Plato said that all poets were liars,
and now you know all novelists are too.
[LAUGHTER]
I, speaking of lies and liars, will begin with a poem
by another poet.
C.K. Williams, who is going to be here shortly, has a book
called Lies, and from it I'm going to read a poem.
I was going to do this primarily for my wife.
Oh, here she is.
Yes, she did make it.
I thought she wasn't here.
I have often heard her say after a reading
that she heard only one decent poem all evening
and that was the one read by some other poet--
written by some other poet.
So in order to make sure that she
gets to hear one decent poem this evening,
I'm going to start out with a poem I know is very good,
which is by C.K. Williams, and it's called Dimensions.
It's from his book, Lies.
I'm looking forward to meeting Mr. Williams.
Can you all hear me?
All right.
Dimensions.
There is a world somewhere else that is unendurable.
Those who live in it are helpless in the hands
of elements.
They are like branches in the deep woods in wind
that whip their leaves off and slice the heart of the night
and sob.
They are like boats bleating wearily in the fog.
But here, no matter what, we know where we stand.
We know more or less what comes next.
We hold out.
Sometimes a dream will shake us like little dogs,
a fever hang on so we're not ourselves, or love ring us out,
but we prevail.
We certify and make sure we go on.
There is a world that uses its soldiers and widows
for flour, its orphans for building stone,
its legs for pins.
In that place, eyes are softened and harmless
like God's, and all blend in the traffic of their tragedy
and pass by like people.
And sometimes one of us, losing the way,
will drift over the border and see them there,
dying, laughing, being revived.
When we come home, we are halfway.
Our screams heal the torn silence.
We are like scars.
That was Dimensions by C.K. Williams.
I think that's a marvelous book.
I recommend it highly.