Pathway to the  Sea
to  A. R. Ammons


First published by Alan Loney at Hawk Press (Taylor’s Mistake, Christchurch,  1975)
in a handset limited edition with cover art by Ralph Hotere   

I started late summer-before-last
digging for a                        
  field-tile drain
at the bottom of the garden
where below            
              topsoil that leached away
as  fast as I mulched  &      
      fed it was
                 a puggy  day

 slick turning rainwater
        frost dew snow sparrow-
piss & other seepage & drainage down
under an old shed
          in the lower adjoining
                 section : here the water
bogged  foundations & floorboards
          till the whole crazy           
       edifice began to 

settle sideways  &
         slide on greased clay 
                  downward
taking a fouldrain with it :
         visions of “faecal matter”
bubbling up from clogged
overflow traps bothered
        me & some
     others too : it  was time 

to act !  especially since
        in addition to ordure getting      
             spread around  &
putting its soft mouths in
        deep cloacal
                 kisses to our
livers any  obvious          
breakdown in the system for
                  disposal  of this shit 

( ours in fact )  would
         bring the council inspectors  round
                 like flies
aptly enough & that  would  mean
        they’d get to look at
                other aspects of how
we choose to
        live which might strike them as          
        unorthodox or even 

illegal : for example there’s
         lots being done round here     
              with demolition
timber, & that’s illegal, you gotta     
     use new timber,
                  citizen, the old stuff
which was once forests of kauri &
        totara & rimu  took oh
                hundreds of years to get to 

where it was when it was
        milled, the houses it knit           
        together stood & with-
stood “better” than the  forests       
    I suppose : the timber
                      served,  anyway, it
did that for whoever watched
        the process through,  &             
          now that the houses ‘re out 

of phase much as the forests once
        were, though like the       
                 forests the fibre of the brittle
timber can still  spring  
         & ring . . . now,
                     anyway, that  it’s time
to go, it has to get broken, stamped down, splintered
         by a ‘dozer’s tracks  & what’s
                     left of fibre knot 

& resin has a match
        put to
                     it : it  goes “up
in smoke”— but round
         here we hoard the stuff &  
                     use it, it easily bends
nails, it splits & you  
         belt your thumb often enough
                      to know all  about that 

but the structures
        stay put ! & the inspectors            
           would say “Down 
with them” — well, down with them !
. . . I like the way you
                       have to compromise with brittle
demolition timber : what gets
          built has bent the   
                      builder as well as his 

nails & nerves : he’s
        learnt something about              
          service, the toughness of the
medium may have taught him        
  that ease is no grateful
                     index to  dispensability 
or availability : like
        who wants a companion for             
          life or whatever span 

you fancy ( they’re all “for life” ) who can’t
        put some juice  
                      back in your
systems? — ah how you value       
    the tough lover who
                          keeps you up
to the  mark, whose head
        eyes language hands 
                 loins  en- 

gage you, give you
         elevation, a prospect, with whom you  ride
                     up the up &
up like birds beating on in  
       the mutual updraughts of
                     each other’s wings  — birds, a
subject I’ll come back to later
         when I’m  through with this
                      drain : what needs


to be noted here, though, is that even if
        some things don’t fight  
                       back at once or
obviously, nonetheless you    
       can bet your “sweet” ( for )
“life”
they fight back & your
children & children’s children
         will be paying your 
                      blood-money, citizen — 

well, meanwhile, we agreed, let’s
        keep our shit out           
             of the public eye & let’s
keep our friendly  sheds, our
lovely slums,
         our righteous brittle screwy              
inspired constructs
up : & then
        let’s  add some
                     flourishes, decoration in this kind 

of setting doesn’t coddle
         anyone, least of all the chickens  
                        whose coop’s
included in the drainage         
problem threatening to
                      overwhelm us
all : besides, we’ll all
       benefit : chickens with dry 
                     feet lay more eggs 

because they’re happy : happiness
          as a concept may be       
                    about as brittle as
demolition timber when the  latter’s
traced
         back to its
                       forest &  the
former
to its causes, but it
        serves likewise, it teaches us

“for life” : if you’re 

for life you’re for its crazy outhouses
       the corners of happiness
  that don’t
                     square : right,
there were lots     
     of reasons, the practical & the
                      ideal  didn’t
separate out,
the forests & the brittle planks
        were  one, we  
                      were engaged, we wanted 

to convert our drainage problem,
      transform it, tran- 
substantiate it, assume it into
the causes  of our happiness
& the
        happiness of our
                      chickens whose
wet feet
& poor laying rates
         rebuked us daily — we picked  
                      up shovels, backed off  somewhat, 

then we started digging fast, we went at it, we went
         down four
  feet & then
                       two more, there was
all kinds of
  trash, bottles & old
        sofa springs & broken              
          masonry & bricks
& unusual quantities of bones dating no
  doubt
        from a previous owner who bred                       
dogs,  Dobermans ( — men? ) I 

heard, then we began to get
         into the clay                    
    pug, we were out
of sight by now, the shovels hove
         up  into
view at
                       infrequent intervals &
were  twitched
& shaken
        by their invisible handlers
                     to
dislodge the sticky glup : 

a comic & as time went by
         popular spectacle : for those  
                       down in the drain
the strain began to          
tell : some quit, some
                     hid, some developed  rheums 
blisters & trenchfoot, streptococci
         swarmed upon  their
tonsils,
                       they pissed 

chills straight from the kidney (it was
        now winter, autumn had  
                      dallied by among
the easy wreckage of an       
   earlier level )
                      they defected, deserted,
they
offered their apologies, they
         fucked off, the practical &   
                       the ideal 

