walking up with the can, she pinned the phone between her ear and her shoulder and made a reeling motion. Unbeknownst to him, it was she who’d called his cousin the day before to ask if he’d take the boy fishing before school started. He’d never been fishing before. His father had promised to take him but something always came up: the cows got out, or there was fieldwork to finish, or he was simply too tired to teach his son something he barely knew how to do himself. For as long as the boy could remember the poles had leaned together in one corner of the machine shed, rigged up with rusted tackle, pale lead weights pinched along the length of the line. Small as they were, there was a violence about the hooks. They had known the innards of innumerable worms and the soft mouths of fish that were tossed back thrashing to grow old and bitter in the waters of the Pecatonica. One day back in June, when he hardly knew what to do with the new wealth of hours, the boy had taken one of the poles, more out of a longing to touch what his cousin had touched than out of any interest in fishing, and gone down to the pond below the house where his cousin lived with his parents and his five mysterious sisters and tried fishing with a bare hook. And that was when his cousin had come out onto the porch and made the promise that he was finally keeping that evening: to take him fishing on the Pecatonica, where the big fish were.

He walked around the house and down to the kitchen garden. It was August and the beds had been left to go wild. He stepped in and knelt amongst the herbs. Their scent was heady and somewhat sickening. He picked some parsley and chewed it as if it were an antidote. He liked the way the leaves tickled the roof of his mouth. The soil was soft, brightened in places with vermiculite from the potted starts he’d helped his mother put in in the spring. It took some digging before he found the first one, but after that, as if some permission had been granted, they were everywhere. He pulled them, writhing and attenuated, out of the dark secret soil and lay them gently, one upon the other, in the can, dimming the quicksilver tin so that it ceased blinding him when he glanced in. Every now and then he tossed a handful of dirt in, in a trusting, measured way, the way he’d seen his mother toss salt into soup. He stopped when the can was full. The dog came up from under the porch to greet him, sniffed at the can and, at a loss as to how to participate, somnolently licked its side.

It was still possible his cousin wouldn’t show. Sitting on the porch step between the flaming geraniums, he began to wish he wouldn’t. But then the truck appeared on the brow of the hill and came bucking down the field path, the dust trailing in a long plume that would take all evening to settle. Long before he braked abruptly before the lilacs, the boy recognized the song he was blaring: “Free Falling,” the hit of the moment. His cousin came walking up to the porch, carrying both poles in one hand, a dirty tackle box in the other. The lines were rigged up with bright new tackle. His mother brought out an obligatory pitcher of lemonade and invited his cousin to sit in one of the chairs angled matrimonially towards one another. The boy stayed on the steps. A worm had pierced the surface of the soil, its featureless head wagging back and forth in a pitiable, searching way, begging pardon. So as not to have to watch the worm he watched his cousin. The boy was fascinated by everything he did, the way he sat there so casually, one hand dangling between his thighs, the other holding the glass of piss-colored lemonade, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He had watched him on Friday nights, juking would-be tacklers, had heard his name boomed from the loudspeaker, allowing himself to feel pride in being related to him, and now he was sitting there, on their porch, making his mother laugh. She covered her mouth because she was embarrassed of her teeth. Years of drinking the iron-rich well water had stained them, while his cousin's teeth were perfectly white, like chiclets set in his gums.

The light changed. Soon his father’s truck would appear on the hill. Just when he started wondering if they’d ever go, his cousin stood up. In the truck his cousin pulled a can of Old Milwaukee out of a blue and white cooler set on the bench seat between them. Bucking down the washed-out lane, the boy squeezed the can of worms between his boots to keep it from tipping over. His cousin handed him the beer to try. It tasted like how the granary smelled. They took the hill so fast he felt his stomach go hollow and blew past the bridge. Only upon losing momentum did his cousin turn around and drive back. From the power line hung lengths of fishing line complicated with tackle, evidence of the errant casts of other summers.

While gazing down together at the water purling against the pilings, his cousin unzipped his fly and drew out his thing. It lolled hugely out of his jeans, the stream of urine falling in a golden mist that didn’t alter the mud-brown surface of the water. Catching the boy staring, his cousin turned towards him, rocking a little, making it sway. The boy felt something similar to what he’d felt coming down the hill, only in a different part of himself. Putting it away, his cousin knelt down and plunged his hand into the can. Bringing the hook close to the boy’s face, he deftly pierced its body, and the worm doubled back upon itself, a pink ganglion of pain. His cousin nodded. The boy drew another worm out of the dirt and clumsily crucified it. His cousin grinned.

