I was asked at another place why I didn't carry on writing
that all my life, but I think
[LAUGHTER]
I have better things to do.
I think, I hope.
Now poem called "Lakeside," very similar title.
Actually, I've heard both of these titles in the last day
here.
Lakeside and blue lake with local associations,
which is an example of things which are always happening
to poets provision, perhaps.
[LAUGHTER]
This particular poem is it takes a religious theme.
And through it explores that dark religious feeling
which flows into a boy on the verge of adolescence secretly.
"Lakeside."
"Prove that you love me!' she said, as a girl will.
'Anything!' the boy stammered.
'Anything?
Then let me see you walk the waves.'
He fished for inspiration in her eyes and walked.
She gave him the spice of her lips half mockingly.
'Prove that you love me, change this water into wine.'
She pointed to her pitcher, cracked in the heat of noon.
He lifted an arm.
She drank, and hugged her ankles.
Gave him the wine of her tongue, and bit his own.
'Prove that you love me!'
'Anything.' 'I'm hungry now.
Change this dry crust to a feast, and don't belong.'
There were baskets to spare.
She bared her small teeth in pleasure
spared him the rose her breasts--
then away she sprang.
Hid herself in a rock.
Tortured, he seized her.
But she wriggled like a lizard away.
'Prove that you love me!'
A cripple was passing.
'Heal me him.'
The cripple walked.
For an instant his finger clove the hill of frankincense,
but again she twisted out of his grasp,
her laugh invaded by a gasp of pain.
She stood on the rock, goading, belly thrust forward.
'Prove that you love me!
Die for me,' she said.
'Die, and you can have this.
Not unless.'
She kilted her robe, pulled open the sepulcher
to show the red sand-flesh waiting.
Speech and color left his lips.
'So you don't love me!'
She laughed, spat grossly, and fled.
Wandering to the shore, he helped the fishermen
with their nets, but his mind and his blood
ran on the frightening fount of energy that had leapt in him.
She bitched about homelong, blood splashing
like menstrual wine that flowered lemon trees
in her aimless wake.
Forgot by dusk the strange, shy, clumsy boy,
knowing too well the power in her little finger
to stir such deeds, and more, when the devil was in her."