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Ninth Street Myth
from West Durham Winter, by George Zabriskie (Knopf, 1941)
The gaunt houses line the street in a desolate mill row.
Grey and yellow identical boxes under impersonal trees
Grown skeletal from autumn, and behind them the mill,
A great horizontal-blocking wall, red bricked and solidly
Blue windowed, its phallic stacks erect in mouse grey sky,
A blanket of cancerous sound, the loom noise dumbly covers
The neighborhood, extinguishing the voices in the streets.
Starkly, sterile December dulls the bony landscape
In sensitive tinted twilight. Not the hard frozen
Earth of the north, where soil rings with bootsteps,
But a slow dry land, chilled to grass roots only,
Its side roads still dusty, and night still bearable,
Leaving the ears unstung, the cheeks still flexible,
Blue mill windows, house windows lighted slowly,
Watch blankly and utterly the street and people, holding
The hanging faces mirrored in our dreams. The stores
Are cheapjack tinsel paradise; walk here, gaping
With the rest at light and warmth inside the bright
Paragon, the Pender Store, Daily's, priced for the trade
Of faces pressed to glass, those mill touched eyes
Narrowed by prospects of familiar walls and streets.
Eyeing the ten cent toys, but buying fat back, loafing
In the pool room, the lunch stand where the truckers
Stop to eat, the people are in sluggish circulation and
By the corner drug store, the "U.S. Seventy" sign under
The arc light is symbol of their linkage to the land.
Frost cracks this world apart, streets limit it:
And was it by desire ever infinite, the time
Has passed; leaves, papers in the gutters, mills
Delineate this life. In small and soiled houses
Existence grows to huge unspoken weariness
Like a simple empty alley, this Ninth Street has an end,
And yet from there it is unending, stretching to some
Unlimited autumn fading into winter, a dead suspended
Land where people surely move like joyless ghosts
Tending the pretty machinery that governs life; invisible
And untiring beyond the weariness of flesh and mind,
Learning in strange hypnotic dreams to hold themselves
From joy or tragedy, like insects dulled by winter.
The trees jutting like raw fingers, and even the grass
Grey as molded straw, a silent fungus world where peace
Is real, not relative, a vast suspended act of death.
Special thanks to Tom Campbell at the
Regulator Bookshop for sharing this old poem with us.
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