Monday, October 16, 2017

The Eyes Open to the Sound of Pulleys, or: Rest in Peace, Richard Wilbur

THE WRITER

Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.
 
Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.
 
But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which
 
The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.
   
I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash
 
And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

-----

Rest in Peace, Richard Wilbur. I liked his poems before Hecht taught me to read him, loved them after.

The above - well, either you saw the posts to Planet late night when she was at college or you didn't. The video goes with it. Two more poems, including the one I stole this post's title from below the fold.







LOVE CALLS US TO THE THINGS IN THE WORLD

Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul   
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple   
As false dawn.
                     Outside the open window   
The morning air is all awash with angels.

    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,   
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.   
Now they are rising together in calm swells   
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear   
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving   
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden   
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
                                             The soul shrinks

    From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
And cries,
               “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,   
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,   
The soul descends once more in bitter love   
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,   
    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;   
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,   
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating   
Of dark habits,
                      keeping their difficult balance.”



ADVICE TO A PROPHET

Richard Wilbur

When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city, 
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God’s name to have self-pity,
   
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range, 
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind, 
Unable to fear what is too strange.
   
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.  
How should we dream of this place without us?—
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone’s face?
   
Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost, 
How the view alters. We could believe,
    
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip 
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
   
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without 
The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return,

These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us, prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
   
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.
  
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding 
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing 
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.