This and the last few poems that I've read
come from a book of mine that was published in England
last year and is going to be published in this country
next year.
This is a commercial.
The book is called Moly.
And the next poem I'm going to read
is the title poem of the book.
So I should now explain what "moly" is.
In the Odyssey, Odysseus's seamen
get turned by the witch Circe--
they get turned into pigs.
And Odysseus has cunningly remained behind,
but though he is capable on occasion of abandoning his men,
in this case, he has a ship that he can't manage
to move without their help.
And so he realizes he's got to try and do
something about this.
And so he goes towards Circe's house,
not really knowing how he's going to prevent himself
from being turned into a pig.
And luckily, one of his guardian gods,
Hermes, suddenly appears before him and says, "Eat this herb."
It's called moly-- a white flower and a black root.
And if you eat this--
It says, "Take it."
And it's unclear whether it means eat or carry on you.
But I think it's more than an amulet.
I think it's a kind of drug.
"This will prevent you from being turned into a pig
by Circe.
When she has failed to turn you into a pig,
she will then take you into her bed and try to unman you."
Presumably, he would be impotent,
but this will prevent you from being unmanned as well.
And then she'll do anything you want.
So that's the epigraph to my book.
I mean, it's not the actual words,
but that's what moly is about.
It prevents you from being turned into a pig.
[LAUGHTER]
This is a funny poem.
This is not directly to the subject, I guess,
because this is not spoken by Odysseus.
This is spoken by one of the seamen, who
is in the process of the poem being turned into a pig
by Circe.
He knows at the beginning he's being
turned in something he doesn't like, but he doesn't know what.
Then, he finds out it's a pig.
And then at the end of the poem, he is looking for some moly
to get back.
But he's left still looking for it.
And that is a seaman speaking.
"Moly."
"Nightmare of beasthood, snorting, how to wake.
I woke.
What beasthood skin she made me take?
Leathery toad that ruts for days on end,
or cringing dribbling dog, man servile friend,
or cat that prettily pounces on its meat,
tortures it hours, then does not care to eat--
Parrot, moth, shark, wolf, crocodile, ass, flea.
What germs, what jostling mobs there were in me?
These seem like bristles, and the hide is tough.
No web or claw here--
each foot ends in hoof.
Into what bulk has method disappeared?
Like ham, streaked.
I am gross-- grey, gross, flap-eared.
The pale-lashed eyes my only human feature.
My teeth tear, tear.
I am the snouted creature that bites through anything, root,
wire, or can.
If I was not afraid, I'd eat a man.
Oh, a man's flesh already is in mine.
Hand and foot poised for risk.
Buried in swine.
I root and root, you think that it is greed.
It is, but I seek out a plant I need.
Direct me gods, whose changes are all holy,
to where it flickers deep in grass, the moly--
Cool flash of magic in each leaf and shoot, from milky flower
to the black forked root.
From this fat dungeon I could rise to skin and human title,
putting pig within.
I push my big, gray, wet snout through the green,
dreaming the flower I have never seen."