The Way Out of the
Wood
I
So I walked the brittle path crackling with glass
And
scattered twigs
Until right of way dissolved and I was stopped
By
boundary
Of barbed wire engrossed in thickets:
Mud in
thaw
Giving up its scrap iron.
I
turned
And followed the fence a long way down the hill.
No
path,
But tilts of embedded shale unevenly
Led me
down
Surfaces clumped with one-colored leaves
Loose
dirt
And other rock; no clear way
But over
logs
Propped and rotten in a tangle of dormant vine
I went
Through thorny shadows sprawled and looped on rock
My hand
could
break,
Steadied from tree to tree down the shale track
In a long
slant
Almost to the edge of a narrow creek
At the
bottom.
This was an unfamiliar gap in the wood:
Dry
vines
Knotted to the cleats of trees,
Dead
brush
In shade the color of a railroad spike,
And my own
absence
Cast ahead which had to mean
Presence
here
Since, having wandered far from feeling
Any
certainty, I had
come
Away from the roads I knew, following
For a long
time
The stubble ground under powerlines
Which
dipped and
rose
On towering cages, iron armatures,
Across cool
fields,
Over and under slopes, disregarding property
And
highway,
Until, leaving the hum and crackle
Of
high-tension
wires,
I followed an old path into these woods,
Such as
they were,
And like a drifting boat run suddenly aground,
Came
here.
Standing on a stump before the tangled water
I looked
back
Through February stalled before spring:
Budless
trees
Bare, dryrotted things, and the whole wood
Relapsed
into
autumn
With the smell of rot released from frozen leaves:
A false
thaw
Raising the wreckage of memory
From other
seasons,
Preventing the simple momentum of the steps
Which took
me
forward.
I turned again. The obstructed creek
Glinted
up,
Sun buckling on the water out of shape
Through
splintered
limbs
And a snare of thorn; then
Grappling
Through almost a break in growth I came to a flat
Clear place
Where curving water
Flickered
Out of the fallen woods.
Bright
seconds
Of creek shifted between transparent, thin
Panels of
ice
About to wash away: its light burden
Of
reflections carried
In downward treetops over irreducible
Yellow
pebbles
Some version of myself,
Foreshortened,
flat,
Wavering in and out of a shallow focus
Over the
paint-can
With its bottom rusted out, and Clorox bottle
Split and
white,
Full of mud and pebbles, but otherwise
Indestructible,
Shuddering with everything in the creek's
Continual
drag
Of twigs and leaves and pebbles
Along the
bottom.
Caught between rocks downstream,
A doubled
branch
Loosened and shifted, untangling in sky,
And
unsnarled in
me,
Through my scattered shadow, shifting with the rest
On the
quick
Shallow surface. I stood still on the bank.
When the
light
Changed suddenly
I felt
The cold of clay ooze upward through my legs,
Trees
darken on my
neck, and I saw
Into the involved heart of metal
And fallen
limbs
Where leaves were clumped and caught, until my mind
Was
water
But burdened with by-products,
Choked with
sediment,
Alive and moving, but imperfectly
Fluid over
gravel and
glass,
And cluttered with commerce
Come to its
last
shape
In the moving cold.
I saw
only
Things I had come so far
To avoid
awhile,
To walk and think
In other
terms
Than those assumed for me,
Had
followed me
here.
I made an abscess where the wilderness
Fell
away.
The water in the creek slowed and stopped
As, mixing
in loose
mud,
I looked into the ground glass of creek silt
And
sank
Almost to another time when
reason whirred from me
Like a coin
flung
Into a trash of vines and dormant things,
And I
stood
At the edge of a great machinery
Disengaged.
Everything that moves delights in change,
But I
Was hung on another time like a snagged branch
Struggling
to be
water,
Flailing in eloquent shape from side to side
But never
forward.
Then the world leaked into me:
First
Sense through punctures and pores,
The cables
clamped
To old ironwork of trees.
Then
I shook from my own shudder of surfaces
And heard
the sound
Of the narrow water, moving as before
Between
where I was
And had to go; I balanced at the edge,
And crossed
the
creek.
II
This side was briarless and cold, out of sun
Most of the
time, it
seemed,
With fewer treestall sycamores
Still hung
with
burrs,
And a few oaks and maples. Fallen things
Scattered
upward
Where the hillside rose ahead in its own shade
To the
fenceline,
Which, climbing almost to the ridge, disappeared
In another
thicket.