Townes Van Zandt - Only Him or Me"

January 26, 2018

Dickinson's Fascicles

January 23, 2018

There has been so much written about Dickinson that I hesitate to add anything to the chorus. But considering the title of Susan Howe's study, MY EMILY DICKINSON, I suppose everyone is entitled to their own Emily. My Emily Dickinson was a terrifying poet who wrote one of the scariest, most insidious, most violent poems ever written, which I'll discuss below. She is other things to me, as well, but when I teach her to my students I begin with this poem, just to counteract all that they might assume about her.

One thing I find to be consistently frustrating is how she is often characterized as the polar opposite of Whitman. It seems too convenient, to me. Yes, while Whitman was at the bedsides of wounded soldiers, Dickinson was in her room in Amherst, sewing her poems into fascicles (scholars believe that the fascicles were put together from about 1858 to about 1864). Whitman famously reviewed his own book (he would have been wonderful on Twitter), while Dickinson was "reclusive," spoke to visitors through the door, wore white, etc. We forget that she drowned kittens, broke plates, refused to go to church with her family.

The movie, A QUIET PASSION, is a terrible film because it reinforces all of our presumptions about her. To watch the movie is similar to watching a bad movie about a novel you love (ANNA KARENINA with Kiara Knightly would be a good example): you have to work, as if trudging through drifts, to get the novel arranged in your head the way it was before you entered the theater. I've had to do a bit of work to get Dickinson arranged in my head since suffering through A QUIET PASSION. It would be the worst movie about a poet I've ever seen (and I've seen pretty much all of them) if REACHING FOR THE MOON, about Elizabeth Bishop (allegedly about her) wasn't worse.

But back to Dickinson. As soon as the title A QUIET PASSION flashed on the screen the movie lost me. Of course, I knew it was called that when I bought my ticket, but something about seeing it up there struck home, and I knew we were in for it. Props to Cynthia Nixon for a valiant performance, but one has the sense that everyone else on the set is bored to tears. In this film Dickinson comes across as the difficult and rebellious daughter, who triumphed over her own limitations and was beloved in spite of herself. "Oh Emily, you're so DIFFICULT! But we love you all the same." Whoever the Dickinson of A QUIET PASSION is, she isn't the poet who wrote the poem I'm going to share below. Not sure why Richard Brody of the The New Yorker called the movie "a drop-dead masterwork." I simply wanted to drop dead, along with the half dozen or so octogenarians I saw the film with at 2:30 in the afternoon in Berkeley, two of whom had the wisdom to leave early.

Contrast this failure of a film with BRIGHT STAR, Jane Campion's movie about John Keats, which I think gets something of Keats's life, the sadness of it, the intricacies of his friendship with Brown and his relationship with Fanny Brawne: one gets the sense that Campion loved Keats, and decided to make a movie about him, whereas one gets the sense that Terrance Davies wanted to make a film, and stumbled upon Dickinson as a worthy subject. Indeed, he says in an interview that he started reading Dickinson about fifteen years ago. Would it be unfair of me to demand that a director have read a poet for at least three decades before they decide to convey their life on screen? Probably. But I demand it anyway.

What does all this have to do with self-publication and fruition? I would argue that our notions about Dickinson's reclusiveness, accurate as they might be, end of getting yoked to her working methods, so that we see her in her room, sewing her fascicles, as if this was something she was forced to do by circumstance, rather than a courageous artistic decision. To jump ahead to my meditation on the work and career of the famously irascible poet Bill Knott, it has been said of him that he was "forced" to self-publish when no one would publish his work. There may be some truth in that, but it strikes me as being just as likely that something about the directness of the blog, the fact that its content was in Knott's hands and not in any others', created the perfect environment for his creative work to flourish.

