Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RETURNING TO EARTH, by JAMES HARRISON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RETURNING TO EARTH, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: She / pulls the sheet of this dance
Last Line: Let the predator love his prey.
Alternate Author Name(s): Harrison, Jim
Subject(s): Aging; Despair; Introspection; Magic; United States; America


She
pulls the sheet of this dance
across me
then runs, staking
the corners far out at sea.

̺ ̺ ̺

So curious in the middle of America, the only "locus"
I know, to live and love at great distance. (Growing
up, everyone is willing to drive seventy miles to see
a really big grain elevator, ninety miles for a dance,
two hundred to look over a pair of Belgian mares
returning the next day for the purchase, three hundred
miles to see Hal Newhouser pitch in Detroit, eight
hundred miles to see the Grand Ole Opry, a thousand
miles to take the mongoloid kid to a Georgia faith healer.)
I hitched two thousand for my first glimpse of the Pacific.
When she first saw the Atlantic she said near Key Largo,
"I thought it would be bigger."

̺ ̺ ̺

I widowed my small
collection of magic
until it poisoned itself with longing.
I have learned nothing.
I give orders to the rain.
I tried to catch the tempest in a gill net.
The stars seem a little closer lately.
I'm no longer afraid to die
but is this a guidepost of lunacy?
I intend to see the ten hundred million worlds Manjushri
passed through before he failed to awaken the maiden.
Taking off and landing are the dangerous times.
I was commanded in a dream to dance.

̺ ̺ ̺

O Faustus talks to himself,
talks to himself, talks to himself,
talks to himself, talks to himself,
Faustus talks to himself,
talks to himself.

̺ ̺ ̺

Ikkyu's ten years near the whorehouses
shortens distances, is truly palpable;
and in ten years you will surely
get over your itch. Or not.

̺ ̺ ̺

Don't waste yourself staring at the moon.
All of those moon-staring-rear-view-mirror deaths!
Study the shadow of the horse turd in the grass.
There must be a difference between looking at a picture
of a bird and the actual bird (barn swallow)
fifteen feet from my nose on the shed eaves.
That cloud SSW looks like the underside
of a river in the sky.

̺ ̺ ̺

O I'm lucky
got a car that starts almost every day
tho' I want a new yellow Chevy pickup
got two letters today
and I'd rather have three
have a lovely wife
but want all the pretty ones
got three white hawks in the barn
but want a Himalayan eagle
have a planet in the basement
but would prefer the moon in the granary
have the northern lights
but want the Southern Cross.

̺ ̺ ̺

The stillness of this earth
which we pass through
with the precise speed of our dreams.

̺ ̺ ̺

I'm getting very old. If I were a mutt
in dog years I'd be seven, not stray so far.
I am large. Tarpon my age are often large
but they are inescapably fish. A porpoise
my age was the King of New Guinea in 1343.
Perhaps I am the king of my dogs, cats, horses,
but I have dropped any notion of explaining
to them why I read so much. To be mysterious
is a prerogative of kingship. I discovered
lately that my subjects do not live a life,
but are life itself. They do not recognize
the pain of the schizophrenia of kingship.
To them I am pretty much a fellow creature.

̺ ̺ ̺

So distances: yearns for Guayaquil and Petersburg,
the obvious Paris and Rome,
restraint in the Cotswolds, perfumes of Arusha,
Entebbe bristling with machine guns,
also Ecuadorian & Ethiopian airports,
border guards always whistling in boredom
and playing with machine guns;
all to count the flies on the lion's eyelids
and the lioness hobbling in deep grass
lacking one paw, to scan the marlin's caudal fin
cutting the Humboldt swell, an impossible scissors.

̺ ̺ ̺

There must be a cricket named Zagreus
in the granary tucked under a roof beam,
under which my three-year-old daughter
boogies madly,
her first taste of the Grateful Dead;
she is well out of her mind.

̺ ̺ ̺

Rain on the tin roof which covers a temple,
rain on my walking head which covers a temple,
rain covering my laugh shooting
toward the woods for no reason,
rain splattering in pasture's heat
raising cones of dust,
and off the horses' backs,
on oriole's nest in ash tree,
on my feet poking out the door,
testing the endurance of our actual pains,
biting hard against the sore tooth.

