WEBVTT

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The last poem I'd like to
read is the title poem of one

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of my books, "The
Magellanic Clouds."

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For those of you who have
not taken Astronomy I,

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or read the introduction
to the book, which

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gives a definition of
the Magellanic Clouds,

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let me tell you that they are
very beautiful configuration

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in the sky, which I have
only seen on photographs.

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But they probably
represent another galaxy,

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or several other galaxies,
and they can only

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be seen in the
Southern Hemisphere.

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They were called the
Magellanic Clouds

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by Magellan, who was sailing
by and naming everything

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he could after himself.

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It's a poem in which I
try to talk about-- well,

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on the surface I'm talking
about the necessity for being

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private, or being alone in some
way, if you are going to really

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understand yourself
and be able to do

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your own work in the world.

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I don't mean that we can't
have any communication

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with other people, or that we
can't live with other people,

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or have even good
relationships with others.

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I mean that simply, in fact, we
will have better relationships

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with everyone in the
world at the point

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when we allow ourselves
the privacy of communion

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with ourselves that we need.

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And I feel for the artist, this
is a particularly important

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thing.

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But only because he's
an exaggeration of what

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we all are about.

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"The Magellanic Clouds,"
for Eleanor, who

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likes to see her name in print.

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The photographic
plate is blurred.

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That blurry area is where you
left and breathed on the plate.

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Lizard skin prickly pears
roll out of your mouth.

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A purple bird twists your
tongue with his beak,

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and crazy cactus leaves of love
pin you luckily to one man.

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You have a mouth full
of stars when you laugh,

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and you fall over the
Milky Way at your feet.

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Next door, the
Magellanic Clouds swirl

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and try to force themselves
into your paintings.

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But you are too happy painting
little hearts and big hearts

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and sticking them all
over your husband, who

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is a river washing silverfish
over you in the dark.

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Look carefully.

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My scream makes a silver
line on the graph.

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The photographic
plate is blurred.

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That blurry area is
the Magellanic Clouds

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from another galaxy.

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Inside me swirls something
like the Magellanic Clouds.

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All the animals I ride are
found in the Magellanic Clouds.

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My life is destined
to be a cloud.

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Galaxies, light years removed.

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The dust storm on the desert,
the fog over the river,

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a handful of dust with
tiny shell fragments,

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a gold outline against the sky.

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How can I explain it to you,
and all of the succulent women

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I know?

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Wives, mothers, loved,
protected by men they love,

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having the shoulder to curl
their heads into at night.

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How can I explain to myself
this dust cloud that is my life?

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I talk in my sleep, just
as I talk when I'm awake.

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No one listens to
me but strangers.

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Once a blue vein of electricity
came to me in the Magellanic

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Clouds and said, there is
a price on everyone's life.

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Uncurling my ears,
like new leaves,

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I looked at my world, my scarred
body, my missing children,

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separation from the men
who spoke my language.

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The price is to walk alone up
the stairs, alone every night

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with your candle.

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And alone down the stairs,
alone every morning

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with white footsteps
and teacups of tears.

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In your daydreams you must carry
the bodies of your children,

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wrapped in white and
strapped to stiff boards.

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People will chase you
and accuse you of murder.

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The children will
sing in your ears

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and cut you with the sharp
corners of their smiles.

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Your songs will be bled
out of you every day,

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as you are cut with different
tools: razor blades, knives,

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scissors, grass, paper, glass.

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One day the words will
come out of your elbows,

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and one day out of your knees.

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Scars and holes and
craters will cover you.

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When people look at
you, they will run away.

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But words, the
words you've bought

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will creep out of holes like
beautiful skeins of thread.

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Someday I will vanish in
the Magellanic Clouds,

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but will wait in rooms to
get inside of paintings.

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Even the electricity,
the fire, tells me

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I will not have to spend
all my time in the sky.

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Someday it will be
my breath blurring

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the photographic plates,
and the astronomers

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will say, see that
cloudy spot on the plate?

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We once thought it was
the Magellanic Clouds,

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but they have moved
farther up into space.

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It is something new.

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Another enormous cloud
made up of strange gases

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and foreign particles.

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It is something new, and
we have no name for it yet.

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And I will breathe
harder, will blow harder,

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will blur more and
more of the plate,

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will pass through
rooms, and rooms,

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and rooms of memories
in the shape of apples,

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birds, iron wheels.

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The clouds, the clouds,
the Magellanic Clouds.

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The clouds in my heart.

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The clouds I ride on.

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The clouds under my bed.

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The clouds of my life.

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The clouds always in the next
room, seeping under the door.

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I am a cloud.

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Dust on the desert, fog over
the waters, gases in the sky.

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Can there be any
sadness once I am named?

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[APPLAUSE]

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[AUDIENCE MURMURING]

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