Is complicated, that we may be doing this,
And if we are, it may explain that this
Was something we’ve done quite accidentally,
Which she can understand, not having meant
That morning to have spilled the milk. She ’s
one of those who’s only hungry metaphorically.
2.
Poetry should be able to comprehend the earth,
To set aside from time to time its natural idioms
of ardor and revulsion, and say, in a style as sober
As the Latin of Lucretius, who reported to Venus
on the state of things two thousand years ago—
“It’s your doing that under the wheeling constellations
of the sky,” he wrote, “all nature teems with life”—
Something of the earth beyond our human dramas.
Topsoil: going fast. Rivers: dammed and fouled.
Cod: about fished out. Haddock: about fished out.
Pacific salmon nosing against dams from Yokohama
To Kamchatka to Seattle and Portland, flailing
Up fish ladders, against turbines, in a rage to breed
Much older than human beings and interdicted
By the clever means that humans have devised
To grow more corn and commandeer more lights.
Most of the ancient groves are gone, sacred to Kuan Yin
And Artemis, sacred to the gods and goddesses
In every picture book the child is apt to read.
3.
Lucretius, we have grown so clever that mechanics
In our art of natural philosophy can take the property
of luminescence from a jellyfish and put it in mice.
In the dark the creatures give off greenish light.
Their bodies must be very strange to them.
An artist in Chicago—think of a great trading city
In Dacia or Thracia—has asked to learn the method
So he can sell people dogs that glow in the dark.
4.
The book will try to give the child the wonder
of how, in our time, we understand life came to be:
Stuff flung off from the sun, the molten core
Still pouring sometimes rivers of black basalt
Across the earth from the old fountains of its origin.
A hundred million years of clouds, sulfurous rain.
The long cooling. There is no silence in the world
Like the silence of rock from before life was.
You come across it in a Mexican desert,
A palo verde tree nearby, moss-green. Some
Insect-eating bird with wing feathers the color
of a morning sky perched on a limb of the tree.
That blue, that green, the completely fierce
Alertness of the bird that can’t know the amazement
of its being there, a human mind that somewhat does,
Regarding a black outcrop of rock in the desert
Near a sea, charcoal-black and dense, wave-worn,
and all one thing: there ’s no life in it at all.
It must be a gift of evolution that humans
Can’t sustain wonder. We ’d never have gotten up
From our knees if we could. But soon enough
We ’d fashioned sexy little earrings from the feathers,
Highlighted our cheekbones by rubbings from the rock,
And made a spear from the sinewy wood of the tree.
5.
If she lived in Michigan or the Ukraine,
She’d find, washed up on the beach in a storm like this
Limestone fossils of Devonian coral. She could study
The faint white markings: she might have to lick the stone
To see them if the wind was drying the pale surface
Even as she held it, to bring back the picture of what life
looked like
Three hundred million years ago: a honeycomb with mouths.
6.
Cells that divided and reproduced. From where? Why?
(In our century it was the fashion in philosophy
Not to ask unanswerable questions. That was left
To priests and poets, an attitude you’d probably
Approve.) Then a bacterium grew green pigment.
This was the essential miracle. It somehow unmated
Carbon dioxide to eat the carbon and turn it
Into sugar and spit out, hiss out the molecules
of oxygen the child on her way to school
Is breathing, and so bred life. Something then
of DNA, the curled musical ladder of sugars, acids.
From there to eyes, ears, wings, hands, tongues.
Armadillos, piano tuners, gnats, sonnets,
Military interrogation, the Coho salmon, the Margaret Truman rose.
7.
The people who live in Tena, on the Napo River,
Say that the black, viscid stuff that pools in the selva
Is the blood of the rainbow boa curled in the earth’s core.
