Well, I want to end with a poem I've
dedicated to Denise Levertov, a poet for whom
I have a lot of respect not only for her poetry
but because of her notion of being a poet in the world.
I think one of the things that writers
have to wrestle with in this country is at times
the image we carry around in our heads
of writers as somehow removed, non participatory members
of society.
My personal bias although I think anybody
ought to be free to do that is that writers need to actively
participate in the world.
Witness.
She gathers quiet around her like a shawl
carried in a worn bag from place to place, her fingers checking
often that it's by her side.
Throughout the day, she pauses for a spell,
gathers the familiar scent and texture round
her shoulders and elbows.
Within its folds, she hears a wail.
A child's mouth burst open like his skin exploding in pain.
Within its folds, she hears an Earth
sigh heavily at mighty trees uprooted,
blooms shriveled in smoke.
Carefully she records the limbs still now in the heat,
and then she rises, gathers the stormy power
of forgotten spirits to her while we hush.
And as she speaks to us, we feel our tongues heavy, hiding,
unwilling to utter the truths we know.
My wish for all of us is that we have the courage
to utter the truths we know.
Thank you.
I'd be glad to answer any questions.