VOICES 1
John Logan

The River

At all times one low sound rides through the waters
Of the Susquehanna in its plain going-
Louder for the falls upstream at the confluence of the Chenango
But strong also under the bridge
Where, walking nearby along the flat river path
I could hear a noise so unremarkably part
Of the river's onwandering ordinary way
That it can be thought of as common speech.

Autumn: air drizzled, hills not yet gold shot,
The wide waters, drawn slack along the shallow banks,
Went steadily, without haste or swagger,
Lapped at shore weeds,
And pulled past the bridge's thick piers.

I listened for a dark sound moving in the fair river.
What I heard was a flow of low bells
Ringing singly midstream.
I heard the plainsong of all water
That celebrates within itself its own rising
And everything it laves, indifferent to
Railtracks, city streets, wheatfields and turnpikes,
And human lives that shape themselves to human places,
A voice that sings to itself and does not stay anywhere.
Alone by dusk I heard those undistinguished and beautiful river tones.

Later, after three men had drowned, dragged into the mudweighted flood,
The Susquehanna still held only its own unheeding song
Of the sure course of things as they are.

Of all men I know, John, yours is that voice
I can call to mind anywhere from my deep heart,
The serious and ordinary
Plainsong that grows out of but beyond weeping and triumph,
Diminishes guilt, and can reduce even heroic love or failure
To the same unasking simplicity of clear music
As of river water lapping weeds on a low shore,
So that, if you have ever been away, I have not known it.

　

BACK        NEXT