meanderingagain.Hestopsandfumbles.
Hefinallygetsouthisenamelledmug.
Herecomessomelaundrytiedupinasheet,
allonitsown,threefeetabovetheground.
Oh,no—asmallblackboyisunderneath.
Sixdonkeyscomebehindtheir“godmother”
—theonewhowearsafringeoforangewool
withwoolyballsabovehereyes,andbells.
Theyveertowardthewaterasamatter
ofcourse,untilthedrover’smaretrotsup,
herwhiplash-blindedeyeontheoffside.
Abignewtruck,Mercedes-Benz,arrives
tooverawethemall.Thebody’spainted
withthrobbingrosebudsandthebumpersays
HEREAMIFORWHOMYOUHAVEBEENWAITING.
Thedriverandassistantdriverwash
theirfaces,necks,andchests.Theywashtheirfeet,
theirshoes,andputthembacktogetheragain.
Meanwhile,another,oldertruckgrindsup
inabluecloudofburningoil.Ithas
asyphiliticnose.Nevertheless,
itsgallantdrivertellsthepassersby
NOTMUCHMONEYBUTITISAMUSING.
“She’sbeeninlabornowtwodays.”“Transistors
costmuchtoomuch.”“Forlunchwetookadvantage
ofthepoorduckthedogdecapitated.”
Thesevenagesofmanaretalkative
andsoiledandthirsty.
Oilhasseepedinto
themarginsoftheditchofstandingwater
andflashesorlooksupwardbrokenly,
likebitsofmirror—no,morebluethanthat:
liketattersofthe Morphobutterfly.
GEOGRAPHYIII(1976)
FORALICEMETHFESSEL
[From“FirstLessonsinGeography,”Monteith’sGeographicalSeries,A.S.Barnes
&Co.,1884]
LESSONVI
WhatisGeography?
Adescriptionoftheearth’ssurface.
WhatistheEarth?
Theplanetorbodyonwhichwelive.
WhatistheshapeoftheEarth?
Round,likeaball.
OfwhatistheEarth’ssurfacecomposed?
Landandwater.
LESSONX
WhatisaMap?
Apictureofthewhole,orapart,oftheEarth’ssurface.
WhatarethedirectionsonaMap?
Towardthetop,North;towardthebottom,South;totheright,East;
totheleft,West.
InwhatdirectionfromthecenterofthepictureistheIsland?
North.
In what direction is the Volcano? The Cape? The Bay? The Lake? The Strait?
TheMountains?TheIsthmus?WhatisintheEast?IntheWest?IntheSouth?In the North? In the Northwest? In the Southeast? In the Northeast? In the Southwest?
IntheWaitingRoom
InWorcester,Massachusetts,
IwentwithAuntConsuelo
tokeepherdentist’sappointment
andsatandwaitedforher
inthedentist’swaitingroom.
Itwaswinter.Itgotdark
early.Thewaitingroom
wasfullofgrown-uppeople,
arcticsandovercoats,
lampsandmagazines.
Myauntwasinside
whatseemedlikealongtime
andwhileIwaitedIread
the NationalGeographic
(Icouldread)andcarefully
studiedthephotographs:
theinsideofavolcano,
black,andfullofashes;
thenitwasspillingover
inrivuletsoffire.
OsaandMartinJohnson
dressedinridingbreeches,
lacedboots,andpithhelmets.
Adeadmanslungonapole
—“LongPig,”thecaptionsaid.
Babieswithpointedheads
woundroundandroundwithstring;
black,nakedwomenwithnecks
woundroundandroundwithwire
likethenecksoflightbulbs.
Theirbreastswerehorrifying.
Ireaditrightstraightthrough.
Iwastooshytostop.
AndthenIlookedatthecover:
theyellowmargins,thedate.
Suddenly,frominside,
camean oh! ofpain
—AuntConsuelo’svoice—
notveryloudorlong.
Iwasn’tatallsurprised;
eventhenIknewshewas
afoolish,timidwoman.
Imighthavebeenembarrassed,
butwasn’t.Whattookme
completelybysurprise
wasthatitwas me:
myvoice,inmymouth.
Withoutthinkingatall
Iwasmyfoolishaunt,
oureyesgluedtothecover
ofthe NationalGeographic,
February,1918.
Isaidtomyself:threedays
andyou’llbesevenyearsold.
Iwassayingittostop
thesensationoffallingoff
theround,turningworld
intocold,blue-blackspace.
ButIfelt:youarean I,
youarean Elizabeth,
youareoneof them.
Whyshouldyoubeone,too?
Iscarcelydaredtolook
toseewhatitwasIwas.
Igaveasidelongglance
—Icouldn’tlookanyhigher—
atshadowygrayknees,
trousersandskirtsandboots
anddifferentpairsofhands
lyingunderthelamps.
Iknewthatnothingstranger
hadeverhappened,thatnothing
strangercouldeverhappen.
WhyshouldIbemyaunt,
orme,oranyone?
Whatsimilarities—
boots,hands,thefamilyvoice
Ifeltinmythroat,oreven
the NationalGeographic
andthoseawfulhangingbreasts—
heldusalltogether
ormadeusalljustone?
