Now, I wish I didn't have to tell any of the plot of any
of these poems, but I know that it's difficult to take poems
in on first listening.
So I'll tell you, part of the story of this poem.
In this poem, the speaker of the poem is talking to a woman.
And he is telling her about a past experience
that he has had with another woman, as a matter of fact,
he is telling the woman he is talking
to about an earlier time in which he drowned the woman.
And that's I think all I have to tell you now,
but see if you can follow the story of this poem.
"The Thrasher in the Willow by the Lake."
Oh, I should mention what a thrasher
is, I don't know if you have thrashers out here.
They're fairly large brown birds,
they're larger than Robins.
"The Thrasher in the Willow by the Lake."
And remember a man is speaking to a woman.
"Now I can tell you.
Hearing the shrill leaves swishing with your hair,
I can recall just how it happened--
the air was thick and still like now
and I could see the lake reflect the thrasher in the willow
tree.
I paused, knowing that I could never make her change.
I told her that I thought no simple change could help--
it was too late for help--
but still the thrasher in the willow tree
had paused as if it were an omen to reflect
what the lake desired so that I could recall myself
in the stirred wind and fish-like leaves.
I stared at her among the willow leaves.
If she looked young or old or if some change showed rippling
in her face, I can't recall.
I know the thrasher saw her when he paused over the lake
as if he could reflect upon his past,
stop it, and keep it still.
Like this I held her--
she would not stay still.
I watched, just like the thrasher,
as the leaves stirred in the willow tree
and then I paused, groping for breath,
to see the lake reflect the blurring wind.
Her face refused to change enough
because she knew I would recall that moment always,
that I would recall when her I met the thrasher's eye
and paused, and might have, but never did, let me change.
Her lake sounds gurgled with the fish-like leaves,
and if you listen, you can hear them still.
Listen, they call in the willow, they
reflect the crying of the lake, and may
reflect the words she might have said to make me change.
Maybe she said them, but I can't recall ever
hearing them in the willow leaves
when the thrasher blinked and her eye went still.
You know now why I brought you here and paused.
And since I could not change when the sun paused
to reflect the thrasher's eye among the leaves,
the Willow will recall your face when the lake goes still."
That's not an autobiographical poem.
[LAUGHTER]