WEBVTT

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My next poem takes this
concern about water,

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about the flux of the
universe, about the flux

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of matter and living things.

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About the cycle of the elements,
and takes it outside that room,

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but tries not to divorce itself
from a particular person.

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Now this is a poem about the
Lake District in England,

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where water is plentiful.

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When it streams
off the hilltops,

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and forms gigantic
and beautiful lakes.

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And so plentiful is it, that
the ordinary domestic user

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of electricity can use
water power in the backyard

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of an ordinary wooden wheel.

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And there are many
farms and houses there,

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that simply draw upon the
heights of the mountains

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and the water falling down
it for the lights, the force,

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the electricity of their houses.

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Their warmth and their
power of electricity.

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The thing they see by, the thing
they keep themselves warm by.

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And this is a poem
about this cycle.

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It was an actual place.

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There is a tarn at the
top of the hill, which

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always keeps full.

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And the water streaming down,
turns the electrical wheel

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a simple wooden one for this
woman, Mrs. Tyson, which

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is a famous Lake District name.

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And I try and look out towards
that, and come back to it.

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"The Force."

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At Mrs. Tyson's
farmhouse, the electricity

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is pumped off her backbone
wooden wheel outside.

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Greased, steady, it spins
within a white torrent

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that stretches up the rocks.

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At night, its force bounds down
and shakes the lighted rooms.

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Shakes the light.

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The mountains force comes
towering down to us.

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High near its summit,
the brink is hitched

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to an overflowing squally tan.

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It trembles with stored storms,
that pulse across the rim to us

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as light.

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On a gusty day like this,
the force lashes its tail.

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The sky abounds with wind
stuffed rinds of cloud,

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that sprout clear force.

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Throbbing in squalls of
the sea, where the sun

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stands pouring down at itself.

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And makes the air grow tall in
spurts, whose crests turn over

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in the night wind foaming.

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We spin like a loose wheel,
and throbbing shakes our light

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into winter and torrents dangle.

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Sun pulls up the
air in fountains.

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Green shoots, forests flinching
up at it in spray of branches,

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sends down clear water
and the loosened torrent

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down into Mrs. Tyson's
farmhouse backyard.

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That pumps white beams of
its crest, in a stiff breeze

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lashes its tail down the rocks.

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