into the grassland of innocent whispers. (from another olde poem, "Radial"):

                  Speechless seeing,
  The child's eye
  Obedient, peaceful,
  Nursing in the blood
  Such slow harmonies:

   
                  The rustling elms,
  And houses ripening
  In the summer light –
  Tentative longing
  Rising from the streams.

& on Beauty & Form, me sez (in "The Granary"):

         We were twelve-year-old friends
 When I became your apprentice –
 Careless for numb noon,
 Caught up in steady response
 To crafty forms and riddling shades.

Old poem from Way Stations :

         The Granary
       
                                          for J.P.
    
         There were huge comfortable rooms,
 dusty with archaeological bric-a-brac,
 brass rubbings of the Black Prince,
 and a photograph of your tiny sister
 smiling, holding a shard in a trench.

  
         I loved the cozy smells of your house,
 perfumed with antiquity and your mother's
 potato cooking, her high throaty
 European sparrow voice, calling Johnny!
 Johnny!  Dinner's on the table, boys!

  
         Your father a kindly cultivated man,
 modest, his speech dry and bright
 like a cello – questioning us
 at the table with witty attention –
 a doctor who treated Guillaume Barré.

  
         We were twelve-year-old friends
 when I became your apprentice –
 careless for numb noon,
 caught up in steady response
 to crafty forms and riddling shades.

  
         You inhabited a cloudy solitude
 like a meditative Leonardo, yet you
 marshalled all the armies of Europe
 in brilliant colors for us to survey,
 clashing and surging across the floor.
 
 And all history lay buried in the big
 Egyptian attic, that family granary
 of Time, steaming through the deep quiet
 sustained chord of Minnesota summer,
 the dense last hours of childhood.

  
         All except for the room set aside
 for your older brother, with the bright
 football pennants and the trophies –
 a father's eldest son, whom I never
 met, who never came home from Vietnam.

I will be away for a few days as I am going to New Jersey. In the meantime, please try to finish your assignments for Prof. Hinkel. Pretty please. Back on Tuesday if not before.

40 years ago tomorrow I was in "chapel" when the school principal (Mr. Runkel) rushed in with the news & we were all sent to our home rooms & then home. I was eleven. JFK & I shared the same birthday & I took it personally.

5/29 is RI Statehood Day. my poems are one big RI sandbox litterbox.

         6
  
         and no one knows who killed the King
 or the two princes by his side –
 the talent that is death to hide
 cannot un-Gordian anything.
 Times are evil.  Redeem the day –
 that day he sat at Hammersmith
 and merged the Peace Corps with the myth:
 a green American sunray.

[Hammersmith Farm : Kennedy home in southern Rhode Island. JFK & Jackie were married in Newport.]


I know I've already told you this, but Prof. Hinkel wants you to memorize it so you can recite it back to him in 2043.

from "Midwest Elegy":

         On infinite plains,
 Among seedy barns leaning
 On edges of small groves of oaks
 Just off the quiet roads, there
 Everyone knows, serious life
 Is elsewhere.  War simmers
 On the east coast, Dream
 Shimmers on the west, the rites
 Were unbelievably successful –
 We fell in love with Marilyn
 And Jack before their time,
 They gave their lives, articulate
 In the labyrinth – a consummation.

Adam, under the rain.
Under the somber branches.
To soften, to cross out
the scrawl in the clay -
evening in summer,
buried, sleeping.

Hey, I can hear myself! Sounds like I need to blow my nose. Anyway, here's the transcription:

MORRIS DANCE

Every morning my father followed
the dusty freeway rings - a welter
of iron circles, a maze of wheels
dodging beneath the vertical
shelter of the concrete law.

And he jousted with the cold
steel cables of the elevators;
he stood before the judges,
spearing a wet dollar each day
in the rockbound pool of possession.