sprang apart like
         warping unseasoned                        
  timber, boiiiiinnnnngg-
ggg . . . a sound, it occurred
         to me,
  not
                      unlike a drop
on a long rope — well, that’s
  what
         deserters got once, & I found myself                  
        wishing it on them 

again as I
          plied my lone shovel, bucket,                    
      grout, mattock, axe & spade,
baling out the boggy  trench       
    as the “drainage problem” halted
                        right there,
hacking
through roots ( that deep ! ) shoring
         up  avalanching
walls ( the drain —huh ! — was
                       by now  fifty
yards

long & in some
        places twelve feet                       
  deep ! impressive even
if left at that ) & shaving
        out
gummy  scoops
                     of clay with grunting
I then flicked
  heaven-
ward into the blue
                       icy sky or 

alternatively into the sky
        the low colour
                   
  of clay : clay
anyway, clay & more
          clay, the gobs landed up
                    there pretty
randomly after a while,  &
  sometimes
        they got washed
                     down again by
the  late winter 

rain, lots of it, which the
        roots of trees were               
     sucking at, the sap
rising in them, beginning
         to,
  refreshed by those
                  surface-feeding tendrils, those deep 
tap-roots,  & it’s here the
            story really             
             starts : not 

that what’s been said so far’s
  irrelevant, though I apologise for its  
                        disorderly development &
the large number
  of      
            apparent non-sequiturs — things
do

follow let me assure you, they
             proceed, citizen, they
practically hunt
                         you down,  & me, who’ve 

just been enjoying the way
              these lines unfold, much     
                       more easily than how the pug
& clodded         
       marl left that
                         drain, landing up  there 
out of sight & almost
             burying one                   
        of three baby 

fruit trees ( here we are ) which
             therefore didn’t get its
  tiny
                         branches cut
back before the          
      sap rose in them as spring came
                            on gravely,
gaily, with me still down
there in the trench
             still
chucking the odd
                        clod up & still


covering that pear tree : finally
             a retaining wall       
                    got built ( use
was made of 
               used
materials ) & then a truck
                          came with
  field-tiles
& another with shingle & we got               
  together some
                          used roofing-iron   

& we had a drain ! Yeah ! there
             was enough fall in it to
  get
“the problem” drainage
away & out of  our way, the chickens  
              basked & layed, the clammy surfaces                         
    of seeping banks
dried up, the rotting
              structures with
their feet in
                           clay delayed their 

inevitable demise, miasmal
              damps & soaks breathed   
                         out their last stinks of mould
& fungus,
  artesian
              cheeps & kisses of surfacing                 
            wet were drowned in
birdsong, when the sun  shone it          
      dried & when the rain fell it ran away                          
the way


we wanted : it was
              summer, the leaf                     
       uncrinkled from the bud,
blossom fell, fruit
               spurs
plumped out,
                           sap  circulated with its natural
zest,
& one small
             pear  tree, un-
pruned, went 

crazy ! was a mares-nest
               of wild growth, capillary     
                       maze of shoots & tangled
twigs gobbling  the
provisions
              of root & leaf, starch                      
      & water, sweet open
sandwiches of rotted                
stackbottom & whatnot,
                             bonbons 

& snacks broken & tasted
              by those bon-vivants the  
                          earthworms : the whole gusty
catering-service 
served
                            that tree  whose clusters  
congested & grew
               together with  ungainly health  
                           while nearby 

the other two grew
              straight sturdy                      
       & slim, sunlight
entered their hearts
              they
reached up
                          heavenwards : “benighted” is
a word
we should have 
              the use of
                          more
often : oh pear tree ! in 

that condition you’d never
              score a single               
             shriveled product : well
come autumn I cut you               
back till there was almost
                           nothing left : the
lesson
is, effort’s got to be directed . . .
             yeah, I heard  
                          they wanted to  build an


  ALUMINIUM  SMELTER
                        at Aramoana,
  the sea-gate, & someone’s bound to direct
              more efforts
  that
                          way soon, listen, there’s
birds out
  there, we’re
              back with those lovers, the buoyancy        
                    & updraught of some kind of 

mutual understanding of what
              service is, of the
  fact that
                          a thing being easy doesn’t
make it
  available or passive :
               listen, effort’s got to be right  
                           directed, that’s
all, the catering’s amazing,
  everything
proceeds, citizen, sometimes                        
     it’s hard work, but you’re 

engaged, you want
                to keep practical & ideal       
                       together, you’re
for life, you know that  happiness  
              has to do with yes
drains & that nature 
like a pear tree
              must be  served before                
            it’ll serve you, you 

don’t want your children’s
              children paying 
your blood-
money, citizen, you’re
               for a
different sort
                          of  continuity, you want
to
live the way
             you want
                          to, you
want to keep 
your structures up, you
              want elevation, 
                
           you’re ready to do
your share, you’ll dig your  field-
drain
& you’ll
                          keep  your shit out
of the water
supply :
              you want to
                          serve &
to be left alone


to serve & be served,
              understanding tough           
                 materials, marl & old timber,
the rich  claggy rind   
              of the world where
                           dinosaurs
once
were kings : well they’re gone now though
               they
survived longer
                          than we have 

yet, but then we know, don’t we,
              citizen, that
  there’s nowhere
                          to defect to, & that 
living in the
              universe doesn’t                         
   leave you
any place to chuck
              stuff off            
             of. 

this poem is dedicated to all concerned with the  present production of it to the belief that Aramoana  should be left to the birds fish sand-hoppers & other denizens  who at present possess it only so long as their  ambiguous productivity is tolerated by men ambitious for quick solutions and profits