In reading about Dickinson's fascicles, almost no one discusses WHY she made them. Those that do take up this question seem to suggest that she made them because these years were such a prolific period in her poetic career. Indeed, her most prolific. From "Emily Dickinson's Life" by Paul Crumbley: "Much critical attention has been devoted to the years of Dickinson's greatest poetic production, when her output is estimated to have accelerated from 52 poems in 1858 to 366 poems in 1862, and then declined to 53 poems in 1864. What provoked such a sudden and rich abundance of creativity? And why did Dickinson take the time to carefully gather fair copies of 1,147 poems and bind 833 of them in the individual packets known as the fascicles?" To me, the answer to this question very well may be in the fascicles themselves. In other words, why assume that, because she was writing so many poems, she felt compelled to gather them together in these sheafs? What if the idea of the fascicle, of bringing her work to that kind of personal fruition, encouraged her to write more than she otherwise would have?

There are plenty of holes in my argument, of course, the biggest of which might be the following: if fascicle-making was such a fruitful process for her, then why did she stop making them? I don't know how to answer that, except to suggest that maybe the fascicles served some psychic purpose in those years that they ceased to serve around the end of the Civil War.

But all that aside, what I find so moving about the fascicles is the fact that they were, for her, a way to gather her poetic production, in the same way that a farmer makes hay and puts it up in the barn. Dorothy Hauf Oberhaus describes the process on the Modern American Poetry site: "Although the poems of Emily Dickinson remained virtually unpublished during her lifetime, she did engage in a private kind of self-publication from about 1858 to 1864. During those years, she made copies of more than eight hundred of her poems, gathered them into forty groups, and bound each of these gatherings together with string to form booklets. While she sometimes sent a friend a copy of one of the poems from the booklets, there is no evidence that she showed them in their bound form to anyone." There was a pleasure, I'm sure, in reaching the end of a fascicle, in threading the needle with string, in piercing the paper, in tying the knot, in setting the fascicle with the others in the drawer, perhaps taking the old ones out from time to time and reading them as if they weren't hers, but another's.

This is the key, I think: the experience of publication is the experience of otherness: what one has created stands apart from oneself, and for the first time can be regarded and appreciated. Whatever the poem can give back to its creator, it can only give back then, across that distance that has yawned between them. And my point here is that, if we can create this dynamic between us and our work ourselves, then why do we waste so much time and energy and money trying to get someone else to do it for us?

~ ~ ~

Now some might ask if I consider the Instagram poets like Rupi Kaur to be doing something similar when it comes to self-publication. I would say no. Regardless of the quality of the work, which I don't feel like wasting time discussing, there is the expectation of the work being read, and not only being read, but being liked, and forwarded, and tweeted, etc. The desire is the same, to cut out the unnecessary step of having the work vetted by an editor, but the intention is completely different. I doubt if Dickinson were alive today she would be posting her poems on Instagram. I'm not saying this to be funny or ironic. I'm simply wondering, considering the technology of publishing today, and the fact that there are other avenues available to poets for getting their work into the world, how she would behave. I assume she would do something similar to what Bill Knott did: she might place her poems in some corner of the internet, where they stood a chance of being found, as she must have known her poems stood a chance of being found in her desk. To me, what Rupi Kaur and the other Instagram poets are doing has more to do with marketing than with publication. If it had everything to do with publication, they wouldn't be signed by major presses, who, correctly guessing what sort of readership these poets will garner based on their followers and their poems' likes, can't even be said to "take a chance on the work." The chance has already been taken by the poet, and the poet has the metrics to prove that the chance paid off. Ironic, yes, that the publishing world is now limping behind its writers, trying to catch up to them, to harness the work they posted "for free" and make a profit from it, for themselves and for the poet. But it is too outward, public and self-concerned a practice to count as "fruition."

Again, the quality of the work is besides the point. People love to criticize MILK AND HONEY, but there is worse poetry published every year, poetry so bad no one can even admit that they don't like it. Just an anecdote on this: I was once at a reading for a very well-known, hip press. It was one of those off-site readings at AWP, in a gallery with a scuffed floor and exposed pipes in some major American city. A number of well-known poets who were published by this particular press were reading. My friends and I were in the back, drinking, misbehaving. Why? Because we were jealous, perhaps, of the attention these poets were being paid. But then I looked closer: I noticed that people were only pretending to pay attention. I decided to conduct a kind of poll: I asked a woman standing next to me, in a whisper, whether she liked the poems she was hearing. She looked at me in surprise, then glanced around, then looked at me again and shook her head. I asked half a dozen people. No one liked what they were hearing. They seemed relieved to have been given the opportunity to admit it.

