On Her Way to Heaven in 1913, Harriet Tubman Stops in New York City to Visit Wallace Stevens
Buy Issue for $25 at JHUP- On Her Way to Heaven in 1913, Harriet Tubman Stops in New York City to Visit Wallace Stevens
We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids
—Walt Whitman, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"
I have visions, you know, Wallace,things come to me, angels talk, and I have to stopwhat I'm doing and listen. I know this happens to you too,so I know you are not all that surprised to see one,you are just surprised it's me.
Somebody told me you are going to writeabout imagination and reality,how we can put them togetherto make something brand new.I know something about that.But Wallace, just the idea of freedomin our heads would not suffice. My freedomwas built bone by bone with my handsand my father's and my mother's and my sisters'.It is not less beautiful to mebecause it's made of earth and blood.
They tell me you are going to write about howwe make our world, and see, I know about that too.When we make the world in which we walkthis means our backs hauled the wood and water,our arms spun the wool and tightened the warp threads,and when it was time to make freeour strong hands split the night like a sea.
And about using an object in line of songto stand for an idea? I know that by heart.My "Good Ship Zion" was one,and my "Sweet Chariot" swinging low.And why else would the path down to Brodess's farmbe called Egypt Road?
One day you'll write that poem about Tennessee, Wallace,it's already in your head, I can almost hear it.I want to tell you, before you set it to paper,Tennessee is maybe not what you think.There were many years—right now in fact— [End Page 139] when I couldn't safely go to Tennessee.What I mean, Tennessee isn't just an idea, Wallace,it's a place where, if I went there to put a jar on a hill,it wouldn't just be wilderness surrounding me.
Wallace, what I'm saying, lay hand to earth,scrape back the fine clear skin of your sterling life,cross Brooklyn Ferry with me, your shoes in the singing grime.That fine wool suit you are wearing? Smell the sheep,taste the grass it ate, touch the hands that shearedand washed and combed and spun and woveand cut and shaped and sewed; name the flowing,the thick, sticky everyday that envelopes the soultools the mind, fuels its dream. [End Page 140]