Somewhere between the inventive silence
of the shop, and the hollow hunger
of the labyrinth, he traveled out
with a ball of legal twine, ready
for turbid blades in the gripping dream -

and at the end of December,
the two of us, the rusty brothers,
trailing those roads again
in your rattling clunker,
remembering the dance steps

of the breakdowns, the power,
the glory, for ever and ever.
A mystery man goes on ahead of us,
on through the green light,
into the lake-blue sky -

(and there's a charitable shadow
in the norway spruce tonight, a star
already hidden in the thunderhead;
there's all the peaceful sleep
we never knew, winging over the highway).

audblog audio post

My father turns 76 tomorrow. Born 4/12/27, in Minneapolis, near the Mississippi River. He lives a couple blocks from there today.

I wrote this poem with him in mind, several years ago. (published in Way Stations.)

John Berryman had come up in discussion on the New Poetry list, & I promised to post this poem today. The scene takes place along the Mississippi, down the block from Berryman's fatal bridge. [Unfortunately I'm having trouble with the template here - 3 lines should be deeply indented ("maybe you'd be by the upstairs"; "and Dad will get up"; "ROOSEVELT SPEAKS TONIGHT"]:


THE FRONT


When the front rolls in from the southwest,
Spreading a wide fan of shadows and rain
Over the prairie, the towns anchored
Under the bulbs of the water tanks
And waiting for the downpour
To soak the fields, rinse
The machinery -
maybe you'd be by the upstairs
Window, looking out through the big black
Bars of the oak tree toward the gash
Of the river, moving there, hidden
Between the steep slopes, the skies
Quickly lowering.
And Dad will get up
And put down the paper
(ROOSEVELT SPEAKS TONIGHT)
Take off the hearing aid, and close
The south windows downstairs (near where
The piano music curls on the bench) -

And when the storm finally breaks
He'll watch for a while too, leaning
Against the mantle, thinking
Of Kanesville (swollen
Creek, fragile apple trees )-
While the rain storms down in sheets
On the grass, a silver wall
Between the river banks, and thunder
Rattles the blue chinaware, and Grandma
Lights the dinner candles,
And evening hustles out the day.

From the upstairs window
Maybe you'd see the strange
Incandescence, the last
Light burning through
Beneath the storm,
And your face like a
Smaller star, leaning there
Against the clear pane -

A couple of old midwestern poems, for all you sophistercated urbanites out there in blogland.






RADIAL

Seen once in the distance
behind closed eyelids -
an old country town,
afloat in the depths
of heavy black earth.

Speechless seeing,
the child's eye
obedient, peaceful,
nursing in the blood
such slow harmonies:

the rustling elms,
and houses ripening
in the summer light -
tentative longing
rising from the streams.

What equilibrium
shall we embrace?
And formulate what
loving circumference,
what fateful gift?







MIDWEST ELEGY


On infinite plains,
Among seedy barns leaning
On edges of small groves of oaks
Just off the quiet roads, there
Everyone knows, serious life
Is elsewhere. War simmers
On the east coast, Dream
Shimmers on the west, the rites
Were unbelievably successful -
We fell in love with Marilyn
And Jack before their time,
They gave their lives, articulate
In the labyrinth - a consummation.

The storm comes later,
Up from the south out of
The shifting void of the sea,
When the words are lost
In a tumble of low tides,
The glittering mirage left
Drying among the fishbones
On the shore. Out of thirst,
Out of the dry salt and dust
Of unforgiveness, the storm
Gathers into itself -
Listen: dark silver sound,
Against a screen of long-
Abandoned, broken summer doors.

And what was I doing there,
Riding my father's car
Over the dirt roads toward
Sundown, dumbly tracing the
Scent of your skin and hair
In empty loops around the careful
Plots of the abyss, my fears,
The sad compass of mothers,
Fathers - this useless, neverending
Unemployment, this adolescence,
My slow heart beating, gathering
Desire and fright to approach
Your ramparts glittering on high. . .

An angel with flaming sword
Turning every way stands guard.
I remember our walk down the
Narrowing point into the swamp,
Behind the derelict drive-in
Movie lot - two young adults -
And finding the torn-up porno
Magazine at the edge of the water.
I remember fifteen years before
The fat kid in the back seat,
Under the ghostly drive-in screen,
And the distant lights of Minneapolis,
Kneeling long ago in the graveyard grass.

