It's frequently said in poetry classes
that one of the reasons that most people aren't
interested in poetry is that a lot of poetry
is about the subject of writing poetry,
and therefore only people who practice it are interested.
But I think that there's something
to be investigated in that truth that's more real,
and that is when we use the term "poet" about somebody,
we mean something more than that he writes verse.
We usually mean that he's a man who
lives with a kind of commitment and purpose.
And when we use the adjective "poetic,"
we usually mean that that's something
that's as important and as beautiful as anything in life
can be.
Poetic.
And so I think it's very reasonable
that in those simple terms, when people are talking about poetry
or the creation of it, perhaps what they're talking about
is life--
trying to find that commitment and duty in living those lives.
That this is all my way of--
not apology, but self-consciousness
about this poem, which is about writing poetry.
It's called "With Words," and I guess the only thing I can say
is that I see my poetry as a kind of metaphor for my life,
and vice versa.
And this poem somewhat explains why I write
the kind of poetry I write.
"With Words," for Tony.
"Poems come from incomplete knowledge.
From the sense of seeing an unfinished steel bridge
that you'd like to walk across, your imaginary footprints
floating like pieces of paper, where the metal ends,
on the cold water far below.
Or the moon disappearing behind a cloud
just when you could almost see the face of the man standing
next to you in the olive trees.
And consequently, I write about those
whose hands I've touched once, trying
to remember which fingers had the rings on them,
speculating from a few words what the dialogue of a lifetime
would have been, making the facts up
out of the clouds of breath we release on a winter night.
How can I then make a poem for you?
Whose skillful hands could make expert blueprints
of all my bones?
There's no need for a bridge between us.
We sleep on the same side of the bed.
Your mustache, inherited from some stealthy Cossack who
kissed your great-great-great-grandmother
and slid his icy cock between her warm legs one night is no
mystery to me.
I can relive its history, drawing lines all over my body.
I have no questions either about your powerful legs,
arms, back, or the quick mind which leads the body around
on a leash.
Forgive me then, if the poems I write
are about the fragments, the broken bridges,
and unlit fences in my life.
For the poet, the poem is not the measure of his love.
It is the measure of all he's lost, or never seen,
or what has no life, unless he gives it life with words."
Actually, I frequently get asked the question,
why do I write poems about the sad things in life
much more than I do about the pleasures and joy.
And I suppose, simply because I think
that what is important to talk about
is trying to solve the problems in life
and trying to find some joy and some beauty in what's ugly
and what you can possibly change,
if you want, by seriously considering it.