James Dickey

(2 February 1923 – 19 January 1997 / Atlanta, Georgia)

Pursuit From Under


Often, in these blue meadows,
I hear what passes for the bark of seals

And on August week ends the cold of a personal ice age
Comes up through my bare feet
Which are trying to walk like a boy's again
So that nothing on earth can have changed
On the ground where I was raised.

The dark grass here is like
The pads of mukluks going on and on

Because I once burned kerosene to read
Myself near the North Pole
In the journal of Arctic explorers
Found, years after death, preserved
In a tent, part of whose canvas they had eaten

Before the last entry.
All over my father's land

The seal holes sigh like an organ,
And one entry carries more terror
Than the blank page that signified death
In 1912, on the icecap.
It says that, under the ice,

The killer whale darts and distorts,
Cut down by the flawing glass

To a weasel's shadow,
And when, through his ceiling, he sees
Anything darker than snow
He falls away
To gather more and more force

From the iron depths of cold water,
His shadow dwindling

Almost to nothing at all, then charges
Straight up, looms up at the ice and smashes
Into it with his forehead
To splinter the roof, to isolate seal or man
On a drifting piece of the floe

Which he can overturn.
If you run, he will follow you

Under the frozen pane,
Turning as you do, zigzagging,
And at the most uncertain of your ground
Will shatter through, and lean,
And breathe frankly in your face

An enormous breath smelling of fish.
With the lungs staining your air

You know the unsaid recognition
Of which the explorers died:
They had been given an image
Of how the downed dead pursue us.
They knew, as they starved to death,

That not only in the snow
But in the family field

The small shadow moves,
And under the bare feet in the summer:
That somewhere the turf will heave,
And the outraged breath of the dead,
So long held, will form

Unbreathably around the living.
The cows low oddly here

As I pass, a small bidden shape
Going with me, trembling like foxfire
Under my heels and their hooves.
I shall write this by kerosene,
Pitch a tent in the pasture, and starve.

Submitted: Thursday, April 22, 2010

Do you like this poem?
1 person liked.
0 person did not like.

What do you think this poem is about?



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Pursuit From Under by James Dickey )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. First Dance, Jeannette Heywood
  2. Bass Line, Betsy Sholl
  3. Forgive and forget - O men, gajanan mishra
  4. Snowflakes and Lillies, Anthony Di'anno
  5. Lament, Betsy Sholl
  6. I have taken birth only once, gajanan mishra
  7. A Song in There, Betsy Sholl
  8. Mirror, Ruma Chaudhuri
  9. Don, Frank Avon
  10. Back with the Quakers, Betsy Sholl

Poem of the Day

poet William Butler Yeats

WINE comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
...... Read complete »

 

Modern Poem

poet Anna Akhmatova

 

Member Poem

poet Sumita Datta

Trending Poems

  1. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  2. A Drinking Song, William Butler Yeats
  3. Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
  4. Daffodils, William Wordsworth
  5. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  6. If, Rudyard Kipling
  7. On the Ning Nang Nong, Spike Milligan
  8. A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
  9. Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
  10. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou

Trending Poets

[Hata Bildir]