~ ~ ~

Back to Dickinson. Here is the cruelest poem ever written:

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms-
It had the Tassels on-

I thought how yellow it would look-
When Richard went to mill-
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red - Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between-
And the Carts went stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in-

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates-
To make an even Sum-

And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The altitude of me-

But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year-
Themself, should come to me -


When I teach it to my students, it always goes over their heads at first. It went over mine for years before it sank in what the speaker of the poem is saying. Not Dickinson. Dickinson was a living poet when she wrote it. The speaker of the poem is dead. Not necessarily Dickinson, not necessarily a woman, even, but a person who has died before her father has. The tone of the poem suggests that the speaker is not a child, but is somewhat childish, and so I've always imagined the speaker of the poem to have died somewhere between the ages of 18 and 24. They died a year before the poem ensues. Exactly a year: "'Twas just this time, last year, I died." Indeed, the one-year anniversary of this speaker's death seems to be the catalyst of the poem, the reason the dead speaker begins speaking. To us. Why us? Because we're the only ones who can hear them. The speaker cannot visit their family, only us.

But I never begin this way when I teach the poem to my students. Instead, I ask them what's so weird about this poem? They blink and look at me blankly for a moment and invariably some kid wearing gray sweats raises his hand and says, "They're dead."

"Isn't that marvelous?" I say, "that you can write from the perspective of the dead?" I assume they've never considered it before. They've never considered writing from the perspective of a living person who is not themselves, much less a dead person who is not themselves. This poem proves to me that Dickinson's imagination was extraordinary, that she had the same vision that Keats has when he writes "This living hand - I hold it out to you..." the same vision that the short story writer Breece D'J Pancake had when, at the end of "Trilobites," the narrator feels his fear move away from him in waves for a million years. It's an intelligence that goes so far beyond publication, Submittable, AWP, MFA programs, all the perhaps necessary but no less pointless garbage of being a successful literary citizen, that it makes me laugh out loud out of sheer relief.

But what is it that makes this poem so cruel? Let's look at it more carefully. The first thing to notice is how brilliantly organized it is. The poem has a structure, based on the months of the year, based, more specifically, on the rituals of agriculture and of the holidays, all that gives human life its meaning.

Stanzas 1 & 2: The speaker claims that it was "just" (a word we might read as meaning "precisely") last year that they died, but they only know what time of year that was because they know they heard the corn rustle as they were carried, in the coffin, past the farms. At this point, I like to quiz my students about the stages in the maturation of corn. They usually guess every month from April to July until someone ventures August. The speaker died in August. I love the cartoonishness of the image: the corn had the tassles on, like women in church hats. There's a jollity to the image, as if the dead didn't quite believe they were going where they were going. It's only when the speaker thinks, naturally, of the next stage in the corn's maturation, the putting on of ears ripe with yellow kernels, the September work of taking it to the mill, that the speaker realizes their predicament. Now they're really scared. They want out, but like someone who's about to be buried alive but who cannot move or speak, something is preventing them from letting it be known that they don't want to be under the earth, where things are changeless, but above it. It is the thought of the future without them being there to see it that makes the speaker panic. The rest of the poem will proceed from this moment of fear.

Stanza 3: An interesting effect of this poem is that, recalling this day a year prior, when the speaker died, the speaker is both telling us what they envision is going to happen, while also implying that, from the perspective of the speaker on this one-year anniversary of their death, these things have already happened. And so, when the speaker says that they thought of the apples ripening and falling to the ground, and the pumpkins being taken in (both October images: so you can see how we've proceeded from August to September to October in the first three stanzas), we know that these things have happened, and that, in the same way that the speaker can only imagine them happening in the future, they can only imagine them having happened in the past. This poem is the perfect dramatization of how life continues without us. Nothing will change because the speaker is dead: Richard, the proverbial farmer, will still bring the corn to the mill; the apples will ripen and fall to the ground, wedged between straw stubble; the carts will go slavishly stooping round the fields to take the pumpkins in, as is their fate. I love that word "stooping": it conjures the weight they must bear, as when we stoop under a burden, and also a kind of stubborn somnolence. Another season has come to pass. Corn, apples, pumpkins have all reached the end of their maturation. For them there is no death, only fulfillment: the corn is milled, the apples pressed to cider, the pumpkins taken in to be carved into jack-o-lanterns and made into pies. The speaker alone longs to reverse time.