I met no stranger walking in that wood,
No
animals,
Only the trash and rocks
Giving no
guidance
Over landslides of shale and broken limbs
Where I had
to take
myself;
But I climbed uphill easily, making a path
To where
the
barbed-wire
Fence strung with brambles changed
Its
direction,
And the massed vines turned away with it.
Downhill,
A glint of railbed showed between the limbs
And empty
shrubs,
And I made for its obvious track out of the wood,
Although
the slope
down
Was lost in undergrowth and toppled trees.
I
climbed
Almost into the sun and moved downhill,
Wading
through
Uprooted stumps, gullies and barren spots
Eroding
under
vines,
Over a world that scavenged on itself,
Maple
bones
Leaning deep into the light mattress of vines
The color
of iron,
And fallen sycamores overgrown, dismantled.
Coming out
of the
cold
Leaning umber of the woods,
My own
shadow led
me
Down between the standing sycamores
to a frozen
ditch,
Its red mud glittering with fishscale ice
Too thawed
to walk
on,
Where the railbed rose up in a gravemound hump
From bitter
leaves
Half-liquid in red thaw. I jumped across,
And
scrambled
III
Up gravel and broken glass to level track.
I followed
the
rails
Toward a curve which changed a little
As I
moved,
Its bed always glittering
With
glass
Found broken in dirty gravel between the ties
But
glittering on
ahead
Where the woods were a dead sprawl of dormant growth.
A month
from here,
After the hard thaw, there would be
Abundant
drainage
Through clouds and leaves, a billion capillaries,
Though now
nothing was
left
But skin and bones of tattered sycamores,
And sky
Nailed to naked branches overhead
With iron
burrs.
Still the harsh wood oppressed me,
Bitter with
rot;
Monotonously plodding into it
Over the
level ties, as
its air
Numbed me to the cold of minerals,
I
walked
An hour along the track
Without
seeing a house,
Crossroads, or human life:
Only the
wood,
Barren and open like a dismantled motor,
Its parts
strewn
Along the banks of the track. This narrow way
Could only
lead me
Through long corridors of landscape stained
The color
of
transit,
Past backyards dark with sticky residue
Of past
combustion,
on
To mammoth linkages, a great circuit
Joining
In old ritual of conveyance
Industrial
parts
Of some great, sectioned city
With the
same
Rotten concrete and fences gone to rust,
Corrugated
streets,
Slag of peeling advertisements
In blocks
abandoned
to
A holocaust of automobiles; and lives
Lived or
not lived
In terms of the marketplace. I heard the creek
Ahead and
under,
Where the railroad bridge
Crossed a
broad
ditch;
My shadow turned, the gravel dropped away,
And the
woods
opened.
IV
I walked unbraced onto the heavy framework
Of the
trestle,
Which crossed a gully where the creek
I'd passed
before
Curved into my path again. As I moved
Its
currents
flashed
And flared up from gaps in structure
Under me;
sun-shocked
And fluent in the clear and present air,
I felt
No more heaviness
But only
balanced
Over the good, cold creek cleaning its bed
Of
mattress-springs,
Bottle-glass and ice. Cool from the open
Spaces
between ties
Rushed around me as I stepped
And sun was
in my
eyes
Warm and cold at once, the winter sun,
Rush of
things
Glossy and still in melt and movement,
Over
forgotten
Burdens of other times
Remembered
here
Only the way the creek
Beneath
me
Remembered the broken jars and mattress-springs
Wedged
between its
rocks
As currents formed along them,
Solvent
water
Pouring through and around the junk,
Wearing
away
Long histories of use,
Forgiving
each thing of
itself
Particle by particle, in its business
Of always
emptying.
I was absolved as well, in sun and wind,
Winter
again
A moment over rushing water
And good
cold
Cleansing thought: the sun's wafer
Washed on
the water
surface
As if it would wear away, be borne away,
But its
idea kept
Firm in all that wobbling
Of
surfaces
Within elliptic shapes and scatterings
Of
flickered sparks
Across the stream, never held purely true,
Tormented
at times
By quick shakings, humps and shifts in current,
But always
accounting
Its shape, allowing circumstance;
It crowned
the
stream.
