Paterson (Revised Edition)
Page 11
D
J
B
So long.
Later
Beautiful thing
I saw you:
Yes, said
the Lady of the House to my questioning.
Downstairs
(by the laundry tubs)
and she pointed,
smiling, to the basement, still smiling, and
went out and left me with you (alone in the house)
lying there, ill
(I don’t at all think that you
were ill)
by the wall on your damp bed, your long
body stretched out negligently on the dirty sheet .
Where is the pain?
(You put on a simper designed
not to reveal)
—the small window with two panes,
my eye level of the ground, the furnace odor .
Persephone
gone to hell, that hell could not keep with
the advancing season of pity.
—for I was overcome
by amazement and could do nothing but admire
and lean to care for you in your quietness —
who looked at me, smiling, and we remained
thus looking, each at the other . in silence .
You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for
the fire and I
attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty
Shaken by your beauty .
Shaken.
—flat on your back, in a low bed (waiting)
under the mud plashed windows among the scabrous
dirt of the holy sheets .
You showed me your legs, scarred (as a child)
by the whip .
Read. Bring the mind back (attendant upon
the page) to the day’s heat. The page also is
the same beauty: a dry beauty of the page —
beaten by whips
A tapestry hound
with his thread teeth drawing crimson from
the throat of the unicorn
. . . a yelping of white hounds
—under a ceiling like that of San Lorenzo, the long
painted beams, straight across, that preceded
the domes and arches
more primitive, square edged
. a docile queen, not bothered
to stick her tongue out at the moon, indifferent,
through loss, but .
queenly,
in bad luck, the luck of the stars, the black stars
. the night of a mine
Dear heart
It’s all for you, my dove, my
changeling
But you!
—in your white lace dress
“the dying swan”
and high-heeled slippers—tall
as you already were—
till your head
through fruitful exaggeration
was reaching the sky and the
prickles of its ecstasy
Beautiful Thing!
And the guys from Paterson
beat up
the guys from Newark and told
them to stay the hell out
of their territory and then
socked you one
across the nose
Beautiful Thing
for good luck and emphasis
cracking it
till I must believe that all
desired women have had each
in the end
a busted nose
and live afterward marked up
Beautiful Thing
for memory’s sake
to be credible in their deeds
Then back to the party!
and they maled
and femaled you jealously
Beautiful Thing
as if to discover whence and
by what miracle
there should escape, what?
still to be possessed, out of
what part
Beautiful Thing
should it look?
or be extinguished—
Three days in the same dress
up and down .
I can’t be half gentle enough,
half tender enough
toward you, toward you,
inarticulate, not half loving enough
BRIGHTen
the cor
ner
where you are!
—a flame,
black plush, a dark flame.
III.
It is dangerous to leave written that which is badly written. A chance word, upon paper, may destroy the world. Watch carefully and erase, while the power is still yours, I say to myself, for all that is put down, once it escapes, may rot its way into a thousand minds, the corn become a black smut, and all libraries, of necessity, be burned to the ground as a consequence.
Only one answer: write carelessly so that nothing that is not green will survive.
There is a drumming of submerged
engines, a beat of propellers.
The ears are water. The feet
listen. Boney fish bearing lights
stalk the eyes—which float about,
indifferent. A taste of iodine
stagnates upon the law of percent-
ages: thick boards bored through
by worms whose calcined husks
cut our fingers, which bleed
We walk into a dream, from certainty to the unascertained, in time to see . from the roseate past . a ribbed tail deploying
Tra la la la la la la la la
La tra tra tra tra tra tra
Upon which there intervenes
a sour stench of embers. So be it. Rain
falls and surfeits the river’s upper reaches,
gathering slowly. So be it. Draws together,
runnel by runnel. So be it. A broken oar
is found by the searching waters. Loosened
it begins to move. So be it. Old timbers
sigh—and yield. The well that gave sweet water
is sullied. So be it. And lilies that floated
quiet in the shallows, anchored, tug as
fish at a line. So be it. And are by their
stems pulled under, drowned in the muddy flux.
The white crane flies into the wood.
So be it. Men stand at the bridge, silent,
watching. So be it. So be it.
And there rises
a counterpart, of reading, slowly, overwhelming
the mind; anchors him in his chair. So be
it. He turns . O Paradiso! The stream
grows leaden within him, his lilies drag. So
be it. Texts mount and complicate them-
selves, lead to further texts and those
to synopses, digests and emendations. So be it.
