Page One

Robert Arthur Reeves

The Wreck of the Deutschland (2)

May 21, 2017

Here comes the whole poem for you to read through.  See the previous entry for Hopkins’ advice about how to read it, but the main thing is to read it aloud.  Don’t stop for mysteries, keep on to the end.

The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manley Hopkins


To the

happy memory of five Franciscan nuns

exiles by the Falck Laws

drowned between midnight and morning of

Dec. 7th, 1875


part the first



            Thou mastering me

         God! giver of breath and bread;

      World’s strand, sway of the sea;

         Lord of living and dead;

   Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh,

   And after it almost unmade, what with dread,

      Thy doing:  and dost thou touch me afresh?

Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.



            I did say yes

         O at lightning and lashed rod;

      Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess

         Thy terror, O Christ, O God;

   Thou knowest the walls, altar and hour and night:

   The swoon of a heart that the sweep and the hurl of thee trod

      Hard down with a horror of height:

And the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.



            The frown of his face

         Before me, the hurtle of hell

      Behind, where, where was a, where was a place?

         I whirled out wings that spell

   And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host.

   My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,

      Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,

To flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the grace.



            I am soft sift

         In an hourglass—at the wall

      Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,

         And it crowds and it combs to the fall;

   I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,

   But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall

      Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein

Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ’s gift.



            I kiss my hand

         To the stars, lovely-asunder

      Starlight, wafting him out of it;  and

         Glow, glory in thunder;

   Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:

   Since, tho’ he is under the world’s splendour and wonder,

      His mystery must be instressed, stressed;

For I greet him the days I meet him, and bless when I understand.



            Not out of his bliss

         Springs the stress felt

      Nor first from heaven (and few know this)

         Swings the stroke dealt—

   Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver,

   That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt—

      But it rides time like riding a river

(And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable and miss).



            It dates from day

         Of his going in Galilee;

      Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey;

         Manger, maiden’s knee;

   The dense and the driven Passion, and frightful sweat:

   Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be,

      Though felt before, though in high flood yet—

What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,



            Is out with it!  Oh,

         We lash with the best or worst

      Word last!  How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe

         Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,

   Gush!—flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,

   Brim, in a flash, full!—Hither then, last or first,

      To hero of Calvary, Christ’s, feet—

Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it—men go.



            Be adored among men,

         God, three-numberèd form;

      Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,

         Man’s malice, with wrecking and storm.

   Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,

   Thou art lightning and love, I found it, a winter and warm;

      Father and fondler of heart thou hast wrung:

Hast thy dark descending and most art merciful then.



            With an anvil-ding

         And with fire in him forge thy will

      Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring

         Through him, melt him but master him still:

   Whether at once, as once at a crash Paul,

   Or as Austin, a lingering-out swéet skíll,

      Make mercy in all of us, out of us all

Mastery, but be adored, but be adored King.


part the second



            “Some find me a sword;  some

         The flange and the rail;  flame,

      Fang, or flood” goes Death on drum,

         And storms bugle his fame.

   But wé dream we are rooted in earth—Dust!

   Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,

      Wave with the meadow, forget that there must

The sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.



            On Saturday sailed from Bremen,


      Take settler and seamen, tell men with women,

         Two hundred souls in the round—

   O Father, not under thy feathers nor ever as guessing

   The goal was a shoal, of a fourth the doom to be drowned;

      Yet did the dark side of the bay of thy blessing

Not vault them, the million of rounds of thy mercy not reeve even them in?



            Into the snows she sweeps,

         Hurling the haven behind,

      The Deutschland, on Sunday;  and so the sky keeps,

         For the infinite air is unkind,

   And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow,

   Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind;

      Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivellèd snow

Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps.



            She drove in the dark to leeward,

         She struck—not a reef or a rock

      But the combs of a smother of sand:  night drew her

         Dead to the Kentish Knock;

   And she beat the bank down with her bows and the ride of her keel;

   The breakers rolled on her beam with ruinous shock;

      And canvas and compass, the whorl and the wheel

Idle for ever to waft her or wind her with, these she endured.



            Hope had grown grey hairs,

         Hope had mourning on,

      Trenched with tears, carved with cares,

         Hope was twelve hours gone;

   And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day

   Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone,

      And lives at last were washing away:

To the shrouds they took,—they shook in the hurling and horrible airs.



