The Whole Motion: Collected Poems, 1945–1992

The Summons

Ofthem I am deadly aware, And they not ofme, in this life. Only my front teeth are showing As the dry fog mounts to my lips In a motion long buried in water, And now, one by one, my teeth Like rows ofcandles go out. In the spirit offlame, my hood Holds the face ofmy soul without burning, And I drift forward Through the hearts ofthe curdling oak trees, Borne by the river ofHeaven. My arrows, keener than snowflakes, Are with me whenever I touch them. Above my head, the trees exchange their arms In the purest fear upon earth. Silence. Whiteness. Hunting. The Summons For something out ofsight I cup a grass-blade in my hands, Tasting the root, and blow. I speak to the wind, and it lives. No hunter has taught me this call; It comes out ofchildhood and playgrounds. I hang my longbow on a branch. The wind at my feet extends Quickly out, across the lake, Containing the sound I have made. The water below me becomes Bright ploughland in its body. I breathe on my thumbs, and am blowing A horn that encircles the forest. Across the lake, a tree Now thrums in tremendous cadence. The Summons / 8I Beneath it, some being stumbles, And answers me slowly and greatly With a tongue as rasping as sawgrass. I lower my hands, and I listen To the beast that shall die ofits love. I sound my green trumpet again, And the whole wood sings in my palms. The vast trees are tuned to my bowstring And the deep-rooted voice I have summoned. I have carried it here from a playground Where I rolled in the grass with my brothers. Nothing moves, but something intends to. The water that puffed like a wing Is one flattened blaze through the branches. Something falls from the bank, and is swimming. My voice turns around me like foliage, And I pluck my longbow offthe limb Where it shines with a musical light, And crouch within death, awaiting The beast in the water, in love With the palest and gentlest ofchildren, Whom the years have turned deadly with knowledge: Who summons him forth, and now Pulls wide the great, thoughtful arrow. In the Tree House atNight And now the green household is dark. The half-moon completely is shining On the earth-lighted tops ofthe trees. To be dead, a house must be still. The floor and the walls wave me slowly; I am deep in them over my head. The needles and pine cones about me Are full ofsmall birds at their roundest, Their fists without mercy gripping Hard down through the tree to the roots To sing back at light when they feel it. Drowning with Others / 82 ...