But I crossed over; shadowy woods and weeds
Surrounded
me again
In their brown light, muffling the wash
Of the
creek
Until all I heard was my own step, plodding
On dirt
Heavy timber and cracked rock
Back
Into the muddy hardness of the wood
Complicated
in
swamp
Thorn, vines and trash of trees
To either
side.
V
Another mile into the afternoon
I stopped;
to the
side,
Bleak spaces between trees,
Bone-colored ice,
A mess of leaves and deadfall
Everywhere:
Silence, excepting, when I moved, my step.
I was
tiring.
The stained line of ties spread far ahead
Into
endless trees
And silences with no more sign of life.
Thinking I
was
alone,
The only one who might have come this way,
I moved on,
but my
eye
Faltered over a foundation in the woods.
Almost
hidden
there,
A house leaned heavily into its shadow's
Abandoned
shape,
Ransacked of its history.
Whatever
was left
In the warped roof and twist
Of old
structure
Straining toward collapse
But lacking
force,
Stood with another life among the wood's
Natural
wreckage,
Its frames forced out of shape,
Its muddy
glass
Reflecting all the undigested things
Thawed
loose
In this wrong weather. Suddenly the wood
Was full of
ghosts
Suspended in confusion between the seasons,
And all the
unrepaired,
Sunken, forgotten life
Was rising
up:
Shadows fell and ran in all directions
From empty
spots
In remembered light, flashing loose from leaves
As a banged
scar
Resurfaces to pulse original pain;
In that
confusion
Lives superimposed on things
And things
on lives
Rose in the empty wood and almost shimmered
To solid
life
again,
In the lumbering shadows cast by trees long
Fallen and
gone.
Then the fires faded, and my tired eyes
Looked down
the
track.
Over the crunch and dazzle of the glass and ice
Toward
horizon
Found underfoot, glazing a scum of grease
Between
ties
But glittering ahead
Where I was
going,
I walked, longing for space, to see the strip
Of sky
High over the rails
Opened
again,
And closed in only by my curving eye.
Shadows
reached
Miles from the tops of trees'
Intricacies
And rooted in my shadow as I walked:
Brightness
Of high dusk burned in the comb of a hilltop,
Golden
Over the sprawl of stones and sticks, beginning now
The
gradual
Abandonment of shapes
Known again
at dawn
When, if the thaw could end, and all the times
The mud had
given
up
Sink back and harden to a winter air,
Beside the
twisted roof
Mud would digest the glass
Sky
decorated once.
Shadows were loosening their knots of debt
Already,
and I knew
Before color failed and fluttered on the last
High
Tips of twigs where great sycamores reached
Out of
their
shades,
I ought to find a way out of the wood, even if
Only back
to the
place
I came from. Around another curve
I saw
A dark circle in the railroad ditch
To one
side:
A tire in the weeds, full of water
Iridescent,
stagnant,
And half-sunk in muck,
Tilted to
point
Away where it might have come from through the brush,
Rolling
there
After a spirited abandonment,
Bounced
from a road
Somewhere nearby, which would be sure to lead
Out to
other roads,
Out of the woods, out of the afternoon
Turning
cold and
dull.
VI
Where the woods thinned out into brackish thaw
I followed
my shadow
down
The built embankment
Onto the
track
I myself made back into the trees,
Wading into
weeds
And gathering burrs, but soon finding a way
Less
overgrown
Through a stand of wild
Honeylocust
That showed the sky through spines
And flat,
twisted
pods,
Where I could make my path straight out
Of the
muddy wood
And wasted afternoon
To built
ground
again.
I came through those trees
A little
uphill,
Where the earth was flat and solid, tilted, nude
Of
undergrowth:
Horse chestnuts, rotten acorns, and walnuts,
Tennis-ball
Sized, the spongy bitter green
Rotted
away
From black interior, which stained my palm
As I winged
one
ahead
And saw, up the gradual hill where it skipped to rest,
The narrow
mark
Of a gray strip between the thinning trees,
Either
fence
Or secondary road. Wiping my hand,
I walked
Under the decorated sycamores,
Bone
white,
Hung with round burrs
Like
ornaments,
And came at last to the outskirts of the wood.