̺ ̺ ̺

She's rolling in the bear fat
She's rolling in the sand
She's climbing a vine
She's boarding a jet
She flies into the distance wearing blue shoes

̺ ̺ ̺

Having become the person I most feared in Childhood -
A DRUNKARD. They were pointed out to us
in our small town: oil workers, some poor farmers
(on Saturday marketing), a mechanic, a fired teacher.
They'd stumble when walking, sometimes yell
on the street at noon, wreck their old cars;
their wives would request special prayers in church,
and the children often came to school in winter
with no socks. We took up a collection to buy
the dump-picker's daughter shoes. Also my uncles
are prone to booze, also my father though it was well-controlled,
and now my fifteen-year war with the bottle
with whiskey removing me from the present
in a sweet, laughing haze, removing anger, anxiety,
instilling soft grandness, decorating ugliness
and reaffirming my questionable worth. SEE: Olson's
fingers touch his thumb, encircling the bottle - he
gulps deeply, talking through one night into the next
afternoon, talking, basking in Gorton's fishy odor.
So many of my brethren seem to die of busted guts.
Now there is a measured truce with maps and lines
drawn elegantly against the binge, concessions,
measurings, hesitant steps. My favorite two bars
are just north and barely south of the 45th parallel.

̺ ̺ ̺

I no longer believe in the idea of magic,
christs, the self, metal buddhas, bibles.
A horse is only the space his horseness requires.
If I pissed in the woods would a tree see my ear
fall off and would the ear return to the body
on the morning of the third day? Do bo trees
ever remember the buddhas who've slept beneath them?
I admit that yesterday I built an exploratory altar.
Who can squash his delight in incomprehension?
So on a piece of old newspaper I put an earthworm
on a maple leaf, the remains of a bluebird after
the cat was finished - head and feet, some dog hair,
shavings from when we trimmed the horses' hooves,
a snakeskin, a stalk of ragweed, a gourd,
a lemon, a cedar splinter, a nonsymbolic doorknob,
a bumblebee with his juice sucked out by a wasp.
Before this altar I invented a doggerel mantra
it is this it is this it is this

̺ ̺ ̺

It is very hard to give birds advice.
They are already members of eternity.
In their genes they have both compass
and calendar. Their wing bones are hollow.
We are surprised by how light a dead bird is.

̺ ̺ ̺

But what am I penetrating?
Only that it seems nothing convinces
itself or anyone else reliably
of its presence. It is in the distance.

̺ ̺ ̺

No Persephone in my life,
Ariadne, Helen, Pocahontas,
Evangeline of the Book House
but others not less extraordinary who step
lightly into the dream life, refusing to leave:
girl in a green dress,
woman lolling in foot-deep Caribbean,
woman on balcony near Vatican,
girl floating across Copley Square in 1958,
mythologized woman in hut in 1951,
girl weeping in lilacs,
woman slapping my face,
girl smoking joint in bathtub looking at big toe,
slender woman eating three lobsters,
woman who blew out her heart with cocaine,
girl livid and deformed in dreams,
girl breaking the window in rage,
woman sick in hotel room,
heartless woman in photo -
not heartless but a photo.

̺ ̺ ̺

My left eye is nearly blind.
No words have ever been read with it.
Not that the eye is virgin - thirty years ago
it was punctured by glass. In everything
it sees a pastel mist. The poster of Chief Joseph
could be King Kong, Hong Kong, a naked lady riding
a donkey into Salinas, Kansas. A war atrocity.
This eye is the perfect art critic. This eye
is a perfect lover saying bodies don't matter,
it is the voice. This eye can make a lightbulb
into the moon when it chooses. Once a year I open
it to the full moon out in the pasture and yell,
white light white light.

̺ ̺ ̺

A half-dozen times a day
I climb through the electric fence
on my way and back to my study
in the barnyard. I have to be cautious.
I have learned my true dimensions,
how far my body sticks out from my brain.

̺ ̺ ̺

We are each
the only world
we are going to get.

̺ ̺ ̺

I don't want to die. It would certainly
inconvenience my wife and daughters.
I am sufficiently young that it would help
my publisher unpack his warehouse of books.
It would help me stop drinking and lose weight.
I could talk to Boris Pasternak.
He never saw the film.

