These are three poems again that I'm going to read all together.
The first is called "Sources."
And I was talking in class the other day,
and something was brought up about a comparison
between poetry and the other arts.
Did I find it helpful studying painting or music or sculpture
or whatever?
And one of the things I said was that one thing
that I missed in poetry was materials to get
your hands into to work with.
I was talking about that with another poet this summer.
And he recognized the same thing and thought
that's perhaps why he and I both happened
to be able to freak out in stationery stores
and looking at different kinds of pens
and papers and fancy typewriters and as close as that
could come to something physical,
to work with, to get your hands into.
And "Sources."
"If I made something with my hands,
a farm, a mollusk, a moon ship, a lamp to light these walls.
These idle hands, something made to leave
behind the chiseled head of a god, any god,
that you might imagine his hooded eyes,
a window to frame your desire or contain your discontent.
Already, there are holes in the leaves,
the edge of newness worn off, green darkens to summer.
I imagine my hands, the hands of a sculptor,
picture in a book of palmistry, veins pulsing through,
tendons clear, hands to be severed and preserved,
reaching into the Earth for stones, roots, coal,
or black water."