I thought of saying another thing too,
because many people that I've met while have been here
are writers and have an interest in this kind of thing.
This poem, I sent off to what was then
the newly appointed poetry editor of Esquire,
James Dickey.
And so he sent it off to the head office,
and along with another.
And apparently he didn't prevail on the second one,
but they published this and I got a note back
from an editor of Esquire accepting this poem.
And then there's a little note scribbled on the side.
Remember me, Genesis West?
Now the reason I want to say this to the writers
here is, yes.
Yes, I remember.
Years ago, there was this desperate little magazine
out there in the Bay Area called Genesis West.
That's a renaissance that didn't happen.
It's defunct years ago, but the editor then
was this desperate character who now has all that power
and money back there pumping.
Well, now I want to try--
most of this as I know very well,
has been just sort of in the middle.
And I don't have anything very extreme,
but there is something I feel like making.
I don't want to overdo this apology business
at the beginning, because that would oversell it in some ways,
but freedom to communicate is all kinds of freedom.
And I think I believe in all of them,
but I want to try one that's a little bit different.
And so forgive me if this is wrong.
This is not the last poem, but there are two more
to take the weight off this one, but this is called "Bess."
"Ours are the streets, where Bess first met her cancer.
She went to work every day, passed the secure houses.
At her job in the library, she arranged better and better
flowers.
And when students asked for books,
her hand went out to help.
In the last year of her life, she
had to keep her friends from knowing how happy they were.
She listened while they complained about food or work,
or the weather.
And the great national events danced their grotesque fake
importance.
Always pain moved where she moved, she walked ahead.
It came, she hid.
It found her.
No one ever served another so truly.
No enemy ever meant so strong a hate.
It was almost as if there was no room left for her on earth,
but she remembered where joy used to live.
She straightened his flowers.
She did not weep when she passed its houses.
And when finally she pulled into a tiny corner
and slipped from pain, her hand opened again.
And the streets opened, and she wished all well."