One of the writers in the 20th century of America,
especially in my region in the Northeast,
who meant the most to me was Paul Goodman,
whom I knew although we were not close friends.
He was older than I and he died some years ago.
And one night I wrote this little poem
called, "In Memoriam."
I used to-- I used to work in a little shack in the woods,
and in the wintertime I heated it with a little wood stove.
"This warmish night of the thaw in January,
a beech chunk smoldering in my Herald number 22-A box stove,
suddenly takes fire, and burns hot.
Or rather I suddenly, who was reading
the sweet and bitter poems of Paul Goodman, dead last summer,
am now aware how my shed becomes a furnace.
And taking my shovel, I ladle a great mush of snow
into the stove's mouth to quieten it, and then
step quickly outside again to watch the plume of steam rise
from my stovepipe straightly and vanish into the mist."
[APPLAUSE]