Book Read Free

Paterson (Revised Edition)

Page 12

by William Carlos Williams


  182 feet. . . Red sandstone, and a little shale

  400 feet. . . Red sandstone, shaly

  404 feet. . . Shale

  430 feet. . . Red sandstone, fine grained

  540 feet. . . Sandy shale, soft

  565 feet. . . Soft shale

  585 feet. . . Soft shale

  600 feet. . . Hard sandstone

  605 feet. . . Soft shale

  609 feet. . . Soft shale

  1,170 feet. . . Selenite, 2 x 1 x 1/16 in.

  1,180 feet. . . Fine quicksand, reddish

  1,180 feet. . . Pyrites

  1,370 feet. . . Sandy rock, under quicksand

  1,400 feet. . . Dark red sandstone

  1,400 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  1,415 feet. . . Dark red sandstone

  1,415 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  1,415 feet. . . Fragments of red sandstone

  1,540 feet. . . Red sandstone, and a pebble of kaolin

  1,700 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  1,830 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  1,830 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  1,830 feet. . . Light red stone

  2,000 feet. . . Red shale

  2,020 feet. . . Light red sandstone

  2,050 feet. . .

  2,100 feet. . . Shaly sandstone

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

  — to the teeth, to the very eyes

  uh, uh

  FULL STOP

  —and leave the world

  to darkness

  and to

  me

  When the water has receded most things have lost their

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

  covers them

  —fertile (?) mud.

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

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

  lifelessness—that leaves the soil clogged after it,

  that glues the sandy bottom and blackens stones—so that

  they have to be scoured three times when, because of

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

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

  might say a granular stench—fouls the mind .

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

  turning the inside out: to find one phrase that will

  lie married beside another for delight . ?

  —seems beyond attainment .

  American poetry is a very easy subject to discuss for

  the simple reason that it does not exist

  Degraded. The leaf torn from

  the calendar. All forgot. Give

  it over to the woman, let her

  begin again—with insects

  and decay, decay and then insects :

  the leaves—that were varnished

  with sediment, fallen, the clutter

  made piecemeal by decay, a

  digestion takes place .

  —of this, make it of this, this

  this, this, this, this .

  Where the dredge dumped the fill,

  something, a white hop-clover

  with cordy roots (of iron) gripped

  the sand in its claws—and blossomed

  massively, where the old farm

  was and the man broke his wife’s

  cancerous jaw because she was

  too weak, too sick, that is, to

  work in the field for him as he

  thought she should .

  So thinking, he composed

  a song to her:

  to entertain her

  in her reading:

  * * *

  The birds in winter

  and in summer the flowers

  those are her two joys

  —to cover her secret sorrow

  Love is her sorrow

  over which at heart

  she cries for joy by the hour

  —a secret she will not reveal

  Her ohs are ahs

  her ahs are ohs

  and her sad joys

  fly with the birds and blossom

  with the rose

  —the edema subsides

  Who is it spoke of April? Some

  insane engineer. There is no recurrence.

  The past is dead. Women are

  legalists, they want to rescue

  a framework of laws, a skeleton of

  practices, a calcined reticulum

  of the past which, bees, they will

  fill with honey .

  It is not to be done. The seepage has

  rotted out the curtain. The mesh

  is decayed. Loosen the flesh

  from the machine, build no more

  bridges. Through what air will you

  fly to span the continents? Let the words

  fall any way at all—that they may

  hit love aslant. It will be a rare

  visitation. They want to rescue too much,

  the flood has done its work .

  Go down, peer among the fishes. What

  do you expect to save, muscle shells?

  Here’s a fossil conch (a paper weight

  of sufficient quaintness) mud

  and shells baked by a near eternity

  into a melange, hard as stone, full of

  tiny shells

  —baked by endless desiccations into

  a shelly rime—turned up

  in an old pasture whose history—

  even whose partial history, is

  death itself

  Vercingetorix, the only

  hero .

  Let’s give the canary to that

  old deaf woman; when he opens his

  bill, to hiss at her, she’ll think he

  is singing .

  Does the pulp need further maceration?

  take down the walls, invite

  the trespass. After all, the slums

  unless they are (living)

  wiped out they cannot be re-

  constituted .

  The words will have to be rebricked up, the

  —what? What am I coming to .

  pouring down?

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

  —in a hundred years, perhaps—

  the syllables

  (with genius)

  or perhaps

  two lifetimes

  Sometimes it takes longer .

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

  cherimoya is the most delicately flavored of all

  tropic fruit. . . Either I abandon you

  or give up writing .

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

  The past above, the future below

  and the present pouring down: the roar,

  the roar of the present, a speech—

  is, of necessity, my sole concern .

  They plunged, they fell in a swoon .

  or by intention, to make an end—the

  roar, unrelenting, witnessing .

  Neither the past nor the future

  Neither to stare, amnesic—forgetting.

  The language cascades into the

  invisible, beyond and above : the falls

  of which it is the visible part—

  Not until I have made of it a replica

  will my sins be forgiven and my

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

  on the sandstone crest above the old

  copper mines—where I used to see

  the images of arms and knees

  hung on nails (de Montpellier) .

