The Boat of Quiet Hours Read online

  The Boat of Quiet Hours

  (1986)

  — for Perkins

  And, as the year​

  Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer​

  My little boat, for many quiet hours,

  With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

  John Keats​

  Endymion, Book I

  I

  Walking Alone in Late Winter

  Evening at a Country Inn

  From here I see a single red cloud​

  impaled on the Town Hall weather vane.

  Now the horses are back in their stalls,​

  and the dogs are nowhere in sight​

  that made them run and buck​

  in the brittle morning light.

  You laughed only once all day—​

  when the cat ate cucumbers​

  in Chekhov’s story . . . and now you smoke​

  and pace the long hallway downstairs.

  The cook is roasting meat for the evening meal,​

  and the smell rises to all the rooms.

  Red-faced skiers stamp past you​

  on their way in; their hunger is Homeric.

  I know you are thinking of the accident —​

  of picking the slivered glass from his hair.

  Just now a truck loaded with hay​

  stopped at the village store to get gas.

  I wish you would look at the hay—​

  the beautiful sane and solid bales of hay.

  At the Town Dump

  Sometimes I nod to my neighbor​

  as he flings lath and plaster or cleared​

  brush on the swelling pile. Talk​

  is impossible; the dozer shudders toward us,​

  flattening everything in its path.

  Last March I got stuck in the mud.

  Archie Portigue was there, thin​

  from the cancer that would kill him,​

  with his yellow pickup, its sides​

  akimbo from many loads. Archie​

  pushed as I rocked the car; the clutch​

  smelled hot; then with finesse​

  he jumped on the fender. . . . Saved,

  I saw his small body in the rearview mirror​

  get smaller as he waved.

  A boy pokes with a stick at a burnt-out​

  sofa cushion . . . He brings the insides​

  out with clear delight. Near where I stand​

  the toe of a boot protrudes from the sand.

  Today I brought the bug-riddled remains​

  of my garden. A single ripe tomato—last fruit,​

  immaculate—evaded harvest, and dangles​

  from a vine. I offer it to oblivion​

  with the rest of what was mine.

  Killing the Plants

  That year I discovered the virtues​

  of plants as companions: they don’t​

  argue, they don’t ask for much,​

  they don’t stay out until 3:00 a.m., then​

  lie to you about where they’ve been. . . .

  I can’t summon the ambition​

  to repot this grape ivy, or this sad​

  old cactus, or even to move them out​

  onto the porch for the summer,​

  where their lives would certainly​

  improve. I give them​

  a grudging dash of water—that’s all​

  they get. I wonder if they suspect

  that like Hamlet I rehearse murder​

  all hours of the day and night,​

  considering the town dump​

  and compost pile as possible graves. . . .

  The truth is that if I permit them​

  to live, they will go on giving​

  alms to the poor: sweet air, miraculous​

  flowers, the example of persistence.

  The Painters

  A hot dry day in early fall. . . .

  The men have cut the vines​

  from the shutters, and scraped​

  the clapboards clean, and now​

  their heads appear all day​

  in all the windows . . .​

  their arms or shirtless torsos,​

  or a rainbow-speckled rag​

  swinging from a belt.

  They work in earnest—​

  these are the last warm days.

  Flies bump and buzz​

  between the screens and panes,​

  torpid from last night’s frost:​

  the brittle months advance . . .​

  ruts frozen in the icy drive,​

  and the deeply black and soundless​

  nights. But now the painters

  lean out from their ladders, squint​

  against the light, and lay on​

  the thick white paint.

  From the lawn their radio predicts rain,​

  then cold Canadian air . . .

  One of them works way up​

  on the dormer peak,​

  where a few wasps levitate​

  near the vestige of a nest.

  Back from the City

  After three days and nights of rich food​

  and late talk in overheated rooms,​

  of walks between mounds of garbage​

  and human forms bedded down for the night​

  under rags, I come back to my dooryard,​

  to my own wooden step.

  The last red leaves fall to the ground​

  and frost has blackened the herbs and asters​

  that grew beside the porch. The air​

  is still and cool, and the withered grass​

  lies flat in the field. A nuthatch spirals​

  down the rough trunk of the tree.