How—Ididn’tknowany
wordforit—how“unlikely”…
HowhadIcometobehere,
likethem,andoverhear
acryofpainthatcouldhave
gotloudandworsebuthadn’t?
Thewaitingroomwasbright
andtoohot.Itwassliding
beneathabigblackwave,
another,andanother.
ThenIwasbackinit.
TheWarwason.Outside,
inWorcester,Massachusetts,
werenightandslushandcold,
anditwasstillthefifth
ofFebruary,1918.
CrusoeinEngland
Anewvolcanohaserupted,
thepaperssay,andlastweekIwasreading
wheresomeshipsawanislandbeingborn:
atfirstabreathofsteam,tenmilesaway;
andthenablackfleck—basalt,probably—
roseinthemate’sbinoculars
andcaughtonthehorizonlikeafly.
Theynamedit.Butmypooroldisland’sstill
un-rediscovered,un-renamable.
Noneofthebookshasevergotitright.
Well,Ihadfifty-two
miserable,smallvolcanoesIcouldclimb
withafewslitherystrides—
volcanoesdeadasashheaps.
Iusedtositontheedgeofthehighestone
andcounttheothersstandingup,
nakedandleaden,withtheirheadsblownoff.
I’dthinkthatiftheywerethesize
Ithoughtvolcanoesshouldbe,thenIhad
becomeagiant;
andifIhadbecomeagiant,
Icouldn’tbeartothinkwhatsize
thegoatsandturtleswere,
orthegulls,ortheover-lappingrollers
—aglitteringhexagonofrollers
closingandclosingin,butneverquite,
glitteringandglittering,thoughthesky
wasmostlyovercast.
Myislandseemedtobe
asortofcloud-dump.Allthehemisphere’s
left-overcloudsarrivedandhung
abovethecraters—theirparchedthroats
werehottotouch.
Wasthatwhyitrainedsomuch?
Andwhysometimesthewholeplacehissed?
Theturtleslumberedby,high-domed,
hissingliketeakettles.
(AndI’dhavegivenyears,ortakenafew,
foranysortofkettle,ofcourse.)
Thefoldsoflava,runningouttosea,
wouldhiss.I’dturn.Andthenthey’dprove
tobemoreturtles.
Thebeacheswerealllava,variegated,
black,red,andwhite,andgray;
themarbledcolorsmadeafinedisplay.
AndIhadwaterspouts.Oh,
halfadozenatatime,farout,
they’dcomeandgo,advancingandretreating,
theirheadsincloud,theirfeetinmovingpatches
ofscuffed-upwhite.
Glasschimneys,flexible,attenuated,
sacerdotalbeingsofglass…Iwatched
thewaterspiralupinthemlikesmoke.
Beautiful,yes,butnotmuchcompany.
Ioftengavewaytoself-pity.
“DoIdeservethis?IsupposeImust.
Iwouldn’tbehereotherwise.Wasthere
amomentwhenIactuallychosethis?
Idon’tremember,buttherecouldhavebeen.”
What’swrongaboutself-pity,anyway?
Withmylegsdanglingdownfamiliarly
overacrater’sedge,Itoldmyself
“Pityshouldbeginathome.”Sothemore
pityIfelt,themoreIfeltathome.
Thesunsetinthesea;thesameoddsun
rosefromthesea,
andtherewasoneofitandoneofme.
Theislandhadonekindofeverything:
onetreesnail,abrightviolet-blue
withathinshell,creptovereverything,
overtheonevarietyoftree,
asooty,scrubaffair.
Snailshellslayundertheseindrifts
and,atadistance,
you’dswearthattheywerebedsofirises.
Therewasonekindofberry,adarkred.
Itriedit,onebyone,andhoursapart.
Sub-acid,andnotbad,noilleffects;
andsoImadehome-brew.I’ddrink
theawful,fizzy,stingingstuff
thatwentstraighttomyhead
andplaymyhome-madeflute
(Ithinkithadtheweirdestscaleonearth)
and,dizzy,whoopanddanceamongthegoats.
Home-made,home-made!Butaren’tweall?
Ifeltadeepaffectionfor
thesmallestofmyislandindustries.
No,notexactly,sincethesmallestwas
amiserablephilosophy.
BecauseIdidn’tknowenough.
Whydidn’tIknowenoughofsomething?
Greekdramaorastronomy?Thebooks
I’dreadwerefullofblanks;
thepoems—well,Itried
recitingtomyiris-beds,
“Theyflashuponthatinwardeye,
whichisthebliss…”Theblissofwhat?
OneofthefirstthingsthatIdid
whenIgotbackwaslookitup.
Theislandsmelledofgoatandguano.
Thegoatswerewhite,sowerethegulls,
andbothtootame,orelsetheythought
Iwasagoat,too,oragull.
Baa,baa,baaand shriek,shriek,shriek,
baa…shriek…baa…Istillcan’tshake
themfrommyears;they’rehurtingnow.
Thequestioningshrieks,theequivocalreplies
overagroundofhissingrain
andhissing,ambulatingturtles
gotonmynerves.