Stanza 4: This stanza, clearly a November stanza, what with Thanksgiving, is somewhat difficult to parse, but I've always read it as being the moment in the poem when the speaker, still in the coffin a year prior, still unsettled by the fact that something is holding their will and they cannot get out, turns away from the natural processes of the land and towards the domestic world where, like a ghost hovering outside the window, they observe preparations for the Thanksgiving meal. They wonder who misses them least. Not most, but least. It doesn't matter if four of them are still wearing black, drowning in the depths of mourning. Though these four might vie for the prize of missing the dead daughter or son most, the speaker is more curious about which of her family members misses them least. They fix upon their father as perhaps the most likely culprit. After all, he has a household to manage. Students have interpreted the beautiful but complicated imagery of this stanza in many ways, but the way I read it is that the speaker considers the table, how, in the speaker's absence, there is an awkwardness there, a place-setting to conspicuously removed. And so the father invites a friend, perhaps a widower, or a bachelor who might marry one of his eligible daughters. An even sum: tidy up that side where the speaker was sitting last Thanksgiving so as not to drag everyone down.

Stanza 5: I love this stanza, which brings us to December, the way that the speaker envisions Christmas as a gleeful brightness that their absence might blur, the way their absence from the Thanksgiving table might ruin the meal. This is Dickinson at her most cutting regarding traditional notions of where the dead go when they die. I read this stanza as sarcastic. The speaker wonders if her family will be saddened when, looking for their stocking hanging over the fireplace, they instead look up to Heaven, imagining their dead brother or sister somewhere above them, their stocking still on their foot, too high for any Santa Claus to reach them. But of course the speaker is not in Heaven. They're in the coffin, which is in the cemetery. The idea that they are at some unreachable altitude might well blur the Christmas glee, but it's implied that it also protects the family, allows them to consider their dead child and sibling as being safe in Heaven.

Stanza 6: Then, as my dear friend, the brilliant teacher and poet and critic Michael Theune would say, "The turn!" All this thinking was making the dead feel too fucking sad at that time last year, when they were being led away from the world towards the family vault. More literally, the line says: "This sort of thinking grieved me..." Having imagined the family moving on, having Thanksgiving dinner, celebrating Christmas, the speaker thinks, "Why should I bum myself out?" It's as if they've taken a lesson from their imagining of their family's resilience in the face of their death. They decide to cheer up, to think the other way: in other words, instead of thinking back on their life, to look forward to their family members' deaths. Now we have the echo of that phrase: "just this time" - just this time, some perfect year, they will come to the speaker. It may not be quite fair to say that the speaker longs for their family members to die: nothing in the poem suggests that the speaker wants them to die SOON. But the fact is, it cheers them up to think that they're only going to be alone there for some earthly period of time. The poem perfectly dramatizes the inevitability of death, through a dead speaker, while also accusing the living of complicity with death for merely surviving.

My whole point being that I don't see how a poet who has the genius to dramatize something so difficult to conceive of that she had to write from the perspective of the dead to even approach it, could have given a shit about whether The Atlantic Monthly published it or not. This is perhaps why, in her correspondence with Higginson (who acts as a kind of Watson to her Holmes), she dances circles around him, not just because she was wittier and more brilliant, but because he is operating in the confines of a world that she has taken leave of imaginatively so often that its strictures and rules have ceased to matter to her. As Coleridge wrote in a notebook: "No one can leap over their own shadow - poets leap over death."

Nick Drake - "Place to Be"

January 23, 2018

"The Auction of the Mind"

January 22, 2018

I've been thinking the past few days about publication, how it is at once a necessary stage of the creative process, and a potentially ruinous one. I've been thinking in particular about self-publication (the kind of self-publication I am doing here in putting poems and stories up on "Gleanings"), and about these three poets and their relationship to what Dickinson called "the auction of the mind": Dickinson (of course), Frank Stanford and Bill Knott.

