A. R. Ammons(1926–2001)
The Arc Inside and Out
For Harold Bloom
If, whittler and dumper, gross carver
into the shadiest curvings, I took branch
and meat from the stalk of life, threw
away the monies of the treasured,
treasurable mind, cleaved memory free
of the instant, if I got right down
shucking off periphery after periphery
to the glassy vague gray parabolas
and swoops of unnailable perception,
would I begin to improve the purity,
would I essentialize out the distilled
form, the glitter-stone that whether
the world comes or goes clicks gleams
and chinks of truth self-making, never
to be shuttered, the face-brilliant core
stone: or if I, amasser, heap shoveler,
depth pumper, took in all springs and
oceans, paramoecia and moons, massive
buttes and summit slants, rooted trunks
and leafages, anthologies of wise words,
schemata, all grasses (including the
tidal Spartinas,2 marginal, salty
broadsweeps) would I finally come on a
suasion, large, fully-informed, restful
scape, turning back in on itself, its
periphery enclosing our system with
its bright dot and allowing in nonparlant
quantities at the edge void, void, and
void, would I then feel plenitude
brought to center and extent, a sweet
easing away of all edge, evil, and surprise:
these two ways to dream! dreaming them's
the bumfuzzlement—the impoverished
diamond, the heterogeneous abundance
starved into oneness: ultimately, either
way, which is our peace, the little
arc-line appears, inside which is nothing,
outside which is nothing—however big,
nothing beyond: however small, nothing
within: neither way to go's to stay, stay
here, the apple an apple with its own hue
or streak, the drink of water, the drink,
the falling into sleep, restfully ever the
falling into sleep, dream, dream, and
every morning the sun comes, the sun.