WEBVTT

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Just so, you don't think that
the only thing I write about

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is Indians.

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In fact, I only write
them, about them

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maybe one quarter of the time.

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I'd like to read you a
sort of a non-indian poem.

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This poem is called "The
World's Only Corn Palace."

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And I don't know if you're
familiar with the world's

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only corn palace.

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But it's in South Dakota,
Mitchell, South Dakota

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to be exact.

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And it's kind of a strange place
if you've never been there.

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And I have never been there.

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But this girl who is a
friend of mine, grew up there

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and she sent me a postcard.

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On which was the world's
only corn palace.

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And it was a very, kind
of garish building.

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There were all kinds
of murals painted

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by some long forgotten
artist, I'm sure.

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And it has minarets and
towers and they're all

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taught by the American flag.

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And so, I spent several
days looking at this.

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"The World's Only Corn Palace."

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I tacked it up above
my desk looking at it

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and hoping that I could
write a poem about this.

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And I finally did write a poem
called "The World's Only Corn

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Palace."

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And the poem is not about
the world's only corn palace.

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[LAUGHTER]

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But I couldn't
help use the title.

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The poem's about something else.

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[LAUGHTER]

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So, this poem is called "The
World's Only Corn Palace."

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[LAUGHTER]

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I should mention something else.

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It's a poem about poets.

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So, the corn fits right in.

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They came with
knives and sticks.

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No one called, no one
reminded the wild man

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of his right to scream.

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To fall sobbing to his knees.

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With sticks they came.

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This pack, so bent on
killing all his bones.

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Some looked away.

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Others in their
throats began to laugh.

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Not loud, but blue.

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A winter blue that followed
mongrels out the door.

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With knives, those killers
carved initials on his heart,

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till his eyes grew
white with wonder.

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Thunderbird came
heavy on our heads.

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Too much of a good thing can
spoil it for poets, you said.

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I agreed.

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Down by the river,
we sang sad tunes

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and oh the stars were bright.

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That melancholy night.

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