Pilgrimage to Oxford

I: By Nightfall

All the way down this southbound interstate,

Out of St. Louis,

I gaze into an amazingly pervasive haze,

Which protects my eyes from abrading light

That, otherwise, would blind me.

Somebody's looking out for me, this liberating Saturday,

As I drive past Cape Girardeau,

Toward Memphis and beyond,

My ultimate destination Oxford, Mississippi...

Somebody who knows my vision's afflicted with cataracts

And, apparently, has a vested interest

In guiding me, safely, to afternoon's denouement,

Making certain that I have no excuses

For aborting this rendezvous with my past,

At that holiest of literary shrines, Rowan Oak —

The somnolent, ghost-populated monument

To which, in my younger seasons, I pilgrimaged,

So my imagination might imbibe the inspiring ichor

Of the genius who once resided in that secluded purlieus,

Hiding from the phantoms he hadn't yet left behind.

By nightfall, assuming that providence

Doesn't deny me communion with resident spirits

Waiting to welcome me home,

I should be able to locate my soul again,

As it roams the shadows, with Benjy, Quentin, and Dilsey.

II: Saying Yes to Death

Crickets choiring within the nearby woods,

Songbirds harmonizing in the hollies and crape myrtles,

The trinity of white oaks shading me from harsh rays —

All help orchestrate this Sunday-morning serenity I feel,

As I sit on the concrete retaining wall

Not a foot above, not two feet from, his grave.

This sacred interlude, my thoughts are mine alone.

Nothing intrudes save meeker creatures,

Who don't mark the passing of days, lifetimes,

Whereas I'm obsessed with recording everything,

As though, somehow, doing so

Might keep me in a state of ever-becoming.

How many worshipers have been here

Since William Cuthbert Faulkner was laid to rest,

In this sandy hillside, I can't guess.

I've come to pay my respects, every chance I've had,

Since beginning my Mississippi sojourns.

Perhaps this is just my way of saying yes to death,

Reminding myself that, soon enough,

My essence, as well, will have turned to quiescence —

A living body of ideas, images, words.

III: Mustiness

Seated on the front-porch steps at Rowan Oak,

This humid, cricket-sibilant noon,

I, sole owner and proprietor,

For transitory moments, of this shaded solitude,

Inhale the scent of sentinel cedars

Failing to mask the mustiness that the house emits —

Decay's transliteration of desolation.

Here, I'm at peace with my demons and his,

Though I'm a mere visitor to his lingering presence.

Once, in deep, availing humbleness,

I'd travel, three, four, six times a year,

To check on his estate and mine,

Define my mind's location, by his,

Rely on his stars, to triangulate my fate.

Not a solitary adventitious sound or shadow

Disturbs my meditation.

There's nothing discernably distracting,

Nothing save for the disquieting realization

That I've already outlived William's years, by three,

And that the death-breath I've been smelling

Could, as easily, be my own.

IV: One Cap and One Period

Two lively, riveting, provocative lectures,

On the Ole Miss campus, this Sunday afternoon,

One alluding to the negative criticism

Faulkner's 1950 Nobel Prize speech initially elicited

From skeptics who couldn't square its optimism

With the cynicism of his early fictions,

The other questioning Benjy's authenticity as an idiot,

Throwing open the possibility

That his voice belongs not to him but to his ventriloquist...

Two stimulating lectures,

Delivered with authoritative respect for the complex nuances

And profound ambiguities of the novelist's prose,

Reminded me, all over, just how brilliant was his torch.

Tonight, I wander about Rowan Oak,

Listening for the scratching of his fountain pen,

The rat-a-tat-tapping of his Underwood portable,

Knowing he's still trying to capture the entire universe,

Between one cap and one period.

V: My Big Woods

This humid five-thirty Monday afternoon

(Which is cooling down, from its torrid hundred degrees,

With this unexpected, ephemeral, breeze-driven drizzle),

I slip into Bailey's Woods, unnoticed, alone,

And disappear, submissively,

Into its legendary suspension of disbelief.

Once within its magical, near-soundless surrounds,

I rediscover the root-crosshatched path,

The same one I remember running, back in my forties —

A quarter of a century ago —

When my body and mind were considerably quicker,

Infinitely leaner, more muscular, if not as wise.

Now, though I'm in a jogging outfit, I choose to walk;

It's the prudent thing to do.

After all, who knows? I can still recall my two falls,

Both occurring in these very same purlieus,

Each bequeathing me a sprained ankle

And a painful, perilous three-hundred-mile drive home.

