Wednesday, January 30, 2019

Denise Levertov - “A Tree Telling Of Orpheus”

White dawn. Stillness.      When the rippling began
  I took it for a sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
  of salt, of treeless horizons. but the white fog
didn’t stir; the leaved of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.          Yet the rippling drew nearer — and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
                Yet I was not afraid, only
                deeply alert.I was the first to see him, for I grew
  out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
                            twigs at their ends,
and the head that’s crowned by brown or gold grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
more like a flower’s.
                  He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind’s voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
                      came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
  as if rain
        rose from below and around me
  instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
  I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
  what the lark knows; all my sap
        was mounting towards the sun that by now
            had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.        He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
        the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! there was no twig of me not
                      trembling with joy and fear.Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
                  came into my roots
                      out of the earth,
                  into my bark
                      out of the air,
                  into the pores of my greenest shoots
                      gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.
He told of journeys,
        of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
  of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots…
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
            and I, a tree, understood words — ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling’s that
                      grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.                              Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
  As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
  were both frost and fire, its chord flamed
up to the crown of me.              I was seed again.
                  I was fern in the swamp.
                      I was coal.And at the heart of my wood
(so close I was to becoming man or god)
  there was a kind of silence, a kind of sickness,
        something akin to what men call boredom,
                                something
(the poem descended a scale, a stream over stones)
        that gives to a candle a coldness
            in the midst of its burning, he said.It was then,
        when in the blaze of his power that
                  reached me and changed me
        I thought I should fall my length,
that the singer began
            to leave me.      Slowly
        moved from my noon shadow
                                to open light,
words leaping and dancing over his shoulders
back to me
        rivery sweep of lyre-tones becoming
slowly again
        ripple.And I              in terror
                  but not in doubt of
                                what I must do
in anguish, in haste,
            wrenched from the earth root after root,
the soil heaving and cracking, the moss tearing asunder —
and behind me the others: my brothers
forgotten since dawn. In the forest
they too had heard,
and were pulling their roots in pain
out of a thousand year’s layers of dead leaves,
  rolling the rocks away,
                  breaking themselves
                                    out of
                                their depths.      You would have thought we would lose the sound of the lyre,
                  of the singing
so dreadful the storm-sounds were, where there was no storm,
            no wind but the rush of our
        branches moving, our trunks breasting the air.
                  But the music!
                              The music reached us.
Clumsily,
  stumbling over our own roots,
                          rustling our leaves
                                      in answer,
we moved, we followed.All day we followed, up hill and down.
                            We learned to dance,
for he would stop, where the ground was flat,
                                and words he said
taught us to leap and to wind in and out
around one another    in figures    the lyre’s measure designed.The singer
        laughed till he wept to see us, he was so glad.
                                      At sunset
we came to this place I stand in, this knoll
with its ancient grove that was bare grass then.
        In the last light of that day his song became
farewell.
        He stilled our longing.
        He sang our sun-dried roots back into earth,
watered them: all-night rain of music so quiet
                                      we could almost
                            not hear it in the
                                moonless dark.
By dawn he was gone.
                  We have stood here since,
in our new life.
            We have waited.
                      He does not return.
It is said he made his earth-journey, and lost
what he sought.
            It is said they felled him
and cut up his limbs for firewood.
                                And it is said
his head still sang and was swept out to sea singing.
Perhaps he will not return.
                      But what we have lived
comes back to us.
            We see more.
                      We feel, as our rings increase,
something that lifts our branches, that stretches our furthest
                                      leaf-tips
further.
  The wind, the birds,
                      do not sound poorer but clearer,
recalling our agony, and the way we danced.
The music!

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