I would like to think upon how these poets overthrew traditional ideas of who can judge a work worthy of being put into the world. But first I wish to distinguish between publication in the more traditional sense (the acceptance of a poem by a journal, or of a book of poems by a press; the printing of this poem amidst other poems, or of this collection amidst other collections) and what I will call fruition (for the sake of simplicity, I will be talking here about poems, but could just as well be talking about stories or songs or even novels). The difference between publication and fruition is this: with publication, the poem or the book of poems has been vetted by persons who, having not written the poetry themselves, are deemed solely capable of determining whether the poetry belongs in the world or not. In this way, the publisher possesses great power over the creator: the publisher is in a position of judgment. The language of publication is, inherently, the language of judgment and of power: submission, acceptance, rejection.

One submits a poem or a book of poems to an editor.

A poem or a book of poems is either accepted or rejected.

Either way, the value of the work is determined by one who, no matter how much they might appreciate or loathe the work, is inherently disconnected from its creation. Most creators just accept that this is the way of things: they admit that, being subjective judges of their own work, they ought to submit it to someone who has no particular feeling towards it, who can judge it on its own merits, objectively (though we know this is a sham) and let them do with the poem or the book of poems what they will. Poets accept this. They assume that they have no ability to bring their work into the world without first passing through this process, as if fire-walking. Over the glowering bed of coals, published poets beckon the unpublished poet towards them. They've made it across, their feet only slightly singed.

But what happens when a poet, because of personality (Dickinson), or rejection (Stanford), or some combination of both (Knott) decide to put their poems into the world themselves, without any intermediary? Self-publication is oftentimes derided as some last-ditch, self-centered effort to put one's work into the world after all other possibilities have been exhausted. It is assumed that self-published work is of lower quality than work that has been carried from one end of the bed of coals to the other. The self-published poet, who merely walks around the fire and joins the published poet on the other end, is considered a fraud, a coward, a failure. But I consider self-publication to be an inherently brave act, an act, often, of necessity, even of desperation. And I think that Dickinson, Stanford and Knott deserve praise for the fact that, confident in the quality of their work, and either stymied by or distrustful of the gatekeepers their poems had to pass through, walked up to the bed of coals they were being asked to walk, and simply walked around it.

But, first, to return to this idea of fruition. No work of art feels finished unless it crosses the threshold that separates the artist from others. This is not to say that art need be placed in the hands of others, but it is to say that, in some sense, the artist must divest themselves of their art, in the way that, though oaks tend to hold their leaves until late into winter, they have to eventually bump their old leaves off to make room for the new ones. In the fascicles that Emily Dickinson sewed in her room in Amherst, in the manuscripts Frank Stanford put together and never published (amongst which one finds titles such as: PLAIN SONGS; SMOKING GRAPEVINE; WOUNDS; AUTOMATIC CO-PILOT; MAD DOGS; THE LAST PANTHER IN THE OZARKS; FLOUR THE DEAD MAN BRINGS TO THE WEDDING; DURING THE NIGHT OF THE HIGH WATER; SOME POEMS WHO DREAMED THEY WERE MANDOLINS AND A DARK BREAD; POEMS FLOATING UP EYELESS ON SUNDAY MORNING; POEMS WHO LEFT WITHOUT A WORD OF FAREWELL; POEMS DRUNK FROM A PAPER SACK LONG BEFORE I CAME OF AGE; SOME POEMS WHO SUFFOCATED LIKE LIGHTNING BUGS IN THE BOOTLEGGER'S JAR; POEMS BURIED IN THE MOON LAKE LEVEE; ONE-FINGER ZEN), in the poems Bill Knott put up on his blog, for free, for years, some of which appear in his posthumously-published collected poems, we can see the need on behalf of the creator to bring their work across the threshold and to place it in the world in some way. This is what I mean by fruition.

So when it's said that a self-published poet has given up on publishing their work and decided to take it upon themselves to "get their work out there," I think we ought to see that as a courageous act, rather than a capitulation (and certainly we ought not to see it as selfish). I think poets would be generally happier, and readers too, if more poets, trusting their work, feeling that it is finished and ought to be placed in the world, took it upon themselves to do so, rather than submitting their work for acceptance or rejection. As Frank Stanford said: "You know there is no other poet on earth like me. I know there is no other poet on earth like you. We need to be read."

In the next three days, I will write more specifically about fruition in the work of Dickinson, Stanford and Knott.