I'd like to read now three poems that are narrative poems spoken
in different voices.
My new collection of poems would have a section of seven poems
or so like these.
And before I read these, I'd like
to read you a short quotation which I use as a sense
an epigraph to these seven poems as a group.
It would be printed on the divider page.
It's a very strange quotation.
It's from Arthur Conan Doyle from one of the Sherlock Holmes
stories called The problem of Thor bridge.
And in fact I encountered it not in the story,
but in WH Auden's Commonplace Book.
It's a lovely-- lovely little piece.
It goes, among these unfinished tales
is that of Mr James Villamor who stepping back
into his own house to get his umbrella was never more seen
in this world.
No less remarkable is that of the cutter Alicia
which sailed one spring morning into a small patch of mist
from where she never again emerged nor was
anything further ever heard of herself and her crew.
A third case worthy of note is that
of Isidore Persana the well-known journalist
and duelist who was found stark staring mad with a matchbox
in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said
to be unknown to science.
This group of poems draws for its subjects on films and books
there is a Sherlock Holmes poem and other novels popular--
in a sense popular images that you are probably familiar with.
The first poem is called attack of the crab monsters
and it's taken directly from a film also called
attack of the crab monsters.
It's a wonderfully typical science fiction horror movie.
But if you haven't seen it on some late night horror show,
nevertheless I imagine that the story will be familiar to you.
It's the story of the research team
that goes to the radioactive island
where they encounter giant monsters,
tarantulas snakes, praying mantises, lizards whatever.
I saw a film last semester on television called night
of the lipase which featured perhaps the most
unlikely gigantic monsters.
In this case they were huge rampaging bunnies.
They would come out and hop people to death.
Have close ups of their noses wrinkling.
It's supposed to be horrible.
The poem is spoken by a character in the story,
but not by the hero.
I imagine the poem as spoken by a minor character, perhaps one
of the sailors on the ship that brought the scientific team
to the island.
Attack of the crab monsters.
Even from the beach I could sense it.
Lack of welcome, lack of abiding life.
Like something in the air, a certain lack of sound.
Yesterday there was a mountain out there.
Now it's gone.
And look at this radio, each tube neatly sliced in half.
Blow the place up, that was my advice.
But after the storm and the earthquake,
after the tactic of the exploding
plane and the strategy of the sinking boat,
it looked like fate.
And I wanted to say, don't you see?
So what if you're a famous biochemist?
Lost with all hands is an old story.
Sure, we are on the edge of an important breakthrough.
Everyone hearing voices, everyone falling into caves,
and you're out wandering through the jungle in the middle
of the night in your negligee.
Yes, we are way out there on the edge of science.
While the rest of the island continues
to disappear until nothing's left
except this cliff in the middle of the ocean,
and you in your bathing suit crouched
behind the scuba tanks.
I'd like to tell you not to be afraid, but I've lost my voice.
I'm not used to all these legs, these claws, these feelers.
It's the old story, predictable as fallout,
the rearrangement of molecules.
And everyone is surprised and no one
understands why each man tries to kill the thing he loves
when the change comes over him.
So now you know what I never found the time to say.
Sweetheart, put down your flamethrower.
You know I always loved you.