Honey and Salt (9 page)

in the lonesome cry of a loon at moonrise,

is the rush of more half-words:

 

All horns are one horn

and I am the sheep, the goat,

the yak, the buffalo, the prongbuck.

 

All shells are one shell

and I am the mussel clam,

the oyster, the mother-of-pearl.

 

I have been a freshwater polyp, a star-fish,

budding into evermore births of likeness

following likeness.

 

I have spent nights as kin of singing crickets,

meadow locusts, katydids, only the males singing,

the females silent and waiting

 

I have been the calling frog with a bubble at his

throat—and the spotted snake who came to spell

doom and appeasement of hunger.

I have spoken as a brother to the walking stick

and the hesitations of his stilts and knee-joints.

 

I am the penguin and ostrich

trying to remember lost wings.

I am the snake who had many legs

trying to remember my lost legs.

 

                        I have had a thousand fish faces, sea faces,

                        sliding off into land faces, monkey faces—

                                I began in a dim green mist

                                                                of floating faces.

 

I have worn covers of thick strong hair and smooth fur.

I have shed rain and sleet with my feathers and down.

I have carried thick wool wrapping me warm as I slept

                                                                  in snow.

I have had tropic and arctic garments bestowed on me.

 

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Since death is there in the light of the sun, in the song of the wind,

Since death is there in the marvel of the sun coining up to travel its arc and go down saying, “I am time and you are time,”

Since death is there in the slow creep of every dawn and in all the steps of shadow moving into evening and dusk of stars,

Since death is there in almost inaudible chimes of every slow clocktick beginning at the birth hour there must be a tremor of music in the last little gong, the pling of the final announcement from, the Black Void.

 

Have I not seen forms

flowing into faces and voices—

numbers hoarse and high with the mating cry

over rolling white sea-horses and forked lightning,

over the infinite velvet of blue land-fog,

over sacramental bread and heavy blood roses,

over mate-brown pigeons flying into burnt wilderness,

gazing into star-pool waters holding the great serene

                                                                  constellations?

 

I meditate with the mud eel

on where we came from.

Not yet can I give the scream speech

of a great white albatross—

frozen foam and sea-drift for her

high on an iceberg's shining white hat,

whirr and sweep of her wings

in the splinters of an arc of northern lights.

 

I am a three-hundred-year-old galapagos turtle,

sleeping and eating, eating and sleeping,

blinking and easy, sleepy-eyed and easy,

while shakespeare writes a flock of plays,

while john bunyan sits in jail and writes a book,

while cromwell, napoleon, lincoln, wilson, lenin,

come and go, stride and vanish

while bryan, morgan, rockefeller, lafolette, algeld,

become names spelled and written.

I sleep, forget, remember, forget again, and ask:

        What of it?

        Don't bother me, brother.

        Don't bother a dozing turtle

        born to contemplate and yawn.

        I was a scorpion and a tarantula

        before the first huts of guadalajara,

        before the first aztecs gathered bananas.

        I was a maroon cockatoo and a green parakeet

        before the first incas fashioned bird-cages.

        In western nebraska I was a wild prairie pony

        with a white forelock down my sorrel face

        before ever a caesar or alexander or any czar

        dreamed the smoke-shadow of a dream

        of shattering armies beyond the horizon

                                                                and taking over.

 

What is this burden I carry out of yesterday?

Why am I so wise, so grand, so cunning, so ignorant?

What have I made that I haven't broken?

What have I bred that I haven't killed?

Why have I prized my skills as a killer?

What jargons, what gibberish, must I yet unlearn?

What are these bygones of dreams, moans, shadows?

Who are these people I come from who follow the ways

of long-gone time and long-gone fathers?

 

        What are these bygones

        sea-brought and land-locked?

For I am one and all of them:

they swarm in me with song, cry and murmur;

they fill my room with scurrying fish,

with apes and kangaroos, with swine and birds;

they bring arenas and theaters of action

wherein they kill, eat, crave, sing, live on,

or perish before the might of the stronger;

they stir with bleats and moans;

they fade with growls and chuckles.

 

They dream in me

and rise dripping on sea horizons

to shout hosannahs, to cry thanks,

to vanish leaving no sign nor track

on the silent lines of green mist.

 

The earth rocked me

in a cradle of winds.

The fog and the mud

clung as a wrap and home

of swaddling cloths.

And the sea sang bye-lo bye-lo

and the stars and the rains

brought changing songs: so-long so-long

joined to the sea's old bye-lo bye-lo.

 

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Deep roots moving in lush soil to send a silver-gray beech tree straight toward the sky—

Shallow roots in barren land sending their stalks of grass and weeds up over to bend in the wind with whisper tones—

Tangled and winding roots in desert wastes rising into cactus and the joshua tree to bring a hush on the air with spare and murmuring blossoms wrought from dews of night air—

Am I, are you, kin to these everliving roots? Have you, have I, one time long ago been an oak with a wind song in our leaves?

Have the bones of your torso spoken low to a sugar maple in october flaming in branch and leaf: “We can not be strangers, I know how you are what you are in root and trunk.”

 

***

 

***

 

I have said to the elephant and the flea, “Each of us makes his life in what to him is the Known and for each of us there is a vast Unknown and farther beyond the vaster Unknowable—and the Ignorance we share and share alike is immeasurable.”

The one-eyed mollusc on the sea-bottom, feathered and luminous, is my equal in what he and I know of star clusters not yet found by the best of star-gazers.

 

***

 

***

 

                The earth is a forgotten cinder.

                A heaving fireball cooled off.

                Thus the story of the rocks.

                Each river came later than the cooling.

                Next comes the freezing of the globe.

                A heaving iceball will travel alone.

                The rivers will be too cold to move.

                Each flowering valley will be a memory.

                The autobiography of a wild rose will run:

                My leaves pressed between the times

                                        of a fireball and an iceball.

 

***

 

***

 

I have been woven among meshes of long ropes

and fine filaments: older than the rocks and

fresh as the dawn of this morning today are

the everliving roots who begot me,

who poured me as one more seeker

one more swimmer in the gold and gray procession

of phantoms laughing, fighting, singing, moan-

ing toward the great cool calm of the fixed

return to the filaments of dust.

 

I am more than a traveler out of Nowhere.

Sea and land, sky and air, begot me Somewhere.

Where I go from here and now, or if I go at all

        again, the Maker of sea and land, of sky and

        air, can tell.

 

***

 

***

 

There is only one horse on the earth

and his name is All Horses.

There is only one bird in the air

and his name is All Wings.

There is only one fish in the sea

and his name is All Fins.

There is only one man in the world

and his name is All Men.

There is only one woman in the world

and her name is All Women.

There is only one child in the world

and the child's name is All Children.

There is only one Maker in the world

and His children cover the earth

and they are named All God's Children.

C
ARL
S
ANDBURG
(1878–1967) was twice awarded the Pulitzer Prize, first in 1940 for his biography of Abraham Lincoln and again in 1951 for
Complete Poems
. Before becoming known as a poet, he worked as a milkman, an ice harvester, a dishwasher, a salesman, a fireman, and a journalist. Among his classics are the
Rootabaga Stories
, which he wrote for his young daughters at the beginning of his long and distinguished literary career.