The great trees in that forest house ten thousands of kinds
of beetle, reptiles no human eyes has ever seen changing
Color on the hot, green, hardly changing leaves
Whenever a faint breeze stirs them. In the understory
Bromeliads and orchids whose flecked petals and womb-
Or mouthlike flowers are the shapes of desire
In human dreams. And butterflies, larger than her palm
Held up to catch a ball or ward off fear. Along the river
Wide-leaved banyans where flocks of raucous parrots,
Fruit-eaters and seed-eaters, rise in startled flares
of red and yellow and bright green. It will seem to be poetry
Forgetting its promise of sobriety to say the rosy shinings
In the thick brown current are small dolphins rising
To the surface where gouts of the oil that burns inside
The engine of the car I’m driving ooze from the banks.
8.
The book will tell her that the gleaming appliance
That kept her milk cold in the night required
Chlorofluorocarbons—Lucretius, your master
Epictetus was right about atoms in a general way.
It turns out they are electricity having sex
In an infinite variety of permutations, Plato’s
Yearning halves of a severed being multiplied
In all the ways that all the shapes on earth
Are multiple, complex; the philosopher
Who said that the world was fire was also right—
Chlorofluorocarbons react with ozone, the gas
That makes air tingle on a sparkling day.
Nor were you wrong to describe them as assemblies,
As if evolution were a town meeting or a plebiscite.
(Your theory of wind, and of gases, was also right
And there are more of them than you supposed.)
ozone, high in the air, makes a kind of filter
Keeping out parts of sunlight damaging to skin.
The device we use to keep our food as cool
As if it sat in snow required this substance,
And it reacts with ozone. Where oxygen breed
s it
From ultraviolet light, it burns a hole in the air.
9.
They drained the marshes around Rome. Your people,
You know, were the ones who taught the world to love
vast fields of grain, the power and the order of the green,
then golden rows of it, spooled out almost endlessly.
Your poets, those in the generation after you,
Were the ones who praised the packed seed heads
And the vineyards and the olive groves and called them
“Smiling” fields. In the years since we’ve gotten
Even better at relentless simplification, but it’s taken
Until our time for it to crowd out, savagely, the rest
of life. No use to rail against our curiosity and greed.
They keep us awake. And are, for all their fury
And their urgency, compatible with intelligent restraint.
In the old paintings of the Italian Renaissance,
—In the fresco painters who came after you
(It was the time in which your poems were rediscovered—
There was a period when you, and Venus, were lost;
In those years the painters made of our desire
An allegory and a dance in the figure of three graces.
The first, the woman coming toward you, is the appetite
For life; the one who seems to turn away is chaste restraint,
And the one whom you’ve just glimpsed, her back to you,
Is beauty. The dance resembles wheeling constellations.
They made of it a figure for something elegant or lovely
Forethought gives our species. one would like to think
It makes a dance, that the black-and-white flash
of a flock of buntings in October wind, headed south
Toward winter habitat, would find that the December fields
Their kind has known and mated in for thirty centuries
or more, were still intact, that they will not go
The way of the long-billed arctic curlews who flew
From Newfoundland to Patagonia in every weather
And are gone now from the kinds on earth. The last of them
Seen by any human alit in a Texas marsh in 1964.
10.
What is to be done with our species? Because
We know we’re going to die, to be submitted
To that tingling dance of atoms once again,
It’s easy for us to feel that our lives are a dream—
As this is, in a way, a dream: the flailing rain,
The birds, the soaked red backpack of the child,
Her tendrils of wet hair, the windshield wipers,
This voice trying to speak across the centuries
Between us, even the long story of the earth,
Boreal forests, mangrove swamps, Tiberian wheat fields
In the summer heat on hillsides south of Rome—all of it
A dream, and we alive somewhere, somehow outside it,
Watching. People have been arguing for centuries
About whether or not you thought of Venus as a metaphor.
Because of the rational man they take you for.
Also about why your poem ended with a plague,
The bodies heaped in the temples of the gods.
To disappear. First one, then a few, then hundreds,
Just stopping over here, to vanish in the marsh at dusk.
So easy, in imagination, to tell the story backward,
Because the earth needs a dream of restoration—
She dances and the birds just keep arriving,
Thousands of them, immense arctic flocks, her teeming life.