̺ ̺ ̺

Wanting to pull the particular nail
that will collapse the entire house
so that there is nothing there,
not even a foundation: a rubble heap,
no sign at all, just grass, weeds and trees
among which you cannot find a shard of masonry,
which like an arrowhead might suggest
an entire civilization.

̺ ̺ ̺

She was lying back in the rowboat.
It was hot.
She tickled me with her toes.
She picked lily pads.
She watched mating dragonflies.
"How many fish below us?"
"O a hundred or so."
"It would be fun to fall in love with someone."
The rower continued his rowing.

̺ ̺ ̺

Why be afraid of a process you're
already able to describe with precision?
To say you don't believe in it
is to say that you're not.
It doesn't care so why should you?
You've been given your body back
without a quarrel. See this vision
of your imagined body float toward you:
it disappears into you without a trace.
You feel full with a fullness again.
Your dimensions aren't scattered in dreams.

̺ ̺ ̺

This fat pet bird I've kept so many years,
a crow with a malformed wing
tucked against its side, no doubt a vestigial fin:
I taught him early to drink from my whiskey
or wineglass in the shed but he prefers wine.
He flies only in circles of course
but when he drinks he flies in great
circles miles wide, preferring bad days
with low cold clouds looking like leper brains.
I barely hear his whimps & howls: O jesus
the pain O shit it hurts O god let it end.
He drags himself through air mostly landing
near a screen door slamming, a baby's cry,
a dog's bark, a forest fire, a sleeping coyote.
These fabulous memories of earth!

̺ ̺ ̺

Not to live in fancy
these short hours: let shadows
fall from walls as shadows, nothing else.
New York is exactly
dead center
in New York.
Not to indulge this heartsickness as failure.
Did I write three songs or seven
or half-a-one, one line, phrases?
A single word
that might hang in the still, black air
for more than a few moments?
Then the laughter comes again.
We sing it away.
What short wicks
we fuel with our blood.

̺ ̺ ̺

Disease!
My prostate beating & pulsing
down there like a frightened turkey's heart.

̺ ̺ ̺

A cold day,
low ceiling.
A cloud the size
of a Greyhound bus
just hit the house.

̺ ̺ ̺

Offenses this summer against Nature:
poured iced tea on a garter snake's head
as he or she dozed on the elm stump,
pissed on a bumblebee (inattentive),
kicked a thousand wasps to death in my slippers.
Favors done this summer for Nature:
let the mice keep their nest in the green station wagon,
let Rachel the mare breathe her hot damp horse breath
against my bare knee when she wanted to,
tried without success to get the song sparrow out
of the shed where she had trapped herself fluttering
along the cranny under the assumption that the way out
is always the way up, and her wings lie to her
with each separate beat against the ceiling saying
there is no way down and out,
there is no way down and out,
the open door back into the world.

̺ ̺ ̺

Coleridge's pet spider
he says is very intellectual,
spins webs of deceit
straight out of his big
hanging ass.

̺ ̺ ̺

Mandrill, Mandrillus sphinx,
crest, mane, beard, yellow, purple, green,
a large fierce, gregarious baboon --
has small wit but ties himself to a typewriter
with wolfish and bloody appetite.
He is just one, thousands will follow,
something true to be found among the countless
millions of typed pages. There's a picture
of him in Tibet though no mandrills have been known
to live there. He wants to be with his picture
though there's no way to get there. So he types.
So he dreams lupanar lupanar lupanar
brothels with steam and white dust, music
that describes undiscovered constellations
so precisely the astronomers of the next century
will know where to look. Peaches dripping light.
Lupanar. The female arriving in dreams is unique,
not another like her on earth; she's created for a moment.
It only happens one time. One time O one time.
He types. She's his only real food.
O lupanar of dreams.

̺ ̺ ̺

Head bobbing right and left,
with no effort
and for the first time
I see all sides of the pillar at once,
the earth, her body.

̺ ̺ ̺

I can't jump
high anymore.

̺ ̺ ̺

He tightens
pumps in blue cold air
gasoline
the electricity from summer storms
the seven-by-seven-foot
blue face of lightning
that shot down the gravel road
like a ghost rocket.

