Louise Glück - Faithful and Virtuous Night

First divesting ourselves of worldly goods, as St. Francis teaches,

in order that our souls not be distracted

by gain and loss, and in order also

that our bodies be free to move

easily at the mountain passes, we had then to discuss

whither or where we might travel, with the second question being

should we have a purpose, against which

many of us argued fiercely that such purpose

corresponded to worldly goods, meaning a limitation or constriction,

whereas others said it was by this word we were consecrated

pilgrims rather than wanderers: in our minds, the word translated as

a dream, a something-sought, so that by concentrating we might see it

glimmering among the stones, and not

pass blindly by; each

further issue we debated equally fully, the arguments going back and forth,

so that we grew, some said, less flexible and more resigned,

like soldiers in a useless war. And snow fell upon us, and wind blew,

which in time abated — where the snow had been, many flowers appeared,

and where the stars had shone, the sun rose over the tree line

so that we had shadows again; many times this happened.

Also rain, also flooding sometimes, also avalanches, in which

some of us were lost, and periodically we would seem

to have achieved an agreement, our canteens

hoisted upon our shoulders; but always that moment passed, so

(after many years) we were still at that first stage, still

preparing to begin a journey, but we were changed nevertheless;

we could see this in one another; we had changed although

we never moved, and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling

from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward, and this seemed

in a strange way miraculous. And those who believed we should have a purpose

believed this was the purpose, and those who felt we must remain free

in order to encounter truth felt it had been revealed.

1.

It came to me one night as I was falling asleep

that I had finished with those amorous adventures

to which I had long been a slave. Finished with love?

my heart murmured. To which I responded that many profound discoveries

awaited us, hoping, at the same time, I would not be asked

to name them. For I could not name them. But the belief that they existed—

surely this counted for something?

2.

The next night brought the same thought,

this time concerning poetry, and in the nights that followed

various other passions and sensations were, in the same way,

set aside forever, and each night my heart

protested its future, like a small child being deprived of a favorite toy.

But these farewells, I said, are the way of things.

And once more I alluded to the vast territory

opening to us with each valediction. And with that phrase I became

a glorious knight riding into the setting sun, and my heart

became the steed underneath me.

3.

I was, you will understand, entering the kingdom of death,

though why this landscape was so conventional

I could not say. Here, too, the days were very long

while the years were very short. The sun sank over the far mountain.

The stars shone, the moon waxed and waned. Soon

faces from the past appeared to me:

my mother and father, my infant sister; they had not, it seemed,

finished what they had to say, though now

I could hear them because my heart was still.

4.

At this point, I attained the precipice

but the trail did not, I saw, descend on the other side;

rather, having flattened out, it continued at this altitude

as far as the eye could see, though gradually

the mountain that supported it completely dissolved

so that I found myself riding steadily through the air—

All around, the dead were cheering me on, the joy of finding them

obliterated by the task of responding to them—

5.

As we had all been flesh together,

now we were mist.

As we had been before objects with shadows,

now we were substance without form, like evaporated chemicals.

Neigh, neigh, said my heart,

or perhaps nay, nay — it was hard to know.

6.

Here the vision ended. I was in my bed, the morning sun

contentedly rising, the feather comforter

mounded in white drifts over my lower body.

You had been with me—

there was a dent in the second pillowcase.

We had escaped from death—

or was this the view from the precipice?

Small light in the sky appearing

suddenly between

two pine boughs, their fine needles

now etched onto the radiant surface

and above this

high, feathery heaven—

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,

most intense when the wind blows through it

and the sound it makes equally strange,

like the sound of the wind in a movie—

Shadows moving. The ropes

making the sound they make. What you hear now

will be the sound of the nightingale, chordata ,

the male bird courting the female—

The ropes shift. The hammock

sways in the wind, tied

firmly between two pine trees.

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine.

It is my mother’s voice you hear

or is it only the sound the trees make

when the air passes through them

because what sound would it make,

passing through nothing?

My story begins very simply: I could speak and I was happy.

Or: I could speak, thus I was happy.

Or: I was happy, thus speaking.

I was like a bright light passing through a dark room.

If it is so difficult to begin, imagine what it will be to end—

On my bed, sheets printed with colored sailboats

conveying, simultaneously, visions of adventure (in the form of exploration)

and sensations of gentle rocking, as of a cradle.

Spring, and the curtains flutter.

Breezes enter the room, bringing the first insects.

A sound of buzzing like the sound of prayers.

Constituent

memories of a large memory.

Points of clarity in a mist, intermittently visible,

like a lighthouse whose one task

is to emit a signal.

But what really is the point of the lighthouse?

This is north, it says.

Not: I am your safe harbor.

Much to his annoyance, I shared this room with my older brother.

To punish me for existing, he kept me awake, reading

adventure stories by the yellow nightlight.

The habits of long ago: my brother on his side of the bed,

subdued but voluntarily so,

his bright head bent over his hands, his face obscured—

At the time of which I’m speaking,

my brother was reading a book he called

the faithful and virtuous night.

Was this the night in which he read, in which I lay awake?

No — it was a night long ago, a lake of darkness in which

a stone appeared, and on the stone

a sword growing.

Impressions came and went in my head,

a faint buzz, like the insects.

When not observing my brother, I lay in the small bed we shared

staring at the ceiling — never

my favorite part of the room. It reminded me

of what I couldn’t see, the sky obviously, but more painfully

my parents sitting on the white clouds in their white travel outfits.

And yet I too was traveling,

in this case imperceptibly

from that night to the next morning,