Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

February 9th

The same lightening of things, talking to you now, in this room— And you—I wonder, have I been companionable to you, too, been there, any use, in your silences, your aloneness—your letter the other day, saying, “a low time”—I wish I could touch your hand, there, now . . . —We do know things. That memory, back with me now, and the shame. Now. What will we do How long can we stay interested in the lone man’s liberty? . . . I’m afraid [the individual], being saved by himself, will be lost by himself . . .—Montale February 9th The consolation of another solitude, miles away, years away; in the next room; its words, its silences; waiting to be listened for; imagined. Kinship. Meetings. We all line up to ask each other for help. Millions. One. Line up—in Swedish—associations of people lining up for food, shelter . . .—Tranströmer My whole life, I’ve never been hungry. Or without a room; with warmth, and light. Warm; fed. At the edges of this world. People who are driven out of their minds by good living.—Milosz Aloneness: physical feelings: cold, hunger. Wrongfulness. Solitude—choosing to hope to live—holding close in the cold Emily Dickinson: . . . test’s severe repairs are permitted all. . . . It is difficult not to be fictitious in so fair a place, but test’s severe repairs are permitted all. 154 door in the mountain Not to be fictitious. I can’t think of the first word. Uncovering; unthickening. Changes . . . the memories I can’t look out past, to look around: this room— Look: they join you to every fragility here Your letter, from August: At the same time there is such a strong sense, of uncovering and naming to the point of losing what you may have had . . . It was like touching the center and therefore losing it, emptying it of what you might have been able to hold on to. And your letter, saying, No one has ever asked me about “everyday life” . . . Raising your son, teaching, in Maine, alone painting, paintings not seen changing your memories changing We must account for our existence and it helps to talk openly if at all possible. I will try, And your letter, saying, We are indeed graced by our mutual friendship with B______. She has saved my life more than once and most especially this fall. No doubt you have heard from her about And you, writing, this letter today, the hidden way of each of us, buried kinship a buried crystal holding the sun kinship the salt of our hands touching the messenger 155 changing memories changing Higginson: . . . I have the greatest desire to see you, always feeling that perhaps if I could once take you by the hand I might be something to you; Dickinson: You were not aware that you saved my Life. “Love and Work”: Freud Dying –London, September 1939 He could watch his soul, a line drawing, almost a cartoon, rise up, out of his mouth, past the footpaths up a steep, concentric mountain, to enter another city: a vast, black and white city, at the top of space, precisely edged in blue and red and gold leaf. September. A gray, light absence of God. All his books were there, in his room; and the rugs over the sofas, and the small Egyptian statues, the Greek heads. Men and women with sad, lively eyes came and asked to study with him. Friends and colleagues were there, “both of the past & of the present.” But the first hour, resting for a minute, from his walk, on a bench in a green square near his house, he fell asleep. He dreamed he was walking, deep in the ocean; he was both male and female. The dome of the world fitted perfectly over the ocean floor. The slow currents filled his mind with a reasoning peacefulness he thought he must remember. High clouds of sunlight moved through the water. No one here was marked off, by coloring or sex or money. Still, as they walked slowly by him, their faces held some questioning, calm sorrow. The dream was like a voice, the singsong rhythms of 156 door in the mountain ...