Until the words break loose or—sadly
hold, unshaken. Unshaken! So be it. For
the made-arch holds, the water piles up debris
against it but it is unshaken. They gather
upon the bridge and look down, unshaken.
So be it. So be it. So be it.
The sullen, leaden flood, the silken flood
—to the teeth
to the very eyes
(light grey)
Henry’s the name. Just Henry,
ever’body
knows me around here: hat
pulled down hard on his skull, thick chested,
fiftyish .
I’ll hold the baby.
That was your little dog bit me last year.
Yeah, and you had him killed on me.
(the eyes)
I didn’t know he’d been killed.
You reported him and
they come and took him. He never hurt
anybody.
He bit me three times.
They come and
took him and killed him.
I’m sorry but I had
&
nbsp; to report him . .
A dog, head dropped back, under water, legs
sticking up :
a skin
tense with the wine of death
downstream
on the swift current :
Above the silence
a faint hissing, a seething hardly at first
to be noticed
—headlong!
Speed!
—marked
as by the lines on slate, mottled by petty
whirlpools
(to the teeth, to the very eyes)
a formal progression
The remains—a man of gigantic stature—were transported on the shoulders of the most renowned warriors of the surrounding country . for many hours they travelled without rest. But half way on the journey the carriers had to quit overcome by fatigue—they had walked many hours and Pogatticut was heavy. So by the side of the trail, at a place called “Whooping Boys Hollow,” they scooped out a shallow hole and laid the dead chieftain down in it while they rested. By so doing, the spot became sacred, held in veneration by the Indians.
Arrived at the burial place the funeral procession was met by Pogatticut’s brothers and their followers. There was great lamentation and the Kinte Kaye was performed in sadness.
Wyandach, the most illustrious brother, performed the burial sacrifice. Having his favorite dog, a much loved animal, brought forth, he killed him, and laid him, after painting his muzzle red, beside his brother. For three days and three nights the tribes mourned .
Pursued by the whirlpool-mouths, the dog
descends toward Acheron . Le Néant
. the sewer
a dead dog
turning
upon the water:
Come yeah, Chi Chi!
turning
as he passes .
It is a sort of chant, a sort of praise, a
peace that comes of destruction:
to the teeth,
to the very eyes
(cut lead)
I bin nipped
hundreds of times. He never done anybody any
harm .
helpless .
You had him killed on me.
About Merselis Van Giesen a curious story illustrative of the superstition of the day is to this effect: His wife was ill for a long time, confined to her bed. As she lay there, a black cat would come, night after night, and stare at her through the window, with wicked, blazing eyes. An uncanny fact about this visitation was that no one else could see the cat. That Jane was bewitched was the belief of the whole neighborhood. Moreover, the witch who exercised this spell, and who made these weird visits to the sufferer, in the guise of a cat invisible to everybody but the bewitched, was believed to be Mrs. B. who lived in the gorge in the hill beyond.
Happy souls! whose devils lived so near.
Talking the matter over with his neighbors, Merselis (he was called “Sale”) was told that if he could shoot the spectral cat with a silver bullet he would kill the creature, and put a stop to the spells exercised over his wife. He did not have a silver bullet, but he had a pair of silver sleeve buttons.
Who of us thinks so fast to switch the category
of our loves and hatreds?
Loading his gun with one of these buttons, he seated himself on the bed beside his wife, and declared his intention of shooting the witch cat. But how could he shoot a creature he could not see?
Are we any better off?
“When the cat comes,” said he to his wife, “do you point out just where it is, and I will shoot at that spot.” So they waited, she in a tremor of hope and dread—hope that the spells afflicting her would soon be ended; dread that some new torment might come to her from this daring attempt of her husband; he, in grim determination to forever end the unholy power exercised over his wife by Mrs. B., in the guise of the invisible feline. Long and silently they waited.
—what a picture of marital fidelity! dreaming as one.
At last, when their feelings had been wrought up, by the suspense to the highest pitch, Jane exclaimed “There is the black cat!” “Where?” “At the window, it’s walking on the sill, it is in the lower left-hand corner!” Quick as a flash “Sale” raised his gun and fired the silver bullet at the black cat which he could not see. With a snarl that was a scream the mysterious creature vanished forever from the gaze of Mrs. Van Giesen, who from that hour began to recover her health.