Grain Elevator

Here is the poem "Grain Elevator":

GRAIN ELEVATOR

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

I

Your voice, buried in the cassette,
Emerges, grandmotherly, dry and bright,
Lifting, carving out the unbroken world
In accents born of childhood flint
And cheerful apprehension–
your version
Of an early America, for Christmas
And far-off children–muffled
Collage of distant forest, echo's
Timbre and the deep snow
Surrounding the railroad tracks
On your way to school.

Down from Granddad's long-
Gone dancing days, you found
His songs of the Kanesville hands
(Where the long road stretches,
Veering through Iowa,
Grandma's letters in bluebird ink,
The farm just down from Herbert Hoover's
Place–an address he aimed at
Working for the railroad in New York);

You spoke of summer bike rides down to Red Wing
And your first train trip, to Iowa City;
Of songs and dances your scoutleader taught,
And skating parties late into the evening
At Nokomis. You told of a winter journey
To Northampton–watching from the window,
Listening to train-men standing on the platform,
Dream-shapes of late-night stops in Syracuse.

At the end, you read a children's story,
Ringing a tiny bell as you turned each page–
Tale of a magic Polar Express,
Hurtling north to the city of Santa Claus. . .

*

I remember on the living room wall
A somber painting from the 30's–
An eerie crossroads in the wheatfields,
Black skies lowering, traveling
Over the bent telephone poles,
The yellow grain flattened by the wind.

And I'm tempted to lift for protection
The heavy shield of your letterhead,
Granddad–your upright, spindly, old
Man's line beneath a show of power:
Stolid red and black, splashed
Generously across the top third of the page-

Barnett & Record Co., Engineers
Specializing in Large-Scale Construction
J.H. Ravlin, President

With a landscape in various shades of gray,
Vortex of farm, factory, and transport,
Your tall grain elevators, flanked
By the docks of Duluth and the railroad tracks.

I remember the black galoshes,
The old raincoat, the birchwood cane
You let me tap the sidewalk with
On our summer strolls along the rainy
Mississippi bluffs;
I remember your hearing aid. . .

(So long ago. Letters
Only gather to a head, an inky
Swirl of signs–)

A late light on the River Road,
Horizontal gold, filtering
Through basement windows to strike
The massive blue-green maps of the world
You installed for us over the ping-pong table. . .

Granddad, I need your hearing aid
For my blindness-–I want to hike
Beyond this jumble, on those chunks of slate
Engraved with the company name we hopped along
To find you, hidden among tall flowers;
Or follow upstream the River Road again
To a time before grain elevators, railroads. . .

(Your photograph from engineering school,
Leaning back at the card table with the boys
Looking calm and collected, whittling. . .)


II


One frozen night in February,
While the wind snarled among snowdrifts,
Small animals huddled in hideouts,
Winter birds trembled in windbreaks,
And homeless Americans plodded, hustled
Shivering toward what shelter there was–

One night late, my head lolling,
Tired from toiling over old fragments,
Paper scraps scattered all around me,
A wraith of memory looming on my right,
Shades of despair sliding up on my left,
I leaned back, looked up, and seemed to see
That prairie picture–lowering sky,
Weird light hollow at the crossroads,
Hovering over stark fencepoles, stones,
The brown road, the hard-bent grain;
I heard the hushed sound of the wind,
Felt menacing darkness–a fearful threshold,
Gates of tornado–no mirrored image,
But a wide-open window afloat before me.
When suddenly–something–a shape rose up
Along the fenceline–and I recognized him:
Dressed for weather, in a rough raincoat
And burly boots, walking stick in hand,
And a wide beard sluicing down his chest–
Eyeing me eerily under an old felt hat.

How strange! This varnished vision, slowly
Realized–while I, stunned in a stall,
Trembled, transparent, figmentary. A fierce
Confusion soon would have overwhelmed me,
If he hadn't spoken sharply, shouting–

"Leave it for lost! It's gone for good!
Come on, come with me! Move, move
And walk–walk through the phony frame!"

