The Heart Is Strange: New Selected Poems Read online

  so they hug & are mean

  with themselves, and I cannot be thus.

  Why then do I repine, sick, bad, to long

  after what must not be? I lie wrong

  once more. For at fourteen

  I found my heart more carnal and sitting loose from God,

  14

  vanity & the follies of youth took hold of me;

  then the pox blasted, when the Lord returned.

  That year for my sorry face

  so-much-older Simon burned,

  so Father smiled, with love. Their will be done.

  He to me ill lingeringly, learning to shun

  a bliss, a lightning blood

  vouchsafed, what did seem life. I kissed his Mystery.

  15

  Drydust in God’s eye the aquavivid skin

  of Simon snoring lit with fountaining dawn

  when my eyes unlid, sad.

  John Cotton shines on Boston’s sin—

  I ám drawn, in pieties that seem

  the weary drizzle of an unremembered dream.

  Women have gone mad

  at twenty-one. Ambition mines, atrocious, in.

  16

  Food endless, people few, all to be done.

  As pippins roast, the question of the wolves

  turns & turns.

  Fangs of a wolf will keep, the neck

  round of a child, that child brave. I remember who

  in meeting smiled & was punisht, and I know who

  whispered & was stockt.

  We lead a thoughtful life. But Boston’s cage we shun.

  17

  The winters close, Springs open, no child stirs

  under my withering heart, O seasoned heart

  God grudged his aid.

  All things else soil like a shirt.

  Simon is much away. My executive stales.

  The town came through for the cartway by the pales,

  but my patience is short.

  I revolt from, I am like, these savage foresters

  18

  whose passionless dicker in the shade, whose glance

  impassive & scant, belie their murderous cries

  when quarry seems to show.

  Again I must have been wrong, twice.

  Unwell in a new way. Can that begin?

  God brandishes. O love, O I love. Kin,

  gather. My world is strange

  and merciful, ingrown months, blessing a swelling trance.

  19

  So squeezed, wince you I scream? I love you & hate

  off with you. Ages! Useless. Below my waist

  he has me in Hell’s vise.

  Stalling. He let go. Come back: brace

  me somewhere. No. No. Yes! everything down

  hardens I press with horrible joy down

  my back cracks like a wrist

  shame I am voiding oh behind it is too late

  20

  hide me forever I work thrust I must free

  now I all muscles & bones concentrate

  what is living from dying?

  Simon I must leave you so untidy

  Monster you are killing me Be sure

  I’ll have you later Women do endure

  I can can no longer

  and it passes the wretched trap whelming and I am me

  21

  drencht & powerful. I did it with my body!

  One proud tug greens Heaven. Marvellous,

  unforbidding Majesty.

  Swell, imperious bells. I fly.

  Mountainous, woman not breaks and will bend:

  sways God nearby: anguish comes to an end.

  Blossomed Sarah, and I

  blossom. Is that thing alive? I hear a famisht howl.

  22

  Beloved household, I am Simon’s wife,

  and the mother of Samuel—whom greedy yet I miss

  out of his kicking place.

  More in some ways I feel at a loss,

  freer. Cantablanks & mummers, nears

  longing for you. Our chopping scores my ears,

  our costume bores my eyes.

  St. George to the good sword, rise! chop-logic’s rife

  23

  & fever & Satan & Satan’s ancient fere.

  Pioneering is not feeling well,

  not Indians, beasts.

  Not all their riddling can forestall

  one leaving. Sam, your uncle has had to

  go fróm us to live with God. ‘Then Aunt went too?’

  Dear, she does wait still.

  Stricken: ‘Oh. Then he takes us one by one.’ My dear.

  24

  Forswearing it otherwise, they starch their minds.

  Folkmoots, & blether, blether. John Cotton rakes

  to the synod of Cambridge.

  Down from my body my legs flow,

  out from it arms wave, on it my head shakes.

  Now Mistress Hutchinson rings forth a call—

  should she? many creep out at a broken wall—

  affirming the Holy Ghost

  dwells in one justified. Factioning passion blinds

  25

  all to all her good, all—can she be exiled?

  Bitter sister, victim! I miss you.

  —I miss you, Anne,

  day or night weak as a child,

  tender & empty, doomed, quick to no tryst.

  —I hear you. Be kind, you who leaguer

  my image in the mist.

  —Be kind you, to one unchained eager far & wild

  26

  and if, O my love, my heart is breaking, please

  neglect my cries and I will spare you. Deep

  in Time’s grave, Love’s, you lie still.

  Lie still. —Now? That happy shape

  my forehead had under my most long, rare,

  ravendark, hidden, soft bodiless hair

  you award me still.

  You must not love me, but I do not bid you cease.

  27

  Veiled my eyes, attending. How can it be I?

  Moist, with parted lips, I listen, wicked.

  I shake in the morning & retch.

  Brood I do on myself naked.

  A fading world I dust, with fingers new.

  —I have earned the right to be alone with you.

  —What right can that be?

  Convulsing, if you love, enough, like a sweet lie.