Where my
shadow
turned
Down a pathless hillside covered with shrubs and trash,
I picked my
way
among
The fallen trunks and branches of great trees,
At
times
Wading through leafmeal. At the edge,
Enormous
horizontals
Blazed through the line of oaks
Marking the
end of the
wood;
Reddish-brown beyond a vine-bound fence,
Middle
dusk
Was iron oxide on an iron sky
Over lanes
of weeds
And a broad field of shapes glittering
Through
shrubs
Watered with gasoline,
All going
brilliant
Burnt-orange through an opening in the boundary.
I found my
way
Down through thorns a dry gray hillside, into
A ditch
Clogged with acorn shells, and up along
The
fence
I held to, feeling its pattern
Cold in my
grip,
To steady my pace over piles of rotten leaves
Toward the
opening
Where I could walk under whole sky, away
From the
afternoon
And all the cluttered wood
Had given
up.
Through the chainlink, clogged with scrub,
I could
see
A lower level, of weeds laid out with paths;
Reflecting
shapes
Flashed like water in the strained sun.
A fallen
part of the
fence
Opened downward, toward a gigantic wheel
Of great,
annihilated
iron things
Scattered far and wide on a dirt lot.
Walking
into the last
sun
VII
I
crossed
Where chainlink fence, puckered and collapsing,
Tackled by
undergrowth,
Was beaten down into the mud; and stood
At the edge
of a
junkyard.
Paths ran far ahead between stacks of cars
And piles
of tires;
roads
Spread toward the hub of the field like a city plan.
I
passed,
Wading out of undergrowth, first
Onto a wide
skirt
Of junk beyond the boundary of the yard,
Outside
commerce,
Sold for the last time; there, in a waste of parts
Too
scattered for
salvaging,
Whole cars straddled the property line,
Their hoods
gone, and
leaned
Into new shapes across the thawing ground
With
bloated magazines,
split cassettes,
Magnetic tape unspooled, creased, stripped
Of
information, inks
long ago
Bled to one color as discarded ledgers
Swelled and
buckled
And all ownership was given back
To
materials
Resuming their own life in the open mud.
Just beyond
Where the woods petered out, and just before
The
junkyard
boundary,
I had come at last to the end of the marketplace.
I walked
the unmarked
ground
Looking for some path in the high grass
To lead me
across the
margin,
In among the tenement stacks of cars
And on
into
The great wealth of our waste;
Here was
everything
Marked down to nothing,
And
supply
Scattered out of stock,
Beyond
demand,
Entering the economy of snails.
As I passed
through
That rind between places, where anything
Could fall
unclaimed,
Forgotten except by weather
Between
untended
properties,
The junkyard rose ahead through littered weeds,
And saw
My poor present refracted through the glass
Of other
times,
To other purposes:
I thought I
saw
A shattered windshield glinting whole again,
Its hanging
glass
Fill with a morning sky; and then I saw
Things
first
Give up their histories to noon light
Then
afternoon
Until at last, here by the fence of trees
Darkening
In the oldest languages
Of rust and
glitter,
All things gave up their history
To now.
Dusk followed me
Coming out
of the
cool
Woods onto the broadness of the lot,
Where I
found
Long, geometric aisles in the high grass
And
littered mud,
Crackling with each step the dark ground's
Literal
glitter
Of jars and headlights, safety glass and mirrors
Between
cars, each
Preserving the after-instant
Of its
wreck
In cold shape of reaction.
VIII
I entered
the yard,
Where bodies of automobiles, piled up high,
Made a
maze
In which I wandered always inward,
On layers
of glass and
trash,
Through dark corridors of mineral.
For a long
time
I followed what I found to follow there,
From sky to
fractured
sky,
Through inventory of old accidents,
Across a
field
Glittering with the sense of other lives
Remembered
Only in what was wasted
And
reduced
To harden to this crust of time and place.
Broken
down,
Unburdened in this field, multiplied
Past any
value,
Only these stubborn husks remained of lives
Lived out
in work
Without hope of infamy or praise,
Spent for
money
And exhausted here.
Rounding
In the long circles of concentric paths
Overtaken
machinery
Unadvertised, unbargained for,
Brought
here
After what danger, labor, sacrifice,
I found
The purpose of the road,
A cleared
space
All paths converged upon, and ended in,
At the hub
of the
yard.