̺ ̺ ̺

Saw the lord of crows
late at night in my living room;
don't know what true color of man --
black-white-red-yellow --
as he was hooded with the mask of a crow;
arms, legs, with primary feathers sewn to leather
downy black breast
silver bells at wrist
long feathered tail
dancing for a moment or two then disappearing.
Only in the morning did it occur to me
that it was a woman.

̺ ̺ ̺

What sways us is not each other
but our dumb insistent pulse beating
I was I am I will I was
sometimes operatic, then in church
or barroom tenor, drunkenly, in prayer,
slowly in the confusion of dreams
but the same tripartite, the three
of being here trailing off into itself,
no finale any more than a beginning
until all of us lie buried
in the stupefying ache of caskets.

̺ ̺ ̺

This earth of intentions.
Moonfucked, you can't eat or drink
or sleep at ten feet. Kneeling, love
is at nose tip. Or wound about
each other our eyes forget that they are eyes
and begin to see. You remember individual
fence posts, fish, trees, ankles,
from your tenth year.
Those savages lacking other immediate alternatives
screwed the ground to exhaustion.

̺ ̺ ̺

Bad art: walking away untouched, unmoving,
barely tickled, amused, diverted killing time,
throwing salt on the grass. The grace of Yukio Mishima's
suicide intervening in the false harmony,
Kawabata decides to live longer, also a harmony.
In bad music, the cheapest and easiest way to get
out of it infers Clapton. Eros girdled in metal
and ozone. A man in a vacuum of images, stirring
his skull with his dick, sparing himself his future,
fancy bound, unparticular, unpeculiar, following
the strings of his dreaming to more dreaming
in a sump narcosis, never having given himself
over to his life, never owning an instant.

̺ ̺ ̺

Week's eating log:
whitefish poached with lemon, onion, wine, garlic;
Chulapa -- pork roasted twelve hours with pinto beans,
red peppers, chili powder; grilled twenty-two pounds
of beef ribs for friends; a lamb leg pasted with Dijon
mustard, soy, garlic; Chinese pork ribs; menudo
just for Benny & me as no one else would eat it --
had to cook tripe five hours then mix with hominy
and peppers with chorizo tacos on the side;
copious fresh vegetables, Burgundy, Columbard, booze
with all of the above; at night fevered dreams
of her sumptuous butt, a Mercator projection,
the map of an enormous meal in my brain.
Still trying to lose weight.

̺ ̺ ̺

How strange to see a horse
stare
straight up.

̺ ̺ ̺

Everything is a good idea at the time.
Staring with stupid longing at a picture, dumbstruck
as they used to call it, an instant's whimsy;
a body needlessly unlike any other's,
deserved by someone so monstrous
as Lucrezia Borgia: how do you come to terms
with it? thinks the American. You don't, terms
being a financial word not applicable
to bodies. Wisdom shies away, the packhorse
startled at the diamondback beneath the mesquite,
the beauty of threat. Now look at her as surely
as that other beast, the dead crow beneath the apple
tree so beautiful in its black glossiness
but without eyes, feet stiff and cool as the air.
I watched it for a year and owned its bleached
shinbone but gave it to someone who needed
the shinbone of a crow.

̺ ̺ ̺

She says it's too hot,
the night's too short,
that I'm too drunk,
but it's not too anything, ever.

̺ ̺ ̺

Living all my life with a totally normal-sized dick
(cf. the authorities: Van de Velde, Masters & Johnson)
neither hedgehog or horse, neither emu or elephant
(saw one in Kenya, the girls said O my goodness)
neither wharf rat, arrogant buck dinosaur,
prepotent swan, ground squirrel, Lauxmont Admiral
famous Holstein bull who sired 200,000 artificially.
I am saved from trying to punish anyone,
from confusing it with a gun, harpoon, cannon, sword,
cudgel, Louisville Slugger. It just sits there
in the dark, shy and friendly
like the new kid at school.

̺ ̺ ̺

In our poetry we want to rub our nose hard
into whatever is before it; to purge
these dreams of pictures, photos, phantom people.
She offers a flex of butt, belly button, breasts,
slight puff of veneris, gap in teeth often capped,
grace of knees, high cheekbones and neck,
all the thickness of paper. The grandest illusion
as in ten thousand movies in all those hours
of dark, the only true sound the exploding
popcorn and the dairy fetor of butter. After the movie
a stack of magazines at the drugstore
to filter through, to be filtered through.