  28

  Not that, I know, you can. This cratered skin,

  like the crabs & shells of my Palissy ewer, touch!

  Oh, you do, you do?

  Falls on me what I like a witch,

  for lawless holds, annihilations of law

  which Time and he and man abhor, foresaw:

  sharper than what my Friend

  brought me for my revolt when I moved smooth & thin,

  29

  faintings black, rigour, chilling, brown

  parching, back, brain burning, the grey pocks

  itch, a manic stench

  of pustules snapping, pain floods the palm,

  sleepless, or a red shaft with a dreadful start

  rides at the chapel, like a slipping heart.

  My soul strains in one qualm

  ah but this is not to save me but to throw me down.

  30

  And out of this I lull. It lessens. Kiss me.

  That once. As sings out up in sparkling dark

  a trail of a star & dies,

  while the breath flutters, sounding, mark,

  so shorn ought such caresses to us be

  who, deserving nothing, flush and flee

  the darkness of that light,

  a lurching frozen from a warm dream. Talk to me.

  31

  —it is Spring’s New England. Pussy willows wedge

  up in the wet. Milky crestings, fringed

  yellow, in heaven, eyed

  by the melting hand-in-hand or mere

  desirers single, heavy-footed, rapt,

  make
surge poor human hearts. Venus is trapt—

  the hefty pike shifts, sheer—

  in Orion blazing. Warblings, odours, nudge to an edge—

  32

  —Ravishing, ha, what crouches outside ought,

  flamboyant, ill, angelic. Often, now,

  I am afraid of you.

  I am a sobersides; I know.

  I want to take you for my lover. —Do.

  —I hear a madness. Harmless I to you

  am not, not I? —No.

  —I cannot but be. Sing a concord of our thought.

  33

  —Wan dolls in indigo on gold: refrain

  my western lust. I am drowning in this past.

  I lose sight of you

  who mistress me from air. Unbraced

  in delirium of the grand depths, giving away

  haunters what kept me, I breathe solid spray.

  —I am losing you!

  Straiten me on. —I suffered living like a stain:

  34

  I trundle the bodies, on the iron bars,

  over that fire backward & forth; they burn;

  bits fall. I wonder if

  I killed them. Women serve my turn.

  —Dreams! You are good. —No. —Dense with hardihood

  the wicked are dislodged, and lodged the good.

  In green space we are safe.

  God awaits us (but I am yielding) who Hell wars.

  35

  —I cannot feel myself God waits. He flies

  nearer a kindly world; or he is flown.

  One Saturday’s rescue

  won’t show. Man is entirely alone

  may be. I am a man of griefs & fits

  trying to be my friend. And the brown smock splits,

  down the pale flesh a gash

  broadens and Time holds up your heart against my eyes.

  36

  —Hard and divided heaven! creases me. Shame

  is failing. My breath is scented, and I throw

  hostile glances towards God.

  Crumpling plunge of a pestle, bray:

  sin cross & opposite, wherein I survive

  nightmares of Eden. Reaches foul & live

  he for me, this soul

  to crunch, a minute tangle of eternal flame.

  37

  I fear Hell’s hammer-wind. But fear does not wane.

  Death’s blossoms grain my hair; I cannot live.

  A black joy clashes

  joy, in twilight. The Devil said

  ‘I will deal toward her softly, and her enchanting cries

  will fool the horns of Adam.’ Father of lies,

  a male great pestle smashes

  small women swarming towards the mortar’s rim in vain.

  38

  I see the cruel spread Wings black with saints!

  Silky my breasts not his, mine, mine, to withhold

  or tender, tender.

  I am sifting, nervous, and bold.

  The light is changing. Surrender this loveliness

  you cannot make me do. But I will. Yes.

  What horror, down stormy air,

  warps towards me? My threatening promise faints—

  39

  torture me, Father, lest not I be thine!

  Tribunal terrible & pure, my God,

  mercy for him and me.

  Faces half-fanged, Christ drives abroad,

  and though the crop hopes, Jane is so slipshod

  I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam;

  that love. Prattle of children powers me home,

  my heart claps like the swan’s

  under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

  40

  As a canoe slides by on one strong stroke

  hope his hélp not I, who do hardly bear

  his gift still. But whisper

  I am not utterly. I pare

  an apple for my pipsqueak Mercy and

  she runs & all need naked apples, fanned

  their tinier envies.

  Vomitings, trots, rashes. Can be hope a cloak?

  41

  for the man with cropt ears glares. My fingers tighten

  my skirt. I pass. Alas! I pity all.

  Shy, shy, with mé, Dorothy.

  Moonrise, and frightening hoots. ‘Mother,

  how long will I be dead?’ Our friend the owl

  vanishes, darling, but your homing soul

  retires on Heaven, Mercy:

  not we one instant die, only our dark does lighten.

  42

  When by me in the dusk my child sits down

  I am myself. Simon, if it’s that loose,

  let me wiggle it out.

  You’ll get a bigger one there, & bite.

