.
I know a man, in the west too
in Idaho, oh, there are indians there
but you've never heard of them, they're Bannocks
and very poor, always were.
Well, riches are obvious things and then it depends
on what routes they were subsequently on.
But this man, not the man I shall tell
you about later but another; a man named Swen,
who came from Sweden to study
the language
and they asked him repeatedly --
why he stayed so long (ten years).
Two months ago, in February, would you believe it
that far north the weather was so mild we could
walk about the hills, slight snow on the ground
and be very comfortable but maybe it was the fire
in our hearts because we were tramping for a house
site, one I knew I would never use, but the weather
I tell you was so perfect and the warmth of my friend
was like the weather, all in February. Very far below
was Pocatello, a miserable accidental town even the
Union Pacific abandoned in the forties. But the hills
and the moon at night on the snow all around that bowl
and at night too Pocatello wasn't Pocatello but a jewel
the red and the blue, something you could never narrow down
to gas in glass tubes. That afternoon with our backs resting
against the vertical rocks there were... well I had to follow
him there, to know land and love it, is a great thing few
people are as lost as I am. And I love this man because he loves Idaho.
He wanted me to build a house somewhere near and I wanted to
but he you see, lives in a closed world but is very damn kind,
he is very great I like him more than it is easy to say
and it wasn't easy to disappoint him, but I think he knew,
he went on anyway describing the possibilities, that's love,
in the mists of indifference. But I just can't build houses.
At all. Although I dig the juniper and think the hills swing,
you know how very much my world is not closed but open, open.
Everywhere I am, I feel I am everywhere else. But that man in the sun
last February, with the western hat, and whom I shall not see for many
years to come, the Idaho and the snow there and the huge
purple bitter juniper berries.
in Idaho, oh, there are indians there
but you've never heard of them, they're Bannocks
and very poor, always were.
Well, riches are obvious things and then it depends
on what routes they were subsequently on.
But this man, not the man I shall tell
you about later but another; a man named Swen,
who came from Sweden to study
the language
and they asked him repeatedly --
why he stayed so long (ten years).
Two months ago, in February, would you believe it
that far north the weather was so mild we could
walk about the hills, slight snow on the ground
and be very comfortable but maybe it was the fire
in our hearts because we were tramping for a house
site, one I knew I would never use, but the weather
I tell you was so perfect and the warmth of my friend
was like the weather, all in February. Very far below
was Pocatello, a miserable accidental town even the
Union Pacific abandoned in the forties. But the hills
and the moon at night on the snow all around that bowl
and at night too Pocatello wasn't Pocatello but a jewel
the red and the blue, something you could never narrow down
to gas in glass tubes. That afternoon with our backs resting
against the vertical rocks there were... well I had to follow
him there, to know land and love it, is a great thing few
people are as lost as I am. And I love this man because he loves Idaho.
He wanted me to build a house somewhere near and I wanted to
but he you see, lives in a closed world but is very damn kind,
he is very great I like him more than it is easy to say
and it wasn't easy to disappoint him, but I think he knew,
he went on anyway describing the possibilities, that's love,
in the mists of indifference. But I just can't build houses.
At all. Although I dig the juniper and think the hills swing,
you know how very much my world is not closed but open, open.
Everywhere I am, I feel I am everywhere else. But that man in the sun
last February, with the western hat, and whom I shall not see for many
years to come, the Idaho and the snow there and the huge
purple bitter juniper berries.
The 6th: Edward Dorn, from Yugen #6, 1960
Bear Lake, southeastern Idaho, after snowfall: photo by Matthew Trump, 2004
Juniperus virginiana, berries: photo by Quadell, 2009
Great stuff..
ReplyDeleteTom, this is wonderful--thanks.... DS
ReplyDeleteTom,
ReplyDeleteThanks for this -- flew over miles/hours of whiteness (snow on hills/mountains of Idaho (?) and Wyoming (?) and Nebraska (?) and onward until it got dark -- what contrast to the green we're seeing now. And here we are, a now half sunlit, half shadowed pale green wall across the street. . . .
3.25
silver circle of sun rising into cloudless
blue sky, still shadowed pale green wall
in foreground, sound of cars in street
physical concept in the way
“thing,” corresponding
meaning, see the exact spot,
stays still on surface
grey-white clouds reflected in channel,
shadowed green of ridge across from it
And thank you, Bill and Dale.
ReplyDeleteSteve,
Heroic of you to maintain the distinctions of shadow and reflection at this great distance.
Seems the channels travel pretty well after all, west to east, east to west -- as ever you have given us to
see the exact spot...
There is something about Dorn that hits me in places I'm not used to being hit. His lines are so smoth and clean but twist and turn at the same time.
ReplyDeleteOtto,
ReplyDeleteThat's it exactly, with Dorn. Absolutely his own singular and resistant voice, flowing with things, and then cutting back against the grain to remind us that the truth of feeling is never simple, nor easily come by.
I will never forget my impression of that uniquely credible voice, nearly fifty years ago, upon first reading this passage:
That afternoon with our backs resting
against the vertical rocks there were... well I had to follow
him there, to know land and love it, is a great thing few
people are as lost as I am. And I love this man because he loves Idaho.
He wanted me to build a house somewhere near and I wanted to
but he you see, lives in a closed world but is very damn kind,
he is very great I like him more than it is easy to say
and it wasn't easy to disappoint him, but I think he knew,
he went on anyway describing the possibilities, that's love,
in the mists of indifference. But I just can't build houses.
At all. Although I dig the juniper and think the hills swing,
you know how very much my world is not closed but open, open.
Everywhere I am, I feel I am everywhere else.
Dorn's Emersonian dignity is always there underneath his frequent sarcasm and frustration. He stands in awe of the visionary Western extent. Even at his most flippant and cynical (as in Yellow Lola, for instance,) it is a love of freedom and the integrity of his own mind that ultimately stand out.
ReplyDeleteDorn was a wonderful writer.
Curtis,
ReplyDeleteYes, you've accurately and eloquently summed up the singularity of this great writer.
One of a kind, his like won't come again... at least not any time soon.
Inspecting the landforms of the west in his company was an opportunity and an education I will never forget. With his intent squinting gaze he saw not only the shapes of things at the surface but the backstory that lay behind and below.
There's a bit more on Ed's traveling eye here and here.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Tom, reading Dorn made my day.
ReplyDeleteYes, bracing.
ReplyDeleteLikewise hearing from you always perks me up, Marcia.