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No, Father, I never got over 
that first rush of anger 
like wings folding round me 
as I discovered the world 

                        A north town, north in mountains 
                        the beavering trappers cached—
                        one—two-hundred years ago—
                        the religion house, in a good sky, 
                        the two-hat temple brimmed 
                        in roofy granite, and blacksmith tin. 

(Monday, Aug. 4, 1969.) 

            The trees are still in mist this August morning:
chestnut and beech first scorched by sense of Autumn,
and the rest just dull vert between vague seasons.
The swirl of Ceres disciplined to stubble 
reduces the whole seasonal cycle’s plumed

if i have seemed lately to turn from you 
and mail my mind beyond our common rooms 
as if the calm intelligence your eyes 
offer to share were not sufficient plea 

                        You can’t pray with a clenched brain 
                        Or fall asleep with fisted hands; 
                        But force one finger open at a time 
                        Until thoughts clatter loose and fall 
                        Like budded balls of crumpled paper. 

This year October takes us sudden, breaks 
The honeylocust leaves with a parching frost 
And casts them, ashen green and clattering, down
On sidewalks still glaring as white as summer. 

I had a girlfriend and ever since I knew her when she was in the eighth grade, she always said, “I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to be a steady contributor to Cosmopolitan when I’m thirty years old.” I never said that because I didn’t think I was good enough. I wasn’t one of those people who say, “I’m going to be a writer.” 

When it was published in English in 1962, Nobel Prize-winner Halldor Laxness’ novel about the Mormons, Paradise Reclaimed, went virtually un noticed in the Mormon community and, as far as I can tell, is still…

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