Thank you, Joel, for such a thoughtful introduction.
I appreciate it.
And thank you, Gayle.
Thank you, everyone at the Poetry Center,
for bringing me out again.
When I was out here five years ago,
it seemed to me, even early on in my poetry reading
life, a remarkable evening, a remarkable time.
And that has not diminished, but only gained
in that recognition.
So it feels like a very remarkable thing
to be invited back.
And thank you all for coming.
Oh, right.
I'm not good with these things.
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
I always feel like they're aggressive towards me,
and I should--
like, I'm trying to avoid it--
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
--rather than address it.
As Joel mentioned, much of my work over my entire writing
life has involved itself, in one way or another,
with my reading life to the point where, in some ways,
I've ceased to be able to tell apart the difference,
creatively, of an act of reading and an act of writing.
And I thought tonight, maybe I would
focus on works that sort of emerge out
of that complication.
And I'll start with reading a few short pieces
from this long book of essays about Moby Dick, pieces
that sort of merge this difference between prose
and poetry.
But I'll begin with a little poem
that preface the book, a poem I wrote for my daughter
five years ago when I was out here last just after she
was born.
Little whale, little ghost, the world
grows quiet when you speak it most.
When you see it most, it grows blank,
as ocean grows blank at noon, no boat but a coffin
and horizon for a coast.
I try not to talk to my daughter too much about Moby Dick, but--
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
--she knows all the main characters names.
And my wife and I are expecting, and whenever we discuss names,
even though we're expecting a girl, she says,
what about Ahab?
And sadly, I think, what about it?
[AUDIENCE LAUGHING]
It could work.