Whenallthegullsflewupatonce,theysounded
likeabigtreeinastrongwind,itsleaves.
I’dshutmyeyesandthinkaboutatree,
anoak,say,withrealshade,somewhere.
I’dheardofcattlegettingisland-sick.
Ithoughtthegoatswere.
Onebilly-goatwouldstandonthevolcano
I’dchristened Montd’Espoiror MountDespair
(I’dtimeenoughtoplaywithnames),
andbleatandbleat,andsnifftheair.
I’dgrabhisbeardandlookathim.
Hispupils,horizontal,narrowedup
andexpressednothing,oralittlemalice.
Igotsotiredoftheverycolors!
OnedayIdyedababygoatbrightred
withmyredberries,justtosee
somethingalittledifferent.
Andthenhismotherwouldn’trecognizehim.
Dreamsweretheworst.OfcourseIdreamedoffood
andlove,buttheywerepleasantrather
thanotherwise.ButthenI’ddreamofthings
likeslittingababy’sthroat,mistakingit
forababygoat.I’dhave
nightmaresofotherislands
stretchingawayfrommine,infinities
ofislands,islandsspawningislands,
likefrogs’eggsturningintopolliwogs
ofislands,knowingthatIhadtolive
oneachandeveryone,eventually,
forages,registeringtheirflora,
theirfauna,theirgeography.
JustwhenIthoughtIcouldn’tstandit
anotherminutelonger,Fridaycame.
(Accountsofthathaveeverythingallwrong.)
Fridaywasnice.
Fridaywasnice,andwewerefriends.
Ifonlyhehadbeenawoman!
Iwantedtopropagatemykind,
andsodidhe,Ithink,poorboy.
He’dpetthebabygoatssometimes,
andracewiththem,orcarryonearound.
—Prettytowatch;hehadaprettybody.
Andthenonedaytheycameandtookusoff.
NowIlivehere,anotherisland,
thatdoesn’tseemlikeone,butwhodecides?
Mybloodwasfullofthem;mybrain
bredislands.Butthatarchipelago
haspeteredout.I’mold.
I’mbored,too,drinkingmyrealtea,
surroundedbyuninterestinglumber.
Theknifethereontheshelf—
itreekedofmeaning,likeacrucifix.
Itlived.HowmanyyearsdidI
begit,imploreit,nottobreak?
Ikneweachnickandscratchbyheart,
thebluishblade,thebrokentip,
thelinesofwood-grainonthehandle…
Nowitwon’tlookatmeatall.
Thelivingsoulhasdribbledaway.
Myeyesrestonitandpasson.
Thelocalmuseum’saskedmeto
leaveeverythingtothem:
theflute,theknife,theshrivelledshoes,
mysheddinggoatskintrousers
(mothshavegotinthefur),
theparasolthattookmesuchatime
rememberingthewaytheribsshouldgo.
Itstillwillworkbut,foldedup,
lookslikeapluckedandskinnyfowl.
Howcananyonewantsuchthings?
; —AndFriday,mydearFriday,diedofmeasles
seventeenyearsagocomeMarch.
NightCity
[Fromtheplane]
Nofootcouldendureit,
shoesaretoothin.
Brokenglass,brokenbottles,
heapsofthemburn.
Overthosefires
noonecouldwalk:
thoseflaringacids
andvariegatedbloods.
Thecityburnstears.
Agatheredlake
ofaquamarine
beginstosmoke.
Thecityburnsguilt.
—Forguilt-disposal
thecentralheat
mustbethisintense.
Diaphanouslymph,
brightturgidblood,
spatteroutward
inclotsofgold
towhererun,molten,
inthedarkenvirons
greenandluminous
silicaterivers.
Apoolofbitumen
onetycoon
weptbyhimself,
ablackenedmoon.
Anothercried
askyscraperup.
Look!Incandescent,
itswiresdrip.
Theconflagration
fightsforair
inadreadvacuum.
Theskyisdead.
(Still,therearecreatures,
carefulones,overhead.
Theysetdowntheirfeet,theywalk
green,red;green,red.)
TheMoose
forGraceBulmerBowers
Fromnarrowprovinces
offishandbreadandtea,
homeofthelongtides
wherethebayleavesthesea
twiceadayandtakes
theherringslongrides,
whereiftheriver
entersorretreats
inawallofbrownfoam
dependsonifitmeets
thebaycomingin,
thebaynotathome;
where,siltedred,
sometimesthesunsets
facingaredsea,
andothers,veinstheflats’
lavender,richmud
inburningrivulets;
onred,gravellyroads,
downrowsofsugarmaples,
pastclapboardfarmhouses
andneat,clapboardchurches,
bleached,ridgedasclamshells,
pasttwinsilverbirches,
throughlateafternoon
abusjourneyswest,
thewindshieldflashingpink,
pinkglancingoffofmetal,
brushingthedentedflank
ofblue,beat-upenamel;
downhollows,uprises,
andwaits,patient,while
alonetravellergives
kissesandembraces
tosevenrelatives
andacolliesupervises.
Goodbyetotheelms,
tothefarm,tothedog.
Thebusstarts.Thelight