WEBVTT

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Let me read just
a couple or more.

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This is a rather different
poem, and again I'm

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not sure that this is finished.

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I mentioned my
grandmother before.

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She came to this
country from Italy,

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settled in Pennsylvania
in the coal fields,

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raised a family there.

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And her ways were very much old
world ways, and in many ways,

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a very tough lady.

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This poem brings
her back into it.

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It was also a reference
to a man named

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Lud who was a man I knew
worked in a foundry when

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I was a young.

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I think it's a matter
of self explanation.

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Poem's called How To Handle It.

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My grandmother seldom said much.

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Her cabbages eaten by
worms, a shoe that pinched,

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bad weather, funerals, a
man squeezed in the mines

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until he pissed blood, go
shit on the sun, she'd say,

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a kind of politics after all.

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I think of Lud too, by
a ladle of hot iron,

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pot-bellied sweating
who dropped his pants

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and shook his long pale
cock at the furnaces bawling

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over the factory noise.

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If I'm going to
work like a horse,

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I might as well look
like a goddamn horse.

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Speech is one thing,
silence another.

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There was a widow next
door, old peevish who

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papered her windows
with newsprint,

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stuffed rags beneath the
door, and disappeared

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for a long winter with
only her lamp at night

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throwing a small sooty
glare into the wind's teeth.

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And how will I speak
of those coming

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into the circle of my own
lamp who mumbled in public

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and wore black, who bore a
grudge and broke it like bread,

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the man who dreams
of dynamiting fish,

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the one beating his
car with a stick,

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the human dog who howls back.

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