The next day “Sale” started out on a hunt through what is now known as Cedar Cliff Park. On the way he met the husband of the suspected witch. There was the usual exchange of courteous neighborly inquiries regarding the health of their respective families. Mr. B. said his wife was troubled with a sore on her leg for some time. “I would like to see that sore leg,” said “Sale.” After some demur he was taken to the house, and on one plea or another was finally permitted to examine the sore. But what particularly attracted his notice was a fresh wound, just where his silver sleeve button had struck the unfortunate creature when she had last visited his wife in the form of the spectral black witch cat! Needless to say Mrs. B. never more made those weird visitations. Perhaps it was from a sense of thanksgiving for her miraculous deliverance that Mrs. Van Giesen joined the First Presbyterian Church on Confession, Sept. 26, 1823. Merselis Van Giesen was assessed in 1807 for 62 acres of unimproved land, two horses and five cattle.
— 62 acres of unimproved land, two horses
and five cattle —
(that cures the fantasy)
The Book of Lead,
he cannot lift the pages
(Why do I bother with this
rubbish?)
Heavy plaits
tumbling massive, yellow into the cleft,
bellowing
—giving way to the spread
of the flood as it lifts to recognition in a
rachitic brain
(the water two feet now on the turnpike
and still rising)
There is no ease.
We close our eyes,
get what we use
and pay. He owes
who cannot, double.
Use. Ask no whys?
None wants our ayes.
But somehow a man must lift himself
again—
again is the magic word .
turning the in out :
Speed against the inundation
He feels he ought to do more. He had
a young girl there. Her mother told her,
Go jump off the falls, who cares? —
She was only fifteen. He feels so frustrated.
I tell him, What do you expect, you
have only two hands . ?
It was a place to see, she said, The White Shutters. He said I’d be perfectly safe there with him. But I never went. I wanted to, I wasn’t afraid but it just never happened. He had a small orchestra that played there, The Clipper Crew he called it—like in all the speakeasies of those days. But one night they came leaping downstairs from the banquet hall tearing their clothes off, the women throwing their skirts over their heads, and joined in the dancing, naked, with the others on the main floor. He took one look and then went out the back window just ahead of the police, in his dress shoes into the mud along the river bank.
Let me see, Puerto Plata is
the port of Santo Domingo.
There was a time when
they didn’t want any whites
to own anything—to
hold anything—to say, This
is mine .
I see things, . .
—the water at this stage no lullaby but a piston,
cohabitous, scouring the stones .
the rock
floating on the water (as at Mt Katmai
the pumice-covered sea was white as milk)
One can imagine
the fish hiding or
at full speed
stationary
in the leaping stream
—i
t’s undermining the railroad embankment
Hi, open up a dozen, make
it two dozen! Easy girl!
You wanna blow a fuse?
All manner of particularizations
to stay the pocky moon :
January sunshine .
1949
Wednesday, II
(10,000,000 times plus April)
—a red-butted reversible minute-glass
loaded with
salt-likewhite crystals
flowing
for timing eggs
Salut à Antonin Artaud pour les
lignes, très pures :
“et d’évocations plastiques
d’éléments de”
and
“Funeral designs”
(a beautiful, optimistic
word . . ) and
“Plants”
(it should be explained that
in this case “plants” does NOT refer to interment.)
“Wedding bouquets”
—the association
is indefensible.
S. Liz 13 Oct
(re. C.O.E. Panda Panda )
Fer got sake don’t so exaggerate
I never told you to read it.
let erlone REread it. I didn’t
say it wuz ! ! henjoyable readin.
I sd the guy had done some honest
work devilupping his theatre technique
* * *
That don’t necess/y mean making
reading matter @ all.
Enny how there must be
one hundred books (not
that one) that you need to
read fer yr/mind’s sake.
* * *
re read all the Gk tragedies in
Loeb. — plus Frobenius, plus Gesell.
plus Brooks Adams
ef you ain’t read him all. —
Then Golding’s Ovid is in
Everyman’s lib.
* * *
& nif you want a readin
list ask papa—but don’t
go rushin to read a book
just cause it is mentioned
eng passang—is fraugs.
S U B S T R A T U M
ARTESIAN WELL AT THE PASSAIC ROLLING MILL, PATERSON.
The following is the tabular account of the specimens found in this well, with the depths at which they were taken, in feet. The boring began in September, 1879, and was continued until November, 1880.
DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF MATERIALS
65 feet. . . Red sandstone, fine
110 feet. . . Red sandstone, coarse