My name is Diane.
I've always had a kind of mythological feeling
that I either am the moon or I own the moon.
I have some relationship too because of my female nature.
So I felt very strange when those astronauts
were going to land on the moon.
Because I wasn't sure if they were
landing on me or my territory.
I felt vaguely invaded by it.
I decided since all poets write poems about the moon,
that I would write a poem to celebrate
the landing on the moon.
And what I did to write the poem was I
remembered a story that Robert Duncan once told.
Robert Duncan is one of my favorite poets.
He's a very beautiful writer, I think.
And Duncan is an unusual poet.
And then he's a man who talks poetry as well as writing.
So while I don't really know him very well,
I've heard him talk a few times.
And I remember once that he told a story, which
must have had to do with his life long, long time ago.
Because I know Duncan has had a somewhat hard life
until the last few years.
He's always had to earn his living doing things like title
management, so forth.
So he sort of came into his own.
And now, I think that man could be him.
But he told the story about once when he really
felt unloved by the world.
And it's one thing to feel unloved by the world,
but he was also broke.
And being broke and unloved by the world
is a treacherous combination.
So he decided that he would take a cab ride
and go as far as the money he had in his pocket
would take him, and then he'd get out and kill himself.
He had $10 in his pocket.
So he got into a cab.
And he made a mistake taking ride through--
fortunately for us, I think.
He made the mistake riding in Golden Gate Park,
very, very beautiful park in San Francisco.
And at the end of his $10, he felt so good
that he had to get out and walk home.
I wrote this poem for Robert called "The Ten Dollar Cab
Ride," which I sort of thought about the astronauts getting
to the moon, and maybe they ought
to have to walk home like that.
[LAUGHTER]
"The Ten Dollar Cab Ride," for Robert Duncan.
"Robert, like the spray from a waterfall, I am white.
Like snow blindness, like the belly of a shark,
like sweet white peaches or the inside of a Pinot Chardonnay
grape, bone China, zinc-white pigment or the contrast
of the mechanics white back with his grease-soaked arm,
I am the moon.
My name, Diane, gives you a glance
at a white ankle, a pale wrist, shadowed by bracelet.
I am something no one has ever touched, a place no one
has ever landed, reputedly covered
with powdery volcanic dust, which might explode when
exposed to oxygen, something dreamt of, a place
to put a flag, something to conquer,
white dust to step carefully, artistically
on where you hope no one has ever stepped before.
You told, Robert, Robber Baron, of moonlit nights, of your taxi
ride one pale moment into Golden Gate Park.
$10 you had in your pocket.
You could have had a pocket of wolfsbane,
a gold cod-piece, or a pair of peacock-blue stockings worn
by HD, or old lines from the poet Pindar.
You could have had mesmerized butterflies in your pocket,
or crystallized bumblebee, the fork of an adder's tongue,
the wishbone of a partridge, or a cap that made you invisible.
Instead, poet, you had $10 and your life
was like mine is right now.
You had no one to possess you, no one who wanted you,
to give you one of the chambers of his heart to sleep in.
No one owns the moon yet, you know.
And so you decided you would ride as far
as your $10 would take you, then you'd get out of the car
and blow out your brains.
I've been riding this particular taxi
for 30 years, old moon, young moon,
I don't even know what I am anymore.
Like you, I'm unprepared to give up, step out of the cab
and die.
The meter by now registers up in the millions.
I can't afford to get out and pay.
Must keep riding.
Lucky man, you got out when the clock said $10 and walked home.
But I am the moon.
Where can I go?
Everyone wants to conquer me, to use me,
to put a missile base on me, to extract my ore
to bounce radio waves off me.
Now, there's something faintly humorous
about all this moon-June campy sentiment.
I wish I were Yeats and could abandon poetry.
Then I'd invoke myself, Diane, the moon, make love to myself.
Forget about the sun's rays that light me up every day,
forget about who the moon has been,
take heart, another other poet's word.
But soon, I'll be American territory,
throw away my old face and name.
Someday get in a taxi and say to the driver,
take me to the moon.
And laughing, we would drive away.
The charge, of course, at the end of the ride would be $10.
And I would get a discount for having written
this poem, taken this trip."