̺ ̺ ̺

A choral piece for a dead dog:
how real the orchestra and hundred
voices on my lawn; pagan with the dog
on a high cedar platform to give the fire
its full marriage of air; the chorus
sings DOG a thousand times, dancing
in a circle. That would be a proper
dog funeral. By god. No dreams here
but a mighty shouting of dog.

̺ ̺ ̺

Sunday night,
I'm lucky to have all of this vodka,
a gift of Stolichnaya.
And books. And a radio
playing WSM all the way from Nashville.
Four new pups in the bedroom.
The house snores. My tooth aches.
It is time to fry an egg.

̺ ̺ ̺

Heard the foghorn out at sea,
saw horses' backs shiny with rain,
felt my belly jiggle as I walked
through the barnyard in a light rain
with my daughter's small red umbrella
to protect the not-very-precious manuscript,
tiptoeing barefoot in the tall wet grass
trying to avoid the snakes.

̺ ̺ ̺

With all this rain
the pond is full.
The ducks are one week old
and already speak their language perfectly --
a soft nasal hiss.
With no instructions they skim bugs from the pond's
surface and look fearfully at me.

̺ ̺ ̺

The minister whacks off as does the insurance man,
habitual golfer, sweet lady in her bower,
as do novelists, monks, nuns in nunneries,
maidens in dormitories, stallion against fence post,
goat against puzzled pig who does not cease feeding,
and so do senators, generals, wives during TV
game shows, movie stars and football players, students
to utter distraction, teachers, butchers, world leaders,
everyone except poets who fear the dreaded
growth of hair on the palms, blindness.
They know that even in an empty hotel room
in South Dakota that someone is watching.

̺ ̺ ̺

With my dog
I watched a single crow
fly across the field.
We are each one.

̺ ̺ ̺

Thirty feet up in the air
near the top of my novel I want a bird to sing
from the crown of the barn roof.
A hundred feet away there is a grove of trees,
maple and elm and ash,
placed quite accidentally before any of us were born.
Everyone remembers who planted the lilacs
forty years and three wars ago.

̺ ̺ ̺

In the morning paper
the arsonist
who was also a paranoid schizophrenic,
a homosexual,
retarded,
an alcoholic
who lacerated his body with a penknife
and most significantly for the rest of us,
started fires where none where desired,
on whim.

̺ ̺ ̺

Spent months regathering dreams lost in the diaspora,
all of the prism's colors, birds, animals, bodies,
getting them back within the skin
where they'd do no damage.
How difficult catching them armed
only with a butterfly-catcher's net,
a gun, airplane, an ice pick,
a chalice of rainwater, a green headless
buddha on loan from a veteran of foreign wars.

̺ ̺ ̺

Saw that third eye in a dream
but couldn't remember if it looked
from a hole in a wall of ice,
or a hole in a floor of ice,
but it was an eye looking from a hole in ice.

̺ ̺ ̺

Two white-faced cattle out in the dark-green pasture,
one in the shade of the woodlot,
one out in the hot sunlight,
eating slowly and staring at each other.

̺ ̺ ̺

So exhausted after my walk from orchestrating
the moves of one billion August grasshoppers
plus fifty thousand butterflies
swimming at the heads
of fifty thousand wildflowers
red blue yellow orange
orange flowers the only things that rhyme with orange
the one rabbit in the pasture
one fly buzzing at the window
a single hot wind through the window
a man sitting at my desk resembling me.

̺ ̺ ̺

He sneaks up on the temple slowly at noon.
He's so slow it seems like it's taking years.
Now his hands are on a pillar, the fingers
encircling it, with only the tips inside the gate.

̺ ̺ ̺

After all of this long moist dreaming
I perceive how accurate the rooster's crow
is from down the road.

̺ ̺ ̺

You can suffer and not even know you're suffering
because you've been suffering so long you can't remember
another life. You're actually a dead dog on a country road.
And a man gets used to his rotten foot.
After a while it's simply a rotten foot,
and his rotten ideas are even easier to get used to
because they don't hurt as much as a rotten foot.
The road from Belsen to Watergate paved
with perfectly comfortable ideas, ideas to sleep on
like a mattress stuffed with money and death,
an actual waterbed filled with liquid gold.
So our inept tuna cravings and Japan's (she imitates
our foulest features) cost an annual
250,000 particular dolphin deaths,
certainly as dear as people to themselves
or so the evidence says.