The picture was pulsing, wild wind
Raging, grass whipped hard on the hillside,
And he stood at the crossroads, rocking
In the storm, smiling, urging me on.
Not knowing what next, I got up and walked–
Stumbled toward the rectangle, glinting,
Glimmering gray, dun and dark yellow–
My feet uncertain, off-center, as if
I peered at a porthole girt by a gale.
I lunged past a lectern, danced around a desk,
And all was tenebrous–all but that picture
Aglow with the twister and Grandpa's eye-gleam.
I walked–but as I went, the image shifted,
The old man in the rain slowly receded,
And darkness deepened as I went onward–
The picture now a point of faint light
Ahead of me, above me, and I was alone
In pitch-black void–no longer my room,
But some stillness, a waiting emptiness
That felt more ominous than even the storm
The crossroads watercolor had foretold.

How long I lay there, whether sleeping
Or awake, I can't say. A long time
I lay face up on the hard ground,
Staring into the dark, listening low.
Then the first phantom came circling–
For it loomed like a vision or dream,
Altering before my eyes, gathered glowing
Against the blankness bent around it.
First I saw a shape, a rectangle, rolling
Out of the heights–but not the painting;
It was obscure–I thought it was a cloud
Or turning tornado, circling counter-
Clockwise. But as it hovered overhead,
I made out a massive book, fabulous figures
Engraved in gold across the front. The vast
Form floated in the sky, then suddenly
Opened–sprung wide as though some force
Had knocked the binding loose–and lo!
I saw pages and pages, countless, covered
With the same script, fly out
And scatter, spinning in wide spirals–
Scraps, torn fragments filling the silence
With a sound like grasshoppers. Slowly
The scraps grew smaller, flimsier–flakes
Of snow or a shower of dust, an umbrella
Of tiny particles shifting downward under
The book's black binding slowly rotating
Overhead; I rose on my knees and looked
Across the littered landscape, and saw
Amidst the dust a reddish glow, revolving,
Clockwise this time, a beacon over the dunes.
And a horde of ant-like insects were hauling
Huge chunks of sandstone toward the light!
The lines of insects swarmed in a spiral,
A moving labyrinth of stone blocks;
They were raising a tower, hefting
The whirling red light upward toward
The hollow book still circling on high.
And then I flopped, exhausted and off-
Balance, to the ground, and gazed no more.

I awoke with the sound of a far-off train
Approaching in my ears. I rubbed my eyes;
Again strange visions floated before me,
Blurred and indistinct. I saw a large table
With boisterous men circled around it,
Bewigged, frock-coated, each of them
Flourishing a feathered quill pen, one
By one putting their names to a document–
Then shaking hands, embracing, playfully
Pounding one another on the back. Then
Five dazzling, elegant women entered,
Carrying food and dozens of bottles
Of wine–there was music, merry dancing
(And all the while the monotonous sound
Of the distant train approaching). But
Gradually the character of the crowd
Began to change–the women were gone,
The men older, wearier, their clothes
Dusty and worn–and the dancing ended;
They gathered around the table once again,
And I heard one of them begin to read,
His voice broken, muffled–". . .we
Meet in the midst of a nation brought
To the verge. . . corruption dominates
Ballot-box, legislatures, Congress. . .
Touches even the ermine of the bench. . .
People. . . demoralized. . . newspapers
Largely subsidized. . . muzzled; public opinion
Silenced, labor impoverished, the land
Concentrating in the hands. . . fruits of toil
Of millions boldly stolen to build up
Colossal fortunes for a few. . . possessors
Of these. . . despise the Republic. . . tramps
And millionaires. . . " The speaker stood
In the center of the crowd, gesturing
With his hands–but as I listened
His somber words were slowly overwhelmed
By the roar of the train, which suddenly
Burst from behind their table and platform,
Scattering all, demolishing that vision
As though it were a stage-prop tumbling down.

From where I sat the huge train passed
Just below me; I followed it with my eyes,
Observing each car and its strange
Riders. The giant engine itself was
Manned by engineers dressed in stripes
Like a chain gang. Then came the first car,
Crowded it seemed with farmers, lean
And hungry-looking men, talking, arguing
Together in anxious groups in the aisles,
Wives and children sharing a meager meal
Silently on either side. Then I saw
The second car–much like the first, only
This time a city crowd, immigrant working
Women and men, arguing, debating each other
With the same anxious excitement. The third
Was boarded and barred like a livestock
Truck–but through the cracks I could
Barely make out people, bent
Over heavy wrist and ankle bands, chains
Dragging them down. And yet there was
An undertone, coming from that car-
A mournful chanting, repetitive singing
That sounded out across the tracks.
Fast on the heels of this car came
A different sight–an elegant diner,
Complete with wide glass windows, waiters
Tiptoeing to and fro, large white
Tablecloths well-decked with food
And drink. Inside, leaning back
Their heftiness on tiny chairs, puffing
Cigars, boasting, gesticulating–there
I saw the plutocrats–Rockefeller,
Gould, James Hill the railroad king. . .
Dozens of them, filling the car
With clouds of blue cigar smoke. On
A central table larger than the rest
Sat a bulging sack of gold and banknotes;
The big men crowded around it, each
With a well-hid hand of gambling cards.
They joked and jostled one another,
Eyeing their cards and the little piles
Of money growing in front of them,
And each occasionally swept up a small
Handful, tossed it to a waiter, ordered
Him to deliver it to someone
Up in the next car–which was a richly
Decorated sleeper, each compartment occupied
By a pair of white-haired gentlemen;
On the outside of this car, emblazoned
In silver lettering, I read: The Senator.
After that one came a military wagon,
A long barracks with simple wooden
Benches filled on either side with silent
Troops, young men and veterans; and in
The aisles the officers, commanders,
Generals paced slowly back and forth,
Their hands behind their backs or
Gripping the tasselled hilts of swords.
Then finally the last car rattled by,
Grimmest of them all. It was
A boxcar closed up tight, yet coming
From inside I heard human voices–
Cries of men, women and children,
Prisoners sealed up inside the train.
I followed that last car with my eyes
As it passed by, and the whole train
Moved onward, its roar growing fainter;
Watched it roll toward the horizon, where
I could barely make out the shape
Of some gigantic edifice–it was like
A gray-green pyramid in the distance;
And the track, and the train on it
Headed straight toward it, slowly
Shrinking smaller and smaller. Over
The pyramid, turning and turning
On its axis like some phantom, artificial
Moon, I saw the empty covers of the book
I'd seen before, disintegrating in the sky.

And the vision didn't fade; the hulking
Pyramid and the circling book remained.
So I got to my feet and began to walk,
Heading toward it, shuffling along
With what feeble strength I could still
Command. And slowly as I drew nearer
I discovered the pyramid was not a single
Building, but an entire city of towers
That sloped upward toward the pinnacle
At the center–the top of a massive gray-
Green ziggurat of hewn stone, slotted with
Rows of narrow elongated windows glaring
Out over the gloom (for it was evening
By the time I reached the outskirts).
I followed the railroad tracks, climbed
A small bluff, and from there the whole
City lay spread before me, glowing from
Countless window-lights. How orderly
It all appeared–the buildings rising
Upward as though by design on either side
Of the central monolith, forming one
Great triangle; and stretching out before
The whole length of it, a pool–a lake
Of pitch-black water, roughly triangular
In shape as well–so that the whole
Ensemble formed an immense, glittering
Diamond. As I looked in the water, I
Thought I saw large gleaming shapes
Moving-like enormous sharks, or whales,
But from that distance I couldn't tell
If they were fish, or just reflections
Of the lighted towers on the surface. So
I moved down the slope of the bluff,
Down into the valley of the city, still
Following train tracks. And when I
Had gone about halfway across the valley
To the lake, I was able to make out
Features of the place more clearly. How
To describe the all-encompassing
Hypnotic nature of that city! The vast
Diamond seemed to focus all its forces,
So that the image moved and shimmered,
Not like some hectic everyday metropolis,
But a huge mandala rising in the air,
Its light and darkness shifting monotonous
Waves. I saw that all the smaller buildings
Were similar to the central ziggurat, spirals
With narrow gleaming windows; and then
I saw the crowds–herds of people, marching,
Proceeding slowly, as though asleep, upward
Along the walls of every building. They moved
In almost perfect unison, sometimes
Linking arms; and I saw that as they passed
The narrow windows, often they would reach
Out with small scraps of paper, a ticket
Or token of some kind, right into the lighted
Window–and in return, receive some sort
Of food–nuggets of cereal, perhaps, or maybe
It was some kind of candy! But then I
Saw something more terrible. As the buildings
Narrowed toward the top, there wasn't room
For everyone–but the people kept walking,
Walking–and I saw from every summit
A horrible rain of bodies falling
Down, silently, into the black lake!
It was this, along with the slow progress
Of the crowds along the spirals, that gave
The whole scene its mesmerizing shimmer.
Only a few tough hardy ones achieved
The pinnacles of the towers–and I saw
A network of cable cars and helicopters
Shuttling from peak to peak, lifting off
The victors of the climb, to take them
Up to the very summit. I kept on
Walking forward, though now my steps
Were slowed with dread and horror–perhaps
I too would join the climbing herd!
And saw that the peaks of the buildings
Were all connected by intricate wiry webs,
Thin signal lines glowing in many colors,
And that the lighted windows themselves
Were flashing rhythmically from building
To building, side to side, as though
Transmitting complicated codes. Then
I saw the axis of it all–an enormous figure
Of a man! Planted on the central ziggurat–
A neon puppet, or some kind of hologram–
A golden cowboy in a tall white hat, atop
A bucking white stallion–and in one hand
A tangled lariat, which the cowboy lifted up
And down, slowly, steadily, as though
Dispensing blessings on the heads
Of the ever-mounting crowds. His face
Was gentle and benign, serene in majesty,
And yet so human, so approachable–like
Someone's father, uncle, older brother;
To behold his great figure against the sky,
I too wanted to start the heroic climb–
Perhaps I too could join the golden circle,
Learn the secret of the divine horseman!
Quickly I went ahead until I had almost
Reached the edge of the black lake–I was
Searching the shoreline for a boat or
Boatman. . . when suddenly a rough hand grasped
My arm above the elbow. "Wait," said a voice–
"Don't go down there, son." I turned,
And it was he–Granddad, playing the hobo
Still, smiling, still gripping my arm.
Then he let go and stepped back two
Steps, and pointed at the looming panorama
Across the water. His face grew stern
And he said, "This is the city of Disaster, son,
And those who enter forfeit their souls. See
The forsaken moon-book nailed up there? Those
Tickets with which they buy their bread
Were chopped up from that very volume–their
Throats are stuffed with golden nuggets,
But they've lost the meaning of the words
It once contained–and that's their doom,
To watch the puppet raise his lariat
As though to snag it from the sky-the word
They've bought to fill their empty bellies."

He turned with a smile, and took
Me by the shoulder, saying, "Let's waste
No more words on this corrupt phantasm.
Come with me, son–we'll climb back
Up the bluff." We followed the railroad
Tracks again, along a gentle slope
Up to the height of land. Neither
Of us so much as glanced around again
Toward the dismal vision, but looked off
Westward where the sun was going down,
Lighting the undulating land with gold
And gleaming silver on the long straight
Tracks to the horizon. We stood there
Looking for a while, and then my elder
Guide spoke up again, this time with
A quiet voice, almost whispering–
Remembering, as on Memorial Day, to mourn
The ghosts abiding on the prairie, the farms,
Or shuttling across the city harbors–

"I remember the funeral train riding by,
The black crepe draping all the doorways,
The women and children and grown men
Standing still on the roads, at the windows. . .
I remember the faces of soldiers
After the storm had driven them ashore
In the hospitals, waiting for life or
Death. I remember faces of country women,
Bearing up dignified in the lonely
Fields, the little towns of pioneers;
And the steady ease of workers
Lifting up each day with a deep breath
Of work, hard-won freedom at heart.
And I remember all those borne down
By the rain–feel the moving power
Of them, the meek, the poor, moving
Under the hailstorm, waiting out the tornado,
Keeping silence in their hearts
While the flood of philistine greed
Sweeps through on rafts of guile, waves
Of blindness-that great storm passing
Wearing the face of death itself. So
Be it, son: in a word, I remember life–
Waiting, watching and waiting for the storm
Of death to pass on through and be gone."