  No meaning. And yet, unless I find a place

  apart from it, I am its slave,

  its sleeper, bewildered—dazzled

  by distance . I cannot stay here

  to spend my life looking into the past:

  the future’s no answer. I must

  find my meaning and lay it, white,

  beside the sliding water: myself —

  comb out the language—or succumb

  —whatever the complexion. Let

  me out! (Well, go!) this rhetoric

  is real!

  BOOK FOUR

  (1951)

  The Run to the Sea

  I.

  A N I D Y L

  Corydon & Phyllis

  Two silly women!

  (Look, Dad, I’m dancing!)

  What’s that?

  I didn’t say anything .

  except you don’t look silly .

  Semantics, my dear .

  —and I know I’m not .

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

  sweetheart, when we know each other better

  I’ll tell you a few things . .

  Thank you. Very satisfactory. My secretary

  will be at the door with your money .

  No. I prefer it that way

  O. K.

  Good-bye

  Miss . eh

  Phyllis

  Tiens! I’ll phone the agency .

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

  Shall I be walking again soon, do you think?

  Why not?

  . . . . . .

  A Letter

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

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

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

  . . . . . .

  Corydon & Phyllis

  And how are you today, darling?

  (She calls me darling now!)

  What sort of life can you lead

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

  you say?

  Ramapo

  To be sure,

  how stupid of me.

  Right.

  What was that?

  Really you’ll have to speak louder

  I said .

  Never mind.

  You mentioned a city?

  Paterson, where I trained

  Paterson!

  Yes, of course. Where Nicholas Murray Butler was

  born . and his sister, the lame one. They

  used to have silk mills there .

  until the unions ruined them. Too bad. Wonderful

  hands! I completely forget myself .

  Some hands are silver, some gold and some,

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

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

  look out of that window .

  That is the East River. The sun rises there.

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

  City Island . whatever they call it now .

  where the city’s petty criminals, the poor

  the superannuated and the insane are housed .

  Look at me when I talk to you

  —and then

  the three rocks tapering off into the water all .

  that’s left of the elemental, the primitive

  in this environment. I call them my sheep .

  Sheep, huh?

  Docile, are they not?

  What’s the idea?

  Lonesomeness perhaps. It’s a long story. Be

  their shepherdess Phyllis. And I

  shall be Corydon . inoffensively, I hope?

  Phyllis and Corydon. How lovely! Do you

  care for almonds?

  Nope. I hate all kinds of

  nuts. They get in your hair . your

  teeth, I mean .

  . . . . . .

  A Letter

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

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

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

  You ought to see this place.

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

  . . . . . .

  Corydon & Phyllis

  You must have lots of boy friends, Phyllis

  Only one

  Incredible!

  Only one I’m interested in

  right now

  What is he like?

  Who?

  Your lover

  Oh him. He’s married. I

  haven’t got a chance with him

  You hussy! And what do you do together?

  Just talk.

  . . . . . .

  Phyllis & Paterson

  Are you happy

  Happy I’ve come?

  Happy? No, I’m not happy

  Never?

  Well .

  The couch looks

  comfortable

  . . . . . .

  The Poet

  Oh Paterson! Oh married man!

  He is the city of cheap hotels and private

  entrances . of taxis at the door, the car

  standing in the rain hour after hour by

  the roadhouse entrance .

  Good-bye, dear. I had a wonderful time.
>
  Wait! there’s something . but I’ve forgotten

  what it was . something I wanted

  to tell you. Completely gone! Completely.

  Well, good-bye .

  . . . . . .

  Phyllis & Paterson

  How long can you stay?

  Six-thirty . I’ve got

  to meet the boy friend

  Take off your clothes

  No. I’m good at saying that.

  She stood

  quietly to be undressed .

  the buttons were difficult .

  This is one of my father’s

  best. You ought to have heard

  him this morning when I

  cut the tails off .

  He drew back the white

  shirt . slid aside the

  ribbons .

  Glory be to God .

  — then stripped her

  and all His Saints!

  .

  No, just broad shouldered

  .

  — on the couch, kissing and talking while his

  hands explored her body, slowly .

  courteously . persistent

  .

  Be careful .

  I’ve got an awful cold

  It’s the first

  this year. We went

  fishing in all

  that rain last week

  Who? Your father?

  — and my boy friend

  Fly fishing?

  No. Bass. But it isn’t

  the season. I know that

  but nobody saw us

  I got soaked to the skin

  Can you fish?

  Oh I have a pole and a

  line and just fish along

  We caught quite a few

  . . . . . .

  Corydon & Phyllis

  Good morning, Phyllis. You are beautiful this morning (in a common sort of way) I wonder if you know how lovely you really are, Phyllis, my little Milk Maid (That’s good! The lucky man!) I dreamt of you last night.

  .

  A Letter

  I don’t care what you say. Unless Mother writes me, herself, that you’ve stopped drinking—and I mean stopped drinking—I won’t come home.

  .

  Corydon & Phyllis

  What sort of people do you come from, Phyllis?

  My father’s a drunk.

  That’s more humility than the situation demands. Never be ashamed of your origins.

  I’m not. It’s just the truth.

  The truth! Virtue, my dear, if one had it! is only interesting in the aggregate, as you will discover . or perhaps you have already found it so. That’s our Christian teaching: not denial but forgiveness, the Prodigal Daughter. Have you ever been to bed with a man?

 

‹ Prev