  At the Cloisters I indulged in piety

  while gazing at a painted lindenwood Pieta—

  Mary holding her pierced and desiccated son

  across her knees; but when a man stepped close

  under the tasseled awning of the hotel,

  asking for “a quarter for someone

  down on his luck,” I quickly turned my back.

  Now I hear tiny bits of bark and moss​

  break off under the bird’s beak and claw,​

  and fall onto already-fallen leaves.

  “Do you love me?” said Christ to his disciple.​

  “Lord, you know​

  that I love you.”

  “Then feed my sheep.”

  Deer Season

  November, late afternoon. I’m driving fast,​

  only the parking lights on.

  A minor infringement of the law. . . .

  All along Route 4 men wearing orange​

  step out of the woods after a day​

  of hunting, their rifles pointed​

  toward the ground.

  The sky turns red, then​

  purple in the west, and the luminous​

  birches lean over the narrow macadam road.

  I cross the little bridge

  near the pool called The Pork Barrel,

  where the best fishing is,

  and pass the Fentons’ farm—the windows

  of the milking parlor bright, the great

  silver cooling tank beginning to chill the milk.

  I’ve seen the veal calves drink from pails​

  in their stalls. Suppose even the ear of wheat​

  suffers in the mill. . . .

  Moving fast in my car at dusk​

  I plan our evening meal.

  November Calf

  She calved in the ravine, beside​

  the green-scummed pond.

  Full clouds and mist h
ung low—​

  it was unseasonably warm. Steam​

  rose from her head as she pushed​

  and called; her cries went out​

  over the still-lush fields.

  First came the front feet, then​

  the blossom-nose, shell-pink​

  and glistening; and then the broad​

  forehead, flopping black ears,​

  and neck. .. . She worked​

  until the steaming length of him​

  rushed out onto the ground, then​

  turned and licked him with her wide​

  pink tongue. He lifted up his head​

  and looked around.

  The herd pressed close to see, then​

  frolicked up the bank, flicking​

  their tails. It looked like revelry.

  The farmer set off for the barn,​

  swinging in a widening arc​

  a frayed and knotted scrap of rope.

  The Beaver Pool in December

  The brook is still open

  where the water falls,

  but over the deeper pools

  clear ice forms; over the dark

  shapes of stones, a rotting log,

  and amber leaves that clattered down

  after the first heavy frost.

  Though I wait in the cold​

  until dusk, and though a sudden​

  bubble of air rises under the ice,

  I see not a single animal.

  The beavers thrive somewhere​

  else, eating the bark of hoarded​

  saplings. How they struggled​

  to pull the long branches​

  over the stiffening bank . . .

  but now they pass without​

  effort, all through the chilly​

  water; moving like thoughts​

  in an unconflicted mind.

  Apple Dropping into Deep Early Snow

  A jay settled on a branch, making it sway.

  The one shriveled fruit that remained​

  gave way to the deepening drift below.

  I happened to see it the moment it fell.

  Dusk is eager and comes early. A car​

  creeps over the hill. Still in the dark I try​

  to tell if I am numbered with the damned,​

  who cry, outraged, Lord, when did we see You?

  Drink, Eat, Sleep

  I never drink from this blue tin cup​

  speckled with white​

  without thinking of stars on a clear,​

  cold night—of Venus blazing low​

  over the leafless trees; and Canis​

  great and small—dogs without flesh,​

  fur, blood, or bone .. . dogs made of light,​

  apparitions of cold light, with black​

  and trackless spaces in between. . ..

  The angel gave a little book

  to the prophet, telling him to eat—

  eat and tell of the end of time.

  Strange food, infinitely strange,​

  but the pages were like honey​

  to his tongue. . . .

  Rain in January

  I woke before dawn, still​

  in a body. Water ran​

  down every window, and rushed​

  from the eaves.

  Beneath the empty feeder​

  a skunk was prowling for suet​

  or seed. The lamps flickered off​

  and then came on again.

  Smoke from the chimney​

  could not rise. It came down​

  into the yard, and brooded there​

  on the unlikelihood of reaching

  heaven. When my arm slipped​

  from the arm of the chair​

  I let it hang beside me, pale,​

  useless, and strange.

  Depression in Winter

  There comes a little space between the south​

  side of a boulder

  and the snow that fills the woods around it.