I stood at the center, and looked out from there
At the
heavy pattern
Laid down enormously across the field:
I had come
across
A neglected place, far from busy lives,
Where all
our
evidence
Lay uncovered in a winter thaw
Our history
held up
An instant in a windshield's glittering, limp
Concavity,
Then drained into its dark record of impact:
Cause known
only
In rough configuration of effect.
The
spot,
Windless and quiet, where I stood,
Was the
eye
Of our terrible hurricane;
I had
found
The secret center of America.
Everywhere
I looked
To follow the scheme imposed across the field
I could
see
Elements of obliterated lives
Consumed
And totaled in the process of this place;
And I saw
that more
Was never wasted, than the vast
Anti-economy
Expanding from this point
Or never
wasted
long.
This was no desolation from a bomb.
We built
this city.
Our machinery made this, and demanded
Daily
fuel
Of human work and life,
Involving
us
To raise its product higher.
Following
My shadow changing where it ran ahead
Over
changed
things,
I headed through a vacancy outspread
Over the
great
field,
Away from the stacks of cars
Toward what
must be
Other boundaries of fence and road,
Laid to
rust
On outskirts of outskirts, this place where all roads
Dead-ended
in high
grass.
Leaving the center of the yard, I saw
Slow
darkening
Making the field of things its other self,
As air
rusted
through
To show the spaces underneath the hood,
The dark
gap
Around the engine.
IX
The cold
returned,
Resounding winter;
Cracks
crawled
On knocked windshields wrestling with their shapes,
And
contracting
metal
Sounded in all the circles outlying
As a
February air
Rose from the railbeds in a billion crystals
Over
paths
Littered with glass needles,
Where the
quick
continual
Had hovered all morning on the outstripped metal.
Now,
Passing the highest, hollow stacks of cars,
Having made
my way
Through the cold rummage of the thawing wood
Only to a
clearing
At the center of a junkyard, I came
Out
among
The last shapes of cars
Pried
apart
At hinge and weld with the slow, insinuated crow-
Bar of a
tree's
shadow,
And finding a likely road, followed it
Outward
into
The dazzle going dead
Throughout
the field,
Like the wobbling-down
After a
wreck
Of a loose hubcap rolled along the pavement.
Only
The stalled world
Turning
Again on its axis,
And the
air
Whitening in my exhausted breath
As the
whole sky
drained
Through the black zero chipped into a windshield.
Having
walked
All day through the roadless wood to find this lot
Full of
roads,
Honeycombed with roads, at the end of roads,
I followed
another
road
Where even dusk had stalled, moving again
Past
iron-flecked
Bowls of upturned hubcaps filled with water,
Cold and
tired,
Carrying nothing with me out of there.
X
I made my
way
Toward a battered gate ajar
In the last
light;
My shadow, dying out, streaked far ahead
Into the
planet's
shadow,
And rambled over gravel to the gate.
The
shale-colored
sky
Was losing its last layered sediment
To settled
dark
Where, such as it was, the usual world
Stretched
out
In little better order than the yard,
An area of
lights
Brightening with the present and the cold.
I felt
February tauten in the rigid metals
Contracting
more:
It was the end of autumn. Branches snapped
In the
sound of my
shoes on glass,
And I left the rot and tangle of the wood
Far
behind
As starry points of sycamore burrs
Were
buried
In the smoke of the cold sky darkening.
The gravel
path
Led outward to all roads beyond the fence
Marking
off
The boundary of the dead afternoon. Ahead,
All
paths
Are glittering with glass as I walk out.
New York, 1985-1988
by Thomas Bolt
"The Way Out of the Wood" copyright (c) 1989 by Thomas Bolt.
All rights reserved.
First published in Out of the Woods, Volume 84 of the Yale Series of Younger
Poets, with a
foreword by James Merrill; Yale University Press, New Haven & London, 1989.
Section VII of "The Way Out of the Wood" also appears in The Yale Younger
Poets
Anthology, edited by George Bradley, Yale University Press, New Haven & London,
1998
Out of the Woods
First (in Gutenberg sequence)
Previous (in Gutenberg sequence)
"Wedgwood"
Out of the Woods reviews
Poetry reviews
Read Unpublished Work (Password Required)
|
| |