Pilgrim Clay V, VI, VII
Posted: Fri Apr 06, 2007 2:30 am
Pilgrim Clay
V
In this heat hangs that throaty tang only
Cow-dung heaviness gives; tractors are out
Ranging the fields with manure. Swallows have
Just flown in, all swoop and dash; this, all this
Is elemental: breaking open the sod,
The harrowing, the preparing of clay
For the seed. Farming is this tending clay,
Plumbing the smells and stirrings in the earth,
Where brow-sweat precedes an awakening;
A time for what Rilke calls ‘heart-work’:
When our sensings become clay; when swallows
Return to build again precarious nests.
VI
The stars and/or whatever did conspire
In the Institute lobby, an awkward
Gawky youth to be spellbound by beauty
And fragility. Little did I guess
The strength in your grace; your gift to me:
You allowed me to (say it) love you; a first
Intimacy of the heart - a talisman
From which to bless. In the Municipal
We stood, once, gazing at a Leech painting:
A woman, on a parasol afternoon,
Summer green and lilac; you caught me
Attending you, and knew you were beloved.
VII
She took my scout’s hat, looking for a chase;
I pursued with giggling, feigned annoyance
Around the monastery guest house, until
A monk called a halt to our capering;
It was ‘68, ‘The Long Hot Summer’:
Kennedy, King. Terms like: ‘racial violence’,
‘Civil rights’ were new to me. I was learning
The difference between ‘black’ and ‘white’. It was
before Burntollet: ‘Papist’ and ‘Loyalist’,
‘North’ and ‘South’. Perhaps some old innocence
In me hasn’t learned yet that opposites
Can’t be celebrated like ‘boy’ and ‘girl’.
V
In this heat hangs that throaty tang only
Cow-dung heaviness gives; tractors are out
Ranging the fields with manure. Swallows have
Just flown in, all swoop and dash; this, all this
Is elemental: breaking open the sod,
The harrowing, the preparing of clay
For the seed. Farming is this tending clay,
Plumbing the smells and stirrings in the earth,
Where brow-sweat precedes an awakening;
A time for what Rilke calls ‘heart-work’:
When our sensings become clay; when swallows
Return to build again precarious nests.
VI
The stars and/or whatever did conspire
In the Institute lobby, an awkward
Gawky youth to be spellbound by beauty
And fragility. Little did I guess
The strength in your grace; your gift to me:
You allowed me to (say it) love you; a first
Intimacy of the heart - a talisman
From which to bless. In the Municipal
We stood, once, gazing at a Leech painting:
A woman, on a parasol afternoon,
Summer green and lilac; you caught me
Attending you, and knew you were beloved.
VII
She took my scout’s hat, looking for a chase;
I pursued with giggling, feigned annoyance
Around the monastery guest house, until
A monk called a halt to our capering;
It was ‘68, ‘The Long Hot Summer’:
Kennedy, King. Terms like: ‘racial violence’,
‘Civil rights’ were new to me. I was learning
The difference between ‘black’ and ‘white’. It was
before Burntollet: ‘Papist’ and ‘Loyalist’,
‘North’ and ‘South’. Perhaps some old innocence
In me hasn’t learned yet that opposites
Can’t be celebrated like ‘boy’ and ‘girl’.