What a generous introduction.
Lordy, lordy.
How do I ever live up to that?
Shall I give you my first born?
I do want to clarify one thing, though, that book where
I-- where the Jane reference comes from,
was actually in Cuba.
Because we were a colony of the US.
And so we had books in English.
Yes, and so there was a Dick and Jane book.
And it was my playmates who said, ha-neh, and I said Jane.
Only because my sister had already taught me
that from her English classes.
Something that happens too, when there's
either blondes involved, or English
involved and people don't know where
it takes place in my life, and I want to assure you,
there are blondes in Cuba.
So when I read "The First Woman" and I say that Eva
is a blonde like Liv Ullmann.
People go, oh, that must have been in the Midwest, where
she grew up.
No, Eva was in Cuba.
I am so honored to reconnect with Marilyn Hacker, who
is the most generous person on the face of this Earth.
And she has been pushing me forward for years,
without knowing who the hell I was.
I remember when I was in my 20s getting
a letter from the MacDowell Colony,
saying that she had recommended me for a residency there.
Of course, I was just scraping by, in my little life,
and couldn't afford the time to go away.
But I thought, how did she know I'm alive?
Who is this Marilyn Hacker?
That she knows that I'm alive, and she in subsequent years
continued to do things like that for me.
I never took advantage of it.
I just thought oh, no, it's like I have to make it
on the strength of my work.
I can't possibly have anyone support me.
Of course, I'm now 47, and I've just giving it up.
Whoever wants to support me can.
[LAUGHTER]
I mean, my manuscript was like a runner-up or a finalist
for like 14 years.
And I just thought, forever a bridesmaid, never a bride.
My gown was getting a little old.
So I'm going to start out reading the first poem
and then I'll sort of read some poems in between
and read the last one, to give you
a sort of a little Whitman sampler of the book,
from cover to cover.
But I have to put on my glasses because I can't see anymore.
The reason I look a little baked today,
I'm usually not this healthy looking.
I'm usually pale looking even though I live in Los Angeles.
But Frances Sjoberg dragged me out
to the Sonora Desert Museum, which
I insisted to be taken to, and stood
by as I imitated all the various birds in the Aviary.
And I think that's where I got this,
It was 20 minutes with the Magpie Jay or something.
How time flies when you're talking with jays.
This first poem is called "Archaeology"
and it opens the book.
Sarabande has the site now, called Sarabande in Education,
where schools can sign up and correspond with the authors,
Sarabande authors, and be online and have chats.
And I just finished one of those a few weeks ago.
And I'm surprised that people think
that there's something fictitious about my poetry.
Like, did that really happen?
And is that really from your life?
And things like that.
I go, really, I'm not tricky.
Everything that's there happened.
If I refer to--
And then somebody didn't know who Willy Loman was
and I had to explain to them.
I thought, OK, how old is this person?
Who doesn't know who Willy Loman is?
But I like to--
everyone likes a little context.
And so I'd like to say that this archaeology poem actually
comes from my having literally dug in my backyard
and finding this object.
"Archaeology"
I thought at first it was a bullet, metallic, cylindrical,
one and rounded, the other flat.
But once unearthed from the garden, the little wheel
design of plastic jewels--
the color of watermelon tourmaline or spring grasses
roadside through New Mexico blurring past the windows--
told me what I found, though its identity eluded me, retreating
into guesses about its color.
What was it?
Or how much remained, or whose lips
it had touched before sealing forever.
Because it certainly won't open now, though I see a seam
2/3 down its taut little body and twist and twist.
When I wash it in the sink and scrub off the rust,
searching for a name, its marble patina looks art-directed.
Evocative little clouds of reddish sienna
burn against the greenish night in the tropics.
You can hear crickets and farther off
the timbre of frogs.
From the veranda you intuit blooms pulsing in the dark.
A lava glow smolders on the opposite hill, the air gravid.
Its weight in your hand, you think creyón de labios.
Something ancient pushed up red from underneath,
something so childish it's perfect.
Crayon for the lips.
Drawing yourself in, inventing yourself as the world
you know erases itself.
Words wash over you and you can't help but think,
this one's called Atlantis, say, or Pompeii.
That's because I have a lifelong desire to name lipsticks.
I really think that's a poet's real calling.
[LAUGHTER]