̺ ̺ ̺

Near my lover's old frame house with a field
behind it, the grass is a brilliant gold.
Standing on the gravel road before the house
a great flock of blackbirds coming over so close
to my head I see them all individually,
eyes, crests, the feet drawn out in flight.

̺ ̺ ̺

I owe the dentist nine hundred dollars.
This is more than I made on three
of my books of poems. But then I am gloriously
free. I can let my mouth rot and quit
writing poems. I could let the dentist
write the poems while I walked into the dark
with a tray of golden teeth I'd sculpt
for myself in the forms of shark's teeth,
lion's teeth, teeth of grizzly and python.
Watch me open my mouth as I wear these wondrous
teeth. The audience gross is exactly nine hundred!
The house lights dim. My lips part.
There is a glimpse of sun.

̺ ̺ ̺

Abel always votes.
Cain usually thinks better of it
knowing not very deep in his heart
that no one deserves to be encouraged.
Abel has a good job & is a responsible screw,
but many intelligent women seem drawn
to Crazy Horse, a descendant of Cain,
even if he only gets off his buffalo pony
once a year to throw stones at the moon.
Of course these women marry Abel but at bars and parties
they are the first to turn to the opening door
to see who is coming in.

̺ ̺ ̺

I was standing near the mow door
in the darkness, a party going on in the chateau.
She was there with her sister.
We kissed then lay down on fresh straw in a paddock.
An angry stallion jumped over on top of us.
I could see his outline clearly against the sky.
Why did we die so long ago.

̺ ̺ ̺

How wind, cloud and water
blaspheme symmetry at every instant,
forms that can't be remembered and stored:
Grand Marais, Cape Ann at Eastern Point,
Lake Manyara from a cliff, Boca Grande's sharks
giving still water a moving shape -- they are there
and there and there -- the waterfall next to a girl
so obviously on a white horse, to mud
puddle cat avoids, back to Halibut Point,
Manitou convulsed in storms to thousand-mile
weed line in Sargasso Sea to brown violent confluence
of Orinoco and ocean off Devil's Gate; mixing wind,
cloud, water, the purest mathematics of their
description studied as glyphs, alchemists
everywhere working with humble gold, somewhere to begin,
having to keep eyes closed to wind, cloud, water.

̺ ̺ ̺

Saw an ox. A black horse I recognized.
A procession of carts full of flowers
pulled by nothing. Asymmetrical planets.
Fish out of their element of water.
Simple music -- a single note an hour.
How are we to hear it, if at all?
No music in statement, the lowest denominator
by which our fragments can't find each other.
But I can still hear the notes of April,
the strained, fragile notes of March:
convalescent, tentative, a weak drink
taken over and over in immense doses.
It is the body that is the suite entire,
brain firmly fused to the trunk, spine
more actual than mountains, brain moving
as a river, governed precisely by her energies.

̺ ̺ ̺

Whippoorwill. Mourning dove. Hot morning rain
changing to a violent squall coming SSW out of the lake,
thunder enveloping itself then unfolding
as cloth in wind furls, holds back, furls again;
running nearly naked in shorts to my shed,
thunder rattling windows and walls,
acorns rattling against barn's tin roof;
the floor shudders, then stillness as squall passes,
as strange as a strong wind at summer twilight
when the air is yellow. Now cool still air.
Mourning dove.
Oriole.

̺ ̺ ̺

O my darling sister
O she crossed over
she's crossed over
is planted now near her father
six feet under earth's skin -
their still point on this whirling earth
now and I think forever.

̺ ̺ ̺

Now it is as close to you as the clothes you wear.
The clothes are attached to your body
by a cord that runs up your spine, out your neck
and through the earth, back up your spine.

̺ ̺ ̺

At nineteen I began to degenerate,
slight smell of death in my gestures,
unbelieving, tentative, wailing...
so nineteen years have gone. It doesn't matter.
It might have taken fifty. Or never.
Now the barriers are dissolving, the stone fences
in shambles. I want to have my life
in cloud shapes, water shapes, wind shapes,
crow call, marsh hawk swooping over grass and weed tips.
Let the scavenger take what he finds.
Let the predator love his prey.





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