Well, what I'm going to do is to read some of my own poems
for perhaps about three-quarters of an hour.
And I should say, at the end of that, if any of you
would like to ask me questions--
and please do.
I'm quite used, in England, to doing a sort of reading which
ends with questions.
And I shan't be at all put out, however antagonistic
and searching they are.
I tend to write, I am told by critics, two kinds of poem,
by and large.
On the one hand, a sort of lighthearted, frivolous, rather
jokey sort of poem, which hopefully reads quite well
aloud.
And on the other hand, a sort of fairly intense, serious,
personal poem.
I think of the connection between these
as being very much one through form and structure, which,
to a considerable degree, very much obsesses me as a writer.
Now, I shan't tell you before I read them which ones I think
are the light jokey ones and which the intense serious ones.
You'll sort of work that out for yourselves.
I'll begin with a poem from my last book, The Night of Stones,
which is called "Marshall."
Is there anybody called Marshall in the audience?
Either first or second name would do.
Shout out "I am Marshall" if there is.
Nobody shouts.
Nobody ever shouts, you know.
I've read this poem now about four times in America
and about 44 times in England.
And I always ask this question, and there's never
anybody called Marshall.
It's amazing.
The name is clearly dying out.
You wouldn't think so.
I mean, what with Marshall McLuhan and General Marshall,
you'd think the place would be full of Marshalls, but not so.
Anyway, why the poem is called Marshall is quite unclear.
Everything else about it, I think, is fairly clear.
"Marshall"
It occurred to Marshall that if he were a vegetable,
he'd be a bean.
Not one of your thin, stringy green beans or your dry, marbly
borlotti beans.
No, he'd be a broad bean, a rich, nutritious, meaningful
bean, alert for advantages, inquisitive with potatoes,
mixing with every kind and condition of vegetable,
and a good friend to meat and lager.
Yes, he'd leap from his huge, rough pod
with a loud popping sound into the pot.
Always in hot water and out of it,
with a soft heart inside his horny carapace.
He'd carry the whole world's hunger on his broad shoulders,
green with bess butter or brown with gravy.
And if some starving Indian saw his flesh bleeding
when the gas was turned on or the knife went in,
he'd accept the homage and prayers and become a god
and die like a man, which, as things were, wasn't so easy.
Well, that's "Marshall."