Blessed is this moderating rain, kissing the leaves.

Breathing comes easily.

Ceaselessly along, drawn by labyrinthine gravity, I go.

Shadows and slanting sun shafts lead the way.

I'm not afraid of the roots, shifting like snakes;

They know I'm not easy prey, this time in my life.

Oh, the sense of place that embraces me, just now.

Am I really partaking of this Faulknerian solitude?

Perhaps this is a dream that'll lose itself, in here.

Suddenly, I emerge, at the southern edge of Rowan Oak.

I have the grounds entirely to myself.

No six in the evening has ever seemed sweeter.

Not out of breath yet panting slightly, sweating,

I make my rounds of the abandoned Greek Revival edifice,

Knowing better than to expect anyone to greet this guest.

With utter respect for the dead,

I give passing nod to the stable, the post-oak barn,

The curing shed, made of red bricks fired on the premises,

Dating back to 1848,

When the Shegog mansion was raised from the wilderness,

On the outskirts of Oxford/Jefferson, Lafayette/Yoknapatawpha.

Before Mammy Callie's shack, I stop in my tracks.

Just west of me, in the back pasture,

A full-grown deer materializes, out of the dense brush,

And instinctively registers my awestruck presence,

Dismisses me as nonpredatory,

Pretends nonchalance, for an endless minute

(While I reprise the blood-ritual hunt, in the Big Woods,

In which Sam Fathers anoints Ike McCaslin's manhood),

Before bounding off, into a nearby thicket.

I gasp, from the epiphany that's seized me.

Unexpectedly, a second deer materializes, in my vision,

Lingers, for another infinite minute, then disappears,

Just as I did, an hour earlier, into Bailey's Woods.

And the dream is as near to complete

As it's ever going to be.

VI: Meg

Earlier this evening, in Oxford,

At the Downtown Grill, on the courthouse square,

My waiter noticed I was composing verse

And asked what I was writing about.

I told him I'd just come from Bailey's Woods

And was trying to capture the passion I'd felt there.

A half-hour later, he came back and said,

"There's someone I know would like to meet you."

Not long after, he introduced me to Meg,

The daughter of a deceased old friend of mine (her father,

The beloved eldest son of William Faulkner's brother John —

"Brother Will"'s favorite nephew: Jimmy Faulkner).

I held my hands out, to her,

And she took them, in her own,

As though we'd known each other for our lifetimes.

Indeed, we sensed an instantaneous kindredness,

Though she could hardly have known

That I'd been personally acquainted with her father

And, vicariously, with her great-uncle,

Through my outsize appreciation of his rich literature.

For minutes, we shared each other's backgrounds,

Then she had to return to her duties.

On parting, we hugged each other, with affection.

I felt as though I were saying good-bye to a daughter.

VII: Two Souvenirs

I enter St. Louis's Cafe Manhattan

Six hours after exiting the Old Venice Pizza Co.,

In Oxford, Mississippi, this Tuesday.

Reading the stops on my completed itinerary,

One might almost be inclined to believe

That I'm a frenzied world tourist,

When, truth be honed to the reality of the moment,

I'm not even a mildly intrepid explorer

But a tepid sojourner,

Venturing, when I do decide to leave home,

Not all that far from my known world,

To revisit the few places that know me,

Locations I've stayed in, on many occasions,

Way stations accommodating my requirements:

Feeling I won't get lost and that I belong.

I've returned, from my three-day vacation,

Relieved to be back intact,

Not asking myself if I've learned anything new,

Instead satisfied to have completed my pilgrimage,

Sat at the graveside of my literary mentor,

Traipsed the twenty-five acres of Bailey's Woods

Adjacent to lonely Rowan Oak,

Communed with William Faulkner's spirit,

Which was borne from there, in July 1962,

To whatever reconciliation of his destiny

The gods may have devised

For the disposition of his creativity's living legacy.

Tonight, sitting at my regular booth,

I inspect the two souvenirs I've brought with me:

A solitary soft, yellow-green new-growth leaf,

Which I plucked from the colossal magnolia

Anchoring the brick-circled garden maze

Facing the celebrated author's south-looking house,

And a handful of shaggy bark strands

I pulled from the trunk of one of the cedars

Lining the road leading to his abode.

I run my thumb and fingers over the limp leaf,

The papery stringiness of the bark,

And realize these are all that remain of my visit —

Earthly connections to genius that touched me,

Invested me, evanescently,

With something approximating immortality.

07/25/08 - (2)