            One stirred from the rigging to save

         The wild woman-kind below,

      With a rope’s end round the man, handy and brave—

         He was pitched to his death at a blow,

   For all his dreadnought breast and braids of thew:

   They could tell him for hours, dandled the to and fro

      Through the cobbled foam-fleece.  What could he do

With the burl of the fountains of air, buck and the flood of the wave?



            They fought with God’s cold—

         And they could not and fell to the deck

      (Crushed them) or water (and drowned them) or rolled

         With the sea-romp over the wreck.

   Night roared, with the heart-break hearing a heart-broke rabble,

   The woman’s wailing, the crying of child without check—

      Till a lioness arose breasting the babble,

A prophetess towered in the tumult, a virginal tongue told.



            Ah, touched in your bower of bone,

         Are you! turned for an exquisite smart,

      Have you! make words break from me here all alone,

         Do you!—mother of being in me, heart.

   O unteachably after evil, but uttering truth,

   Why, tears! is it? tears;  such a melting, a madrigal start!

      Never-eldering revel and river of youth,

What can it be, this glee? the good you have there of your own?



            Sister, a sister calling

         A master, her master and mine!—

      And the inboard seas run swirling and hawling;

         The rash smart sloggering brine

   Blinds her;  but she that weather sees one thing, one;

   Has one fetch in her:  she rears herself to divine

      Ears, and the call of the tall nun

To the men in the tops and the tackle rode over the storm’s brawling.



            She was first of a five and came

         Of a coifèd sisterhood.

      (O Deutschland, double a desperate name!

         O world wide of its good!

   But Gertrude, lily, and Luther, are two of a town,

   Christ’s lily and beast of the waste wood:

      From life’s dawn it is drawn down,

Abel is Cain’s brother and breasts they have sucked the same.)



            Loathed for a love men knew in them,

         Banned by the land of their birth,

      Rhine refused them, Thames would ruin them;

         Surf, snow, river and earth

   Gnashed:  but thou art above, thou Orion of light;

   Thy unchancelling poising palms were weighing the worth,

      Thou martyr-master:  in thy sight

Storm flakes were scroll-leaved flowers, lily-showers—sweet heaven was astrew in them.



            Five! the finding and sake

         And cipher of suffering Christ.

      Mark, the mark is of man’s make

         And the word of it Sacrificed.

   But he scores it in scarlet himself on his own bespoken,

   Before-time-taken, dearest prizèd and priced—

      Stigma, signal, cinquefoil token

For lettering of the lamb’s fleece, ruddying of the rose-flake.



            Joy fall to thee, father Francis,

         Drawn to the Life that died;

      With the gnarls of the nails in thee, niche of the lance, his

         Lovescape crucified

   And seal of his seraph-arrival! and these thy daughters

   And five-livèd and leavèd favour and pride,

      Are sisterly sealed in wild waters,

To bathe in his fall-gold mercies, to breathe in his all-fire glances.



            Away in the loveable west,

         On a pastoral forehead of Wales,

      I was under a roof here, I was at rest,

         And they the prey of the gales;

   She to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly

   Falling flakes, to the throng that catches and quails

      Was calling “O Christ, Christ, come quickly”:

The cross to her she calls Christ to her, christens her wild-worst Best.



            The majesty! what did she mean?

         Breathe, arch and original Breath.

      Is it love in her of the being as her lover had been?

         Breathe, body of lovely Death.

   They were else-minded then, altogether, the men

   Woke thee with a We are perishing in the weather of Gennesareth.

      Or is it that she cried for the crown then,

The keener to come at the comfort for feeling the combating keen?



            For how to the heart’s cheering

         The down-dugged ground-hugged grey

      Hovers off, the jay-blue heavens appearing

         Of pied and peeled May!

   Blue-beating and hoary-glow height;  or night, still higher,

   With belled fire and the moth-soft Milky Way,

      What by your measure is the heaven of desire,

The treasure never eyesight got, nor was ever guessed what for the hearing?



            No, but it was not these.

         The jading and jar of the cart,

      Time’s tasking, it is fathers that asking for ease

         Of the sodden-with-its-sorrowing heart,

   Not danger, electrical horror;  then further it finds

   The appealing of the Passion is tenderer in prayer apart:

      Other, I gather, in measure her mind’s

Burden, in wind’s burly and beat of endragonèd seas.