  Sun heats the stone, reveals​

  a crescent of bare ground: brown ferns,​

  and tufts of needles like red hair,​

  acorns, a patch of moss, bright green. ...

  I sank with every step up to my knees,

  throwing myself forward with a violence

  of effort, greedy for unhappiness—

  until by accident I found the stone,

  with its secret porch of heat and light,

  where something small could luxuriate, then

  turned back down my path, chastened and calm.

  Bright Sun after Heavy Snow

  A ledge of ice slides from the eaves,​

  piercing the crusted drift. Astonishing​

  how even a little violence​

  eases the mind.

  In this extreme state of light​

  everything seems flawed: the streaked​

  pane, the forced bulbs on the sill​

  that refuse to bloom. ... A wad of dust​

  rolls like a desert weed​

  over the drafty floor.

  Again I recall a neighbor’s

  small affront—it rises in my mind

  like the huge banks of snow along the road:

  the plow, passing up and down all day,

  pushes them higher and higher. . . .

  The shadow of smoke rising from the chimney​

  moves abruptly over the yard.

  The clothesline rises in the wind. One​

  wooden pin is left, solitary as a finger;​

  it, too, rises and falls.

  Ice Storm

  For the hemlocks and broad-leafed evergreens​

  a beautiful and precarious state of being. . ..

  Here in the suburbs of New Haven​

  nature, unrestrained, lops the weaker limbs​

  of shrubs and trees with a sense of aesthetics​

  that is practical and sinister. ...

  I am a guest in this house.

  On the bedside table Good Housekeeping, and​

  A Nietzsche Reader. . . .The others are still asleep.​

  The most painful longing comes over me.

  A longing not of the body. . . .

  It could be for beauty—

  I mean what Keats was panting after,

  for which I love and honor him;

  it could be for the promises of God;

  or for oblivion, nada; or some condition even more

  extreme, which I intuit, but cant quite name.

  Walking Alone in Late Winter

  How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler​

  symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair.

  In the fields the grasses are matted​

  and grey, making me think of June, when hay​

  and vetch burgeon in the heat, and warm rain​

  swells the globed buds of the peony.

  Ice on the pond breaks into huge planes. One

  sticks like a barge gone awry at the neck

  of the bridge. . . .The reeds

  and shrubby brush along the shore

  gleam with ice that shatters when the breeze

  moves them. From beyond the bog

  the sound of water rushing over trees

  felled by the zealous beavers,

  who bring them crashing down . . . Sometimes

  it seems they do it just for fun.

  Those days of anger and remorse

  come back to me; you fidgeting with your ring,

  sliding it off, then jabbing it on again.

  The wind is keen coming over the ice;​

  it carries the sound of breaking glass.

  And the sun, bright but not warm,​

  has gone behind the hill. Chill, or the fear​

  of chill, sends me hurrying home.

  II

  Mud Season

  The Hermit

  The meeting ran needlessly late,

  an
d while yawns were suppressed around the room

  the river swelled until it spilled.

  When the speaker finished, I made for the car​

  and home as fast as fog would allow—​

  until I came upon a barricade: beyond,​

  black pools eddied over the road. Detour.

  The last familiar thing I saw: the steaming​

  heaps of bark beside the lumber mill.

  No other cars on the narrow, icy lane; no house​

  or barn for miles, until the lights of a Christmas tree​

  shone from the small windows of a trailer.

  And then I knew I couldn’t be far​

  from the East Village and the main road.

  I was terribly wide awake. . . .

  To calm myself I thought of drinking water

  at the kitchen sink, in the circle of light

  the little red lamp makes in the evening . . .

  of half-filling a second glass

  and splashing it into the dish of white narcissus

  growing on the sill. In China

  this flower is called the hermit,

  and people greet the turning of the year

  with bowls of freshly opened blossoms. . . .

  The Pond at Dusk

  A fly wounds the water but the wound​

  soon heals. Swallows tilt and twitter​

  overhead, dropping now and then toward​

  the outward-radiating evidence of food.

  The green haze on the trees changes​

  into leaves, and what looks like smoke​

  floating over the neighbor’s barn​

  is only apple blossoms.

  But sometimes what looks like disaster​

  is disaster: the day comes at last,​

  and the men struggle with the casket​

  just clearing the pews.

  High Water

  Eight days of rain;​

  the ground refuses more.