United States, (1923-1997)
Approaching Prayer
- A moment tries to come in
- Through the windows, when one must go
- Beyond what there is in the room,
- But it must come straight down.
- Lord, it is time,
- And I must get up and start
- To circle through my father’s empty house
- Looking for things to put on
- Or to strip myself of
- So that I can fall to my knees
- And produce a word I can’t say
- Until all my reason is slain.
- Here is the gray sweater
- My father wore in the cold,
- The snapped threads growing all over it
- Like his gray body hair.
- The spurs of his gamecocks glimmer
- Also, in my light, dry hand.
- And here is the head of a boar
- I once helped to kill with two arrows:
- Two things of my father’s
- Wild, Bible-reading life
- And my own best and stillest moment
- In a hog’s head waiting for glory.
- All these I set up in the attic,
- The boar’s head, gaffs, and the sweater
- On a chair, and gaze in the dark
- Up into the boar’s painted gullet.
- Nothing. Perhaps I should feel more foolish,
- Even, than this.
- I put on the ravelled nerves
- And gray hairs of my tall father
- In the dry grave growing like fleece
- Strap his bird spurs to my heels
- And kneel down under the skylight.
- I put on the hollow hog’s head
- Gazing straight up
- With star points in the glass eyes
- That would blind anything that looked in
- And cause it to utter words.
- The night sky fills with a light
- Of hunting: with leaves
- And sweat and the panting of dogs
- Where one tries hard to draw breath,
- A single breath, and hold it.
- I draw the breath of life
- For the dead hog:
- I catch it from the still air,
- Hold it in the boar’s rigid mouth,
- And see
- A young aging man with a bow
- And a green arrow pulled to his cheek
- Standing deep in a mountain creek bed,
- Stiller than trees or stones,
- Waiting and staring
- Beasts, angels
- I am nearly that motionless now
- There is a frantic leaping at my sides
- Of dogs coming out of the water
- The moon and the stars do not move
- I bare my teeth, and my mouth
- Opens, a foot long, popping with tushes
- A word goes through my closed lips
- I gore a dog, he falls, falls back
- Still snapping, turns away and dies
- While swimming. I feel each hair on my back
- Stand up through the eye of a needle
- Where the hair was
- On my head stands up
- As if it were there
- The man is still; he is stiller: still
- Yes.
- Something comes out of him
- Like a shaft of sunlight or starlight.
- I go forward toward him
- (Beasts, angels)
- With light standing through me,
- Covered with dogs, but the water
- Tilts to the sound of the bowstring
- The planets attune all their orbits
- The sound from his fingers,
- Like a plucked word, quickly pierces
- Me again, the trees try to dance
- Clumsily out of the wood
- I have said something else
- And underneath, underwater,
- In the creek bed are dancing
- The sleepy pebbles
- The universe is creaking like boards
- Thumping with heartbeats
- And bonebeats
- And every image of death
- In my head turns red with blood.
- The man of blood does not move
- My father is pale on my body
- The dogs of blood
- Hang to my ears,
- The shadowy bones of the limbs
- The sun lays on the water
- Mass darkly together
- Moonlight, moonlight
- The sun mounts my hackles
- And I fall; I roll
- In the water;
- My tongue spills blood
- Bound for the ocean;
- It moves away, and I see
- The trees strain and part, see him
- Look upward
- Inside the hair helmet
- I look upward out of the total
- Stillness of killing with arrows.
- I have seen the hog see me kill him
- And I was as still as I hoped.
- I am that still now, and now.
- My father’s sweater
- Swarms over me in the dark.
- I see nothing, but for a second
- Something goes through me
- Like an accident, a negligent glance,
- Like the explosion of a star
- Six billion light years off
- Whose light gives out
- Just as it goes straight through me.
- The boar’s blood is sailing through rivers
- Bearing the living image
- Of my most murderous stillness.
- It picks up speed
- And my heart pounds.
- The chicken-blood rust at my heels
- Freshens, as though near a death wound
- Or flight. I nearly lift
- From the floor, from my father’s grave
- Crawling over my chest,
- And then get up
- In the way I usually do.
- I take off the head of the hog
- And the gaffs and the panting sweater
- And go down the dusty stairs
- And never come back.
- I don’t know quite what has happened
- Or that anything has,
- Hoping only that
- The irrelevancies one thinks of
- When trying to pray
- Are the prayer,
- And that I have got by my own
- Means to the hovering place
- Where I can say with any
- Other than the desert fathers —
- Those who saw angels come,
- Their body glow shining on bushes
- And sheep’s wool and animal eyes,
- To answer what questions men asked
- In Heaven’s tongue,
- Using images of earth
- Almightily:
- PROPHECIES, FIRE IN THE SINFUL TOWERS,
- WASTE AND FRUITION IN THE LAND,
- CORN, LOCUSTS AND ASHES,
- THE LION’s SKULL PULSING WITH HONEY,
- THE BLOOD OF THE FIRST-BORN,
- A GIRL MADE PREGNANT WITH A GLANCE
- LIKE AN EXPLODING STAR
- AND A CHILD BORN OF UTTER LIGHT —
- Where I can say only, and truly,
- That my stillness was violent enough,
- That my brain had blood enough,
- That my right hand was steady enough,
- That the warmth of my father’s wool grave
- Imparted love enough
- And the keen heels of feathery slaughter
- Provided lift enough,
- That reason was dead enough
- For something important to be:
- That, if not heard,
- It may have been somehow said.
© James Dickey
Poems 1957-1967. Wesleyan University Press, 1967.
[First published in Helmets, Wesleyan University Press, 1964.]
Poems 1957-1967. Wesleyan University Press, 1967.
[First published in Helmets, Wesleyan University Press, 1964.]
About the Poet
James Dickey (1923-1997), was a US poet and novelist, most widely known as the author of the novel and screenplay “Deliverance.” He is also the author of several other novels and fifteen books of poetry.
Dickey has been awarded the National Book Award and a Melville Cane Award (1965). He was invited to read at President Carter’s inauguration in 1977, and has served as Judge of the prestigious Yale Younger Poets series. [DES-6/03]