This poem by Jane Miller was originally published in the third-ever issue of Columbia Journal, in 1979. When our wonderful archivist told me I would be selecting the final poem for our 60 for 60 project, I knew I wanted a poem that spoke to some kind of ending, one that evoked an urgency, a hurried farewell.
The first thing I loved about this poem was its title: “The Heart Climbs Devilishly Back into the Body; or, Field of Red Thistles.” To me, this signified that the poem was dynamic and passionate about itself and its future, but unable to decide what either might be. By the first line of the poem, I was sold. It rings “Noon, noon, noon,” like a clock announcing an urgent hour. Then, even more perfectly, the poem expresses an anxiety about the life of a poet, asking “in the high voice of the mortally wronged, what does anyone know about poetry, or care?” At the climax, the heart returns to the body, perhaps by the violence of poetry, or perhaps due to some unnamed natural force, the same force that catches a field of red thistles in a blinding flame. I see this poem as a perfect farewell to our archival project. It begs us to allow the heart to climb back into our body, to set it aflame, and to occupy the deep and vulnerable space that poetry always fills. This sentiment, alongside the natural music of the poem, makes it a favorite for me.
The Heart Climbs Devilishly Back into the Body; or, Field of Red Thistles
Jane Miller
Noon, noon, noon, the muted creek, the mare locked in the barn. Winter to break, about to break, about to mother-me-down. I dream of her in a clear, plastic suit cracked down the back and tearing, which I have to stop. Finding myself sobbing periodically, mother of hard vinyl like a telephone with her flesh exposed keeps asking in the high voice of the mortally wronged, what does anyone know about poetry, or care? Who looks through Baudelaire’s windows, who sees him undressing there? In time we discover the hard blue sky is hard. And the summer figs, the cherished tan of last season? now only blare at me, and the leaves by the road-side pith and collect. I trembled when I heard their words and the empty minds of the poor scavenged trees. Moon moon moon in them, owl, hawk, owl. All saying now Halloween, now, blaspheme of roses, cancelled weddings, interior monologues. Inside the barn the whiskers on the horse gather frost. And the steam knocks, and the wicks sputter. Magnificent sunset, mother going down. Inside the house her heart climbs back into her body, bloodying the back steps. The action begins again, the failing light, the underside of the moon imagining me here. Dusk pulls a mauve tarp across a field of red thistles, and catches.
