I don't know what to say about somebody,
so I won't say anything.
"Judgments."
I accuse Ellen.
You have become 40 years old and successful,
tall, well-groomed, gracious, thoughtful, a secretary.
Ellen, I accuse.
George, you know how to help others.
You manage a school, you never let
fear or pride or faltering plans break your control.
George, I accuse.
I accuse, Tom.
You found a role, now you meet all kinds of people
and let them find the truth of your eminence.
You need not push.
Oh, Tom, I do accuse.
Remember the gawky heartily to survive students we were?
Not one of us going to succeed.
All of us abject aware of how cold,
unmanageable the real world was.
I remember.
And that fear was true.
And is true.
Last, I accused myself.
My terrible poise.
Knowing even this, knowing that then we sprawled in the world
and we're ourselves part of it.
Now we hold it firmly away with gracious gestures,
like this of mine, we've achieved.
I see it all too well.
And I am accused.
And I accuse.
I wanted to try to lend to this whatever conviction
my voice could give, partly because of an adventure
or an encounter or discouragement I had with it.
It was in Harper's Magazine and a colleague of mine
where I teach he was from the department of religion.
I keep lunging for things that might have meaning to her.
But anyway, he's from the department of religion.
He came up to me in the hall, and he said, "Now,
Bill, are you the one who wrote that poem in Harper's and I
saw about judgments?"
I said yeah.
And he just looked at me and then he shook his head
and walked away.
Well, a few days later, I saw him and he stopped me
in the hall and he said, "Bill, I read it again."
This is part of living, you know, we help each other.
I take this to heart, but I thought, maybe
if I did it with my voice, it would be all
right in spite of what he said.