  How they loft, how their sizes delight and grate.

  The proportioned, spiritless poems accumulate.

  And they publish them

  away in brutish London, for a hollow crown.

  43

  Father is not himself. He keeps his bed,

  and threw a saffron scum Thursday. God-forsaken words

  escaped him raving. Save,

  Lord, thy servant zealous & just.

  Sam he saw back from Harvard. He did scold

  his secting enemies. His stomach is cold

  while we drip, while

  my baby John breaks out. O far from where he bred!

  44

  Bone of moaning: sung Where he has gone

  a thousand summers by truth-hallowed souls;

  be still. Agh, he is gone!

  Where? I know. Beyond the shoal.

  Still-all a Christian daughter grinds her teeth

  a little. This our land has ghosted with

  our dead: I am at home.

  Finish, Lord, in me this work thou hast begun.

  45

  And they tower, whom the pear-tree lured

  to let them fall, fierce mornings they reclined

  down the brook-bank to the east

  fishing for shiners with crookt pin,

  wading, dams massing, well, and Sam’s to be

  a doctor in Boston. After the divisive sea,

  and death’s first feast,

  and the galled effort on the wilderness endured,

  46

  Arminians, and the King bore against us;

  of an ‘inward light’ we hear with horror.

  Whose fan is in his hand

  and he will thoroughly purge his floor,

  come towards mé. I have what licks the joints

  and bites the heart, which winter more appoints.

  Iller I, oftener.

  Hard at the outset; in the ending thus hard, thus?

  47

  Sacred & unutterable Mind

  flashing thorough the universe one thought,

  I do wait without peace.

  In the article of death I budge.

  Eat my sore breath, Black Angel. Let me die.

  Body a-drain, when will you be dry

  and countenance my speed

  to Heaven’s springs? lest stricter writhings have me declined.

  48

  ‘What are those pictures in the air at night,

  Mother?’ Mercy did ask. Space charged with faces

  day & night! I place

  a goatskin’s fetor, and sweat: fold me

  in savoury arms. Something is shaking, wrong.

  He smells the musket and lifts it. It is long.

  It points at my heart.

  Missed he must have. In the gross storm of sunlight

  49

  I sniff a fire burning without outlet,

  consuming acrid its own smoke. It’s me.

  Ruined laughter sounds

  outside. Ah but I waken, free.

  And so I am about again. I hagged

  a fury at the short maid, whom tongues tagged,

  and I am sorry. Once

  less I was anxious when more passioned to upset

  50

  the mans
ion & the garden & the beauty of God.

  Insectile unreflective busyness

  blunts & does amend.

  Hangnails, piles, fibs, life’s also.

  But we are that from which draws back a thumb.

  The seasons stream and, somehow, I am become

  an old woman. It’s so:

  I look. I bear to look. Strokes once more his rod.

  51

  My window gives on the graves, in our great new house

  (how many burned?) upstairs, among the elms.

  I lie, & endure, & wonder.

  A haze slips sometimes over my dreams

  and holiness on horses’ bells shall stand.

  Wandering pacemaker, unsteadying friend,

  in a redskin calm I wait:

  beat when you will our end. Sinkings & droopings drowse.

  52

  They say thro’ the fading winter Dorothy fails,

  my second, who than I bore one more, nine;

  and I see her inearthed. I linger.

  Seaborn she wed knelt before Simon;

  Simon I, and linger. Black-yellow seething, vast

  it lies fróm me, mine: all they look aghast.

  It will be a glorious arm.

  Docile I watch. My wreckt chest hurts when Simon pales.

  53

  In the yellowing days your faces wholly fail,

  at Fall’s onset. Solemn voices fade.

  I feel no coverlet.

  Light notes leap, a beckon, swaying

  the titled, sickening ear within. I’ll—I’ll—

  I am closed & coming. Somewhere! I defile

  wide as a cloud, in a cloud,

  unfit, desirous, glad—even the singings veil—

  54

  —You are not ready? You áre ready. Pass,

  as shadow gathers shadow in the welling night.

  Fireflies of childhood torch

  you down. We commit our sister down.

  One candle mourn by, which a lover gave,

  the use’s edge and order of her grave.

  Quiet? Moisture shoots.

  Hungry throngs collect. They sword into the carcass.

  55

  Headstones stagger under great draughts of time

  after heads pass out, and their world must reel

  speechless, blind in the end

  about its chilling star: thrift tuft,

  whin cushion—nothing. Already with the wounded flying

  dark air fills, I am a closet of secrets dying,

  races murder, foxholes hold men,

  reactor piles wage slow upon the wet brain rime.

  56

  I must pretend to leave you. Only you draw off

  a benevolent phantom. I say you seem to me

  drowned towns off England,

  featureless as those myriads

  who what bequeathed save fire-ash, fossils, burled

  in the open river-drifts of the Old World?

  Simon lived on for years.

  I renounce not even ragged glances, small teeth, nothing,

  57

  O all your ages at the mercy of my loves

  together lie at once, forever or