            But how shall I ... make me room there:

         Reach me a ... Fancy, come faster—

      Strike you the sight of it? look at it loom there,

         Thing that she ... There then! the Master,

   Ipse, the only one, Christ, King, Head:

   He was to cure the extremity where he had cast her;

      Do, deal, lord it with living and dead;

Let him ride, her pride, in his triumph, despatch and have done with his doom there.



            Ah! there was a heart right!

         There was a single eye!

      Read the unshapeable shock night

         And knew the who and the why;

   Wording it how but by him that present and past,

   Heaven and earth are word of, worded by?—

      The Simon Peter of a soul! to the blast

Tarpeïan-fast, but a blown beacon of light.



            Jesu, heart’s light,

         Jesu, maid’s son,

      What was the feast followed the night

         Thou hadst glory of this nun?—

   Feast of the one woman without stain.

   For so conceivèd, so to conceive thee is done;

      But here was heart-throe, birth of a brain,

Word, that heard and kept thee and uttered thee outright.



            Well, she has thee for the pain, for the

         Patience;  but pity of the rest of them!

      Heart, go and bleed at a bitterer vein for the

         Comfortless unconfessed of them—

   No not uncomforted:  lovely-felicitous Providence

   Finger of a tender of, O of a feathery delicacy, the breast of the

      Maiden could obey so, be a bell to, ring of it, and

Startle the poor sheep back! is the shipwrack then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee?



            I admire thee, master of the tides,

         Of the Yore-flood, of the year’s fall;

      The recurb and the recovery of the gulf’s sides,

         The girth of it and the wharf of it and the wall;

   Stanching, quenching ocean of a motionable mind;

   Ground of being, and granite of it:  past all

         Grasp God, throned behind

Death with a sovereignty that heeds but hides, bodes but abides;



            With a mercy that outrides

         The all of water, an ark

      For the listener;  for the lingerer with a love glides

         Lower than death and the dark;

   A vein for the visiting of the past-prayer, pent in prison,

   The-last-breath penitent spirits—the uttermost mark

      Our passion-plungèd giant risen,

The Christ of the Father compassionate, fetched in the storm of his strides.



            Now burn, new born to the world,

         Double-naturèd name,

      The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled


   Mid-numberèd he in three of the thunder-throne!

   Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came;

      Kind, but royally reclaiming his own;

A released shower, let flash to the shire, not a lightning of fire hard-hurled.



            Dame, at our door

         Drowned, and among our shoals,

      Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the reward:

         Our King back, Oh, upon English souls!

   Let him easter in us, be a day-spring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-

      cresseted east,

   More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls,

      Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest,

Our heart’s charity’s hearth’s fire, our thought’s chivalry’s throng’s Lord.

Mystery Delete!

May 18, 2017
Our web host moved our sites to new servers, and in the process almost two months of my blogposts were lost. (Sari's is still zir…

The Wreck of the Deutschland (1)

May 18, 2017
Back when I was leading you through Otros, my collection of other people’s poems, I balked at saying anything about Hopkins’ “The Wreck of the…

Grade A: Peace

March 22, 2017
Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), April 2007.  “Deep down the high brightness” is a conscious echo of a line from Hopkins’ “God’s Grandeur,” “there lives…

More posts by Robert Arthur Reeves

Follow Bob

Sari Krosinsky


February 13, 2017

Yesterday, on the way to a nonbinary and gender nonconforming art event (where I got to do a bit of art modeling for the first time in 15 years), I had the urge to make an attempt (not my first) to clarify my gender identity and general thoughts on gender/sex in (I hope) simple, direct prose. Later in this post I'll share a new poem and talk about some others that deal with being transgender, and how they do and don't communicate identity.

The most descriptive single word for my gender is "nonbinary." Before I start unpacking that term, l should clarify that I'm speaking of gender as distinct from physiological sex. (The Genderbread Person is still my favorite breakdown of the distinctions between gender identity, gender expression and biological sex.)

Those who've read Courting Hunger will know what reproductive function I've played. Sex can be divided into a binary of "maleness" and "femaleness," but that doesn't mean we're all ones or zeroes (intersex people excepted, or forgotten, or denied). It means we're each composed of both ones and zeroes. Most of us are either a lot of ones and a few zeroes or a lot of zeros and a few ones, but to be something of both is the norm. Most of us don't know exactly what our individual proportions are. We have not, perhaps, tested our chromosomes or hormone levels. 