POEM WITH A CUCUMBER IN IT
Sometimes from this hillside just after sunset
The rim of the sky takes on a tinge
of the palest green, like the flesh of a cucumber
When you peel it carefully.
In Crete once, in the summer,
When it was still hot at midnight,
We sat in a taverna by the water
Watching the squid boats rocking in the moonlight,
Drinking retsina and eating salads
of cool, chopped cucumber and yogurt and a little dill.
A hint of salt, something like starch, something
Like an attar of grasses or green leaves
on the tongue is the tongue
And the cucumber
Evolving toward each other.
Since cumbersome is a word,
Cumber must have been a word,
Lost to us now, and even then,
For a person feeling encumbered,
It must have felt orderly and right-minded
To stand at a sink and slice a cucumber.
If you think I am going to make
A sexual joke in this poem, you are mistaken.
In the old torment of the earth
When the fires were cooling and disposing themselves
Into granite and limestone and serpentine and shale,
It is possible to imagine that, under yellowish chemical clouds,
The molten froth, having burned long enough,
Was already dreaming of release,
But with increasing distinctness, took the form
of water, and that it was then, still more dimly, that it imagined
The dark green skin and opal green flesh of cucumbers.
DRIFT AND VAPOR (SURF FAINTLY)
How much damage do you think we do,
making love this way when we can hardly stand
each other?—I can stand you. You’re the rare person
I can always stand.—Well, yes, but you know what I mean.
—-I’m not sure I do. I think I’m more lighthearted
about sex than you are. I think it’s a little tiresome
to treat it like a fucking sacrament.—Not much of a pun.
—Not much. (She licks tiny wavelets of dried salt
from the soft flesh of his inner arm. He reaches up
to whisk sand from her breast.)—And I do like you. Mostly.
I don’t think you can expect anyone’s imagination
to light up over the same person all the time. (Sand,
peppery flecks of it, cling to the rosy, puckered skin
of her aureola in the cooling air. He studies it,
squinting, then sucks her nipple lightly.)—Umnh.
—I’m angry. You’re not really here. We come
as if we were opening a wound.—Speak for yourself.
(A young woman, wearing the ochre apron of the hotel staff,
emerges from dune grass in the distance. She carries
snow-white towels they watch her stack on a table
under an umbrella made of palm fronds.)—Look,
I know you’re hurt. I think you want me
to feel guilty and I don’t.—-I don’t want you
to feel guilty.—-What do you want then?
—I don’t know. Dinner. (The woman is humming something
they hear snatches of, rising and fading on the breeze.)
—That’s the girl who lost her child last winter.
—How do yo
u know these things? (She slips
into her suit top.)—I talk to people. I talked
to the girl who cleans our room. (He squints
down the beach again, shakes his head.)
—Poor kid. (She kisses his cheekbone.
He squirms into his trunks.)
“…WHITE OF FORGETFULNESS, WHITE OF SAFETY”
My mother was burning in a closet.
Creek water wrinkling over stones.
Sister Damien, in fifth grade, loved teaching mathematics.
Her full white sleeve, when she wrote on the board,
Swayed like the slow movement of a hunting bird,
Egret in the tidal flats,
Swan paddling in a pond.
Let A equal the distance between x and y.
The doves in the desert,
Their cinnamon coverts when they flew.
People made arguments. They had reasons for their appetites.
A child could see it wasn’t true.
In the picture of the Last Supper on the classroom wall,
All the apostles had beautiful pastel robes,
Each one the color of a flavor of sherbet.
A line is the distance between two points.
A point is indivisible.
Not a statement of fact; a definition.
It took you a second to understand the difference,
And then you loved it, loved reason,
Moving as a swan moves in a millstream.
I would not have betrayed the Lord
Before the cock crowed thrice,
But I was a child, what could I do
When they came for him?
Ticking heat, the scent of sage,
of pennyroyal. The structure of every living thing
Was praying for rain.
I AM YOUR WAITER TONIGHT AND MY NAME IS DMITRI
Is, more or less, the title of a poem by John Ashbery and has
No investment in the fact that you can get an adolescent