Theodore Roethke(1908–1963)
The Lost Son
J. The Flight
At Woodlawn 2 1 heard the dead cry:
I was lulled by the slamming of iron,
A slow drip over stones,
Toads brooding wells.
All the leaves stuck out their tongues;
I shook the softening chalk of my bones,
Saying,
Snail, snail, glister me forward,
Bird, soft-sigh me h o m e ,
Worm, be with me.
This is my hard time.
Fished in an old w o u n d ,
The soft pond of repose;
N o t h i n g nibbled my line,
N o t even the m i n n o w s came.
Sat in an empty h o u s e
W a t c h i n g shadows crawl,
Scratching.
There was o n e fly.
Voice, c o m e out of the silence.
Say something.
Appear in the form of a spider
Or a m o t h beating the curtain.
Tell me:
W h i c h is the way I take;
Out of what door do I go,
W h e r e and to whom
Dark hollows said, lee 0 to the wind,shelter
T h e m o o n said, back of an eel,
The salt said, look by the sea,
Your tears are not enough praise,
You will find no comfort here,
In the kingdom of bang and blab.
Running lightly over spongy ground,
Past the pasture of flat stones,
The three elms,
The sheep strewn on a field,
Over a rickety bridge
Toward the quick-water, wrinkling and rippling.
Hunting along the river,
D o w n among the rubbish, the bug-riddled foliage,
By the muddy pond-edge, by the bog-holes,
By the shrunken lake, hunting, in the heat of summer.
The shape of a rat
It's bigger than that.
It's less than a leg
And more than a nose,
Just under the water
It usually goes.
Is it soft like a mouse
C a n it wrinkle its nose
Could it c o m e in the house
On the tips of its toes
Take the skin of a cat
And the back of an eel,
T h e n roll them in grease,—
That's the way it would feel.
It's sleek as an otter
With wide webby toes
Just under the water
It usually goes.
The weeds whined,
The snakes cried,
The cows and briars
Said to me: Die.
What a small song. What slow clouds. What dark water.
Hath the rain a father5 All the caves are ice. Only the snow's here.
I'm cold. I'm cold all over. Rub me in father and mother.
Fear was my father, Father Fear.
His look drained the stones.
What gliding shape
Beckoning through halls,
Stood poised on the stair,
Fell dreamily down
From the mouths of jugs
Perched on many shelves,
I saw substance flowing
That cold morning.
Like a slither of eels
That watery cheek
As my own tongue kissed
My lips awake.
Is this the storm's heart The ground is unstilling itself.
My veins are running nowhere. Do the bones cast out their fire
Is the seed leaving the old bed These buds are live as birds.
Where, where are the tears of the world
Let the kisses resound, flat like a butcher's palm;
Let the gestures freeze; our doom is already decided.
All the windows are burning! What's left of my life
I want the old rage, the lash of primordial milk!
Goodbye, goodbye, old stones, the time-order is going,
I have married my hands to perpetual agitation,
I run, I run to the whistle of money.
Money money money
Water water water
How cool the grass is.
Has the bird left
The stalk still sways.
Has the worm a shadow
What do the clouds say
These sweeps of light undo me.
Look, look, the ditch is running white!
I've more veins than a tree!
Kiss me, ashes, I'm falling through a dark swirl.
Light traveled over the wide field;
Stayed.
The weeds stopped swinging.
The mind moved, not alone,
Through the clear air, in the silence.
Was it light
Was it light within
Was it light within light
Stillness becoming alive,
Yet still
A lively understandable spirit
Once entertained you.
It will come again.
Be still.
Wait.