WEBVTT

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And I'm going to end with--

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the last section of the
book is called Yennecott.

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And it's an old
name for this part

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of Long Island out in the North
Fork, of the very North Fork.

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And no one really
knows what it means.

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I tried to find it everywhere.

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So I like the sound of it.

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And it comes through in the
nine sections of this poem.

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And I'll just read
a few stanzas in it.

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And here's how it opens,
with a little epigraph

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by Khlebnikov the Russian poet.

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"Me, Earth dweller,
with the wave of one

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foot breaking after another.

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Off the main road, through
a tangled path of green,

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to a row of cabins where
brick workers once lived,

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transplanted along the shore.

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Cherubim and a flaming
sword it was written.

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From then, exile and mortality.

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At the entrance
to breezy shores,

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a thin chain stretched between
posts that hide a motor.

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At the landlocked, to be
suddenly surrounded by sea,

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sun summoning past
beyond forgetting.

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The cabin feels like an island.

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Windows unfold to ceiling, floor
uneven, sand collection tower,

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jar of shells, afferent breeze.

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In winter, they
shut off the water,

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this place a private seasonal
getaway, sea still sea.

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Nine-day holiday time shared
between us-- new grandmother,

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mother, father, grandson, son.

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Out the screen door to flowers,
fresh cut grass, a low umbrella

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table, two Adirondack
chairs, between bushes

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step down to a thin
stretch of sand.

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High tide hides, leaves
behind stones, shells, sea.

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Matthew and Peter,
we've never met.

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Among their things, toolbox
doorstop, checkered couch,

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apricot scrap, boxes and
boxes of Irish Spring--

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[LAUGHTER]

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--which are all empty.

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Tristan and Isolde's night gaze.

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Tall, orange vase emptiness,
bags and bags of frozen

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vegetables, mosaic candle
volcano, Kandinsky curtains,

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of paintings, Valéry: The
landscape afforded great

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conveniences.

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Lonely sail, snug straw
hat, Hungary for Men

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scrawled on a videotape.

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A. in the period of likenesses,
Gennady five months dead.

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But the birches of Yennecott
recall his word spirits.

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Creeley's "Mazatlán"
comes to mind,

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Reznikoff Sei Shōnagon
across the centuries.

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I nod away from my intentions.

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Bark walls, bullrush mats, and
the living place, open sky.

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The sea we're looking at
always inspires nostalgia

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for what we'll never
see, says Pessoa's maiden

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in a round castle room,
with a corpse, and a window,

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and two others listening.

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Sleep surrounded by
sea, darkness rocking

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sleep, beside her in safety.

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Dream, the grain of memory.

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Mythless dream, the
shared impossible dream.

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Dreamless myth, impossible.

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Tree without seed,
fruit without flower.

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Urubamba flow below Vilcapampa.

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City of stairways in the clouds.

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The way Castillo's quill
trembled before the undreamed

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that was already dreamed.

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Ancient memory,
Gandharva realm--

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keyed, stone carved, angled,
Vicuña rug, their love for sun,

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terrace, tillage, harmony
of water, lightness,

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tied to intihuatana
mirror and bronze.

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Sun's reflection echo at
Tiahuanaco, ruins Mayta Capac

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studied, Pachacutec carved,
curved walls, ashlar room,

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window heights.

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Milder than Cusco, hidden by
mountains, mist, home, temple.

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Hidden from conquest, when
the merciful conquerors became

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the conquered and the place
abandoned imagination.

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Ashore, fished the
Sound, standing in water.

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Mosquitoes suck through my
shirt, crab after crab hooked.

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Moon, a haze of clouds
in the face of hunger.

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Malick's New World, history
cannot hold its fragrance

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of love, the land.

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Even in extremity, hardship--
they belong to communion.

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Their voices, memory of
the forest, of the air,

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of the weeping birds, of
the river's stillness."

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And this is the last
section of the book.

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It's in nine little parts.

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And there's a word
here, Mesingw he's

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the Lenni Lenape god of the
forest and of animals and kind

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of presides over this
section of the poem.

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And so he comes up.

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"Alone in the woods
near a running brook,

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far from wind, shelter built,
pyramid of bark, leaves,

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saplings-- provisions
set for the known hour.

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Light deepening late
spring's colors,

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his eyes felt but hidden.

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Silence of birds and
trees, silence of breath.

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Waves of pain beginning.

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Silence of walking feet.

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Silence of song cradling
belly, her voice so sweet.

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Sap rise, soft bed of moss,
butterfly and dragonfly,

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wild flowers all would drink.

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Sun fading, falling
through branches.

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Pain still pain without sin.

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panis angelius fit
panis hominum As it was,

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as it was at the sacred table.

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Breath returning through
the door of horn,

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vanishes on swift wings
through the ivory door.

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Circle of fire, embers floating
to stars, divine spark inside,

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breathing, breathing,
and coming.

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Mesingw is coming.

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I am here.

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Beaver had appeared, then
Otter, Muskrat, Toad,

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and a lonely lotus.

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Turtle's slow search,
Earth rocked tectonic web,

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spiders net.

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Mesingw astride deer,
face red, black mask.

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Eponym of peace, of
silence, steps, breath,

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making the forest,
opening the path.

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Thoughts born of words--

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you are not myself,
nor any other.

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We are thoughts.

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Surrounded by water
and darkness, immersed

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in the sound of her heart,
if this is blindness,

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what is sight?

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before memory.

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They walk toward me
from a great distance,

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and clothed me in
garments of sun.

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Faces so familiar from a city
of bridges, city of stone,

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city of ring roads,
waterway fields, now

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dust motes in a sunbeam.

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They rub my back and my feet,
whispered sweet words to me,

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brought me food and drink.

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So thirsty, I stood alone
as they danced around me,

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knowledge and acknowledged.

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Salt flowing down my body--

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a vessel my blood, my
water, mixing with Earth.

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Horus not of silence or
sun, but of the child,

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the cries in my arms.

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Stepped into water to wash.

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By dawn's first
light, I carried her.

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She carried my
heart, unsequestered

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forest, Mesingw's breath.

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Everything living emotion.

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Motion and stillness, water
clear as the air was clear,

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the Earth, my thoughts, hers.

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And for many days of water
silence, naps, and dreams.

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Her milk feeding my heart.

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Her voice-- gentle wind.

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Her face-- blossoming sky.

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I returned to the village of
nine houses without a name,

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uprooted, not yet born,
calling me, calling me,

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tears of a father."

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And this is a very
last poem of the book.

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"Walked the shore
of shells, walked

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the dock, the glass
peninsula, the broken pier.

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Walked the macadam
to grassy field.

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Walked the path through
the trees towering to sand.

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Walked the morning dove's
nest in shade and leaves.

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Walked the templum
of elfin gold,

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of orpiment crystals
tempered with wine.

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Walked the brick
house and outhouse.

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Walked the water back to where
I began, though I could see

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no semblance of a beginning.

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And what the walk revealed
along the sea's margin,

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along the rim rock
of the island,

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after so many centuries, of
marsh tides and moon stones,

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of or and ore before oar was
an experience of walking.

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Irony replaced with nothingness.

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Immensity and transience,
the unsaid thoughts

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flowing around my heart.

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And the rays, like
a shepherd's fire,

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shadowing the vanishing line."

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Thanks.

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[APPLAUSE]

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