Then I remember feeling terribly tired,
Worn out with visions and long wandering–and so
I lay down there in the grass, and fell asleep.


III


Your two clay whistle-birds
Are on the windowsill,
Ready for children's lips to share
Their flute-sounds with the real birds
At the feeder, on the other side of the glass;

You've always been the better maker,
Turning the years and years around
With muscular feet and fingers,
Clay speech rising from the wheel
To last this generation, and to serve
The next Thanksgiving–plates, bowls,
Pitchers waiting to ornament
Some simpler, lasting celebration,
Open house for the upright heirs
Of tender hills and anxious clay.

And where's that modest watercolor,
Lit with the cold and clear Minnesota light,
Of Granddad's granary downtown? Standing
Behind the rusted parallel of the tracks
And a row of poplars, crowded out
By warehouses and condominiums,
Its curving columns burgeoning now
Only with air and memory–and hidden
Wafers of petrified wheat, noon
Sunlight answering a lifetime's work
Just over the treeline and the crooked streets.

On a sultry day in late July
In 1961–when I was nine–we stopped
In a little pasture beside the road,
Under the shade of clustered oaks,
With a herd of cows nearby,
For a picnic and a rest on our way
To visit Grandma's farm, and cousins
In Iowa City. And after the sandwiches
And sleepy talk, while the grown-ups
Snoozed among rocks and baskets,
I wandered off a little way
And found a squared-off family graveyard,
The gray slate leaning in the uncut grass,
Deep summer whispering from unfamiliar soil.

Maybe it was your voice I heard,
So long ago there in the aching depths;
Your voice, challenging me to find
That earthy crossroads–whistling word–
And lay Grandfather's brooding ghost to rest.

Sometime in the later 1980s I began to take an interest in writing some kind of long poem. I became absorbed in the Cantos, The Bridge, the Maximus Poems, Paterson. I can't remember when exactly that started. As I look back on it now though I think there were several motivations at play. On this blog I have been talking about "idiomatic communities": & perhaps some of my animus toward them is a result of my own difficulty in finding a style. I know that through the 80s and early 90s I was really struggling with a kind of imbalance between the voice & perspective I wanted to project, and the actual audience for my poetry. I would be writing "serious" poems which in the context of (little or no) audience sounded unintentionally comic. These "old" poems from Way Stations which I have been posting here, and the longer work I've been doing since the late 1990s, bracket a period in which I struggled to find a tone or level of address.

The first long poem I attempted was written in the context of a "book"-sequence of poems I was trying to do called Midwest Elegies (mostly published now in Way Stations). The "sequence" or book was an attempt to find a means to solve the difficulty mentioned above - to develop a consistent style through the thematic unity of a sequence. I was deeply absorbed in Yeats & the Arrowsmith translations of Montale in those days (Montale remains one of my absolute favorites). The long poem was called "Grain Elevator" and was a kind of dream-vision (if I can manage it, I will post it here).

So I think that one of the motivations that led me toward long poems was a sense of stylistic impasse, related to a sense of the social irrelevance of what I was doing. I was coming back to poetry, in the 1980s, after a period of local community organizing and political activism. The long poem seemed to offer some means to include more social reality in my writing. But I think a more positive motivation, as I read more long poems and more critical work on the subject (for example Michael Andre Bernstein's study "Tale of the Tribe"), was the sense of an opening, an opportunity. The US long poem seemed like unfinished business; that is, its practicioners had not been able to equal the older epics (Milton, Dante, etc) on their own (American) ground. And as I continued to read them I came to the conclusion that the works of Pound, Williams, Olson, Crane were offering versions of history & reality which - while fascinating and engaging and impressive on their own ground - did not represent my own perspective. They did not get history right, ultimately (the way I saw it as "right", of course). Doing a long poem began to feel like a real adventure.