WEBVTT

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Well, obviously I've been
dealing with the social aspects

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of a writer, who of necessity
must include himself

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in his writing and probably
projects upon the world

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the loneliness which
comes with seclusion.

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And it might be a metaphor.

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It's quite possible
it is a metaphor

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for the situation among us all.

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At least I write in that belief,
that isolation is the condition

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in which most of us live.

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Anyway, in this poem, I take
a different tack entirely.

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After all, there
is a certain beauty

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to dedicating yourself to an
intangible, such as writing.

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And I call this
poem "While I Live."

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I dream of language
as the sun, I

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whisper to that plant whose
own language is the wind,

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it cups its flower to listen
at the winds pressure,

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and we talk together of
the darkness and language.

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What don't they
suffered at its command?

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Only that I may endure
the necessary ecstasy

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of my personal death.

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I want my trees to
love me and my grass

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to reach up to
the porch, where I

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am no one but the end of
time, as I stand waiting

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for renewal in my brain, because
I am what the sun shines forth.

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I am labor, I am a
disposition to live, who dies?

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Only the sun, but you
must wait while I live.

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That would be a poem that
possibly is in response to some

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of Wallace Stevens ideas.

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