And that ratio of zeroes and ones changes throughout our lives. I have to wonder, does a person really have the same sex before, during and after so dramatic a change as puberty? Is the male/female binary really the most meaningful way to categorize sex? Are the deliberate ways we moderate our sexes less real than the automatic ones? I have taken hormones and had surgery that altered my sexual characteristics because I'm transgender. Others undertake those actions for a variety of reasons—menopause, fertility, sterility, virility, cancer. Does the motivation make the change less meaningful to the person living through it?

However we divide it, physiological sex isn't simple, and neither is gender, with its additional complications of social and personal definition. When I say I'm nonbinary, I mean that I reject the notion that anyone's maleness and femaleness has to define who they are—at least, no more than the many subsets of human physiology by which no one defines their identity—and that I will not passively allow socially defined and enforced gender to determine who I am or how I define others. I also mean I am not a boy or a girl, a woman or a man, a he or a she. 

My transgender-related poems tend to focus on specific moments rather than broader questions of identity, and I suspect that might make my gender identity unclear to those who know it only through my poetry.

The only poem in god-chaser that deals with being transgender is "in transit," which tells the story of my quest for testosterone 20 years ago. It is explicitly nonbinary—"I just couldn’t find the none-of-the-above box under 'sex'"—though actually at that time I thought that not being a woman meant being a man (a temporary mistake, like the brief period during adolescence when I tried to be a girl). I added that line to the poem because Bob suggested it ought to be clearer what my present conception of my gender is, and accomplishing that without disrupting the immediacy of the poem was more important to me than historical precision. 

Courting Hunger includes several transgender-related poems. "Before I heard of transgender" describes how at age 4, the gender identity declarations of my fellow toddlers prompted me to consider my own gender and to conclude that I wasn't a boy or a girl, though I also knew what others would say I was, and how I tried to find a way to express that. "Compassion," "Rites of Passage," "Original Cum" and "Pinocchio" describe experiences around the time I was taking testosterone. I worry that the lines in "Pinocchio"—"Was that the night I knew / I didn’t want to be a real boy?"—might confuse readers, but I hope it's clear that "real boy" has a narrow contextual meaning. It may not be also clear that the rejection of masculine identity was in addition to, not instead of, the earlier rejection of feminine identity. I hope, at least, that poems appearing later in the book—"Coming out" and "Don't say 'transgender'"—make it clear that "Pinocchio" doesn't signify the end of my transgender identity. "Don't say 'transgender'" gives a conjectural account of my plans for top surgery, based on the sort of hurdles others have had to face, which bears no resemblance to how the actual surgery worked out, which was a good deal better. So far, this new poem is the only one which makes reference to the actual surgery:

The Truth #81

The one who thinks she’s a little girl

confronts me by the sinks

as I close the door on sunlight.

She sets her lips in grim pout, folds slender

arms about her chest, indignant at

the man in the women’s portapotty.


Perhaps seeing the ends of mastectomy

scars snaking from beneath the hems

of an orange tank and under my arms,

her mother apologizes for her. But

the one who thinks she’s a little girl

isn’t wrong about me, and I prefer

the honest asshole a child can be.


I'm trying to hint at "nonbinary" here, but I'm not sure if I've succeeded. "Consumers," appearing in the chapbook Call Me Crazy, also hints. A recent poem included in my last post, "The Welcoming Committee," deals broadly with the idea of gender role enforcement.

The books mentioned here are available through the Books page in print and/or as free ebooks.

Poetry and Moss in the Northwest

December 4, 2016
Since moving from sunny Albuquerque to soggy Bremerton, Bob and I found reading we both like quite a bit at the Hugo House in Seattle,…

Ramblings on identity politics and what the heck a Maude activist is

October 6, 2016
For a while, my standard bio has included "writer, artist, Maude activist and novice game-maker" and omitted the rest of my potential laundry list of…

Watch Our Farewell Reading to New Mexico

August 23, 2016
It took us a while to get the captions right, but the video from our last New Mexico reading is finally ready! Meanwhile, I'm loving…

More posts by Sari Krosinsky

Follow Sari

Sari on DeviantArt

Share this page: