And I'd just like to finish with two poems
from the last section of the book, which is discovered
by a statement turned to the center given
and do the best you can, which this completes
a cycle a descent from the first poem,
and I really don't like being 20th century ish and kind
of wallowing in despair.
I think it's totally unnecessary.
But it's good to take a good hard firm look regardless
of what it cost you.
In fact, even if it costs you everything.
Of course, if you can't tell the truth,
you just kind of mess up things for your children.
And I'm tired of hearing people say
that they're not responsible it was their parents.
So I'm in favor of stopping and continue.
I want to read you the last two poems.
One is called Field and one is called Biological Light.
Feel is a poem that I like very much because my oldest daughter
is responsible for the poem.
And briefly, how did that happen?
Well, I was babysitting one day, and I was also writing.
At this time in her life my daughter was just a crawler.
And she didn't talk.
If she talked, I mean, it wasn't English.
And I wasn't relating to it.
So I didn't feel upset.
And I thought I had everything under control.
I wash the dishes, did all my little stuff.
And grabbed my little pad.
And I was ready.
And I put her on one end of the sofa.
And I got to the other end of the sofa.
But I was stupid because I thought
she was going to stay there.
And what she would do is she'd start crawling up the sofa.
And she was slow.
And when she'd get to me, she'd start reaching
for the pad and the pencil.
And I'd jump up and I'd run to the other end of the sofa.
And it would disoriented.
She think it's magic.
When you're really young, how did that happen?
And I was going to take a few minutes to get coordinated.
And I could sit down.
So what happens was it allowed me to continue writing,
but it also suggested fragmentation.
Because what happens is to a certain extent
I could concentrate, I could even
begin to estimate how much time it
was going to take it to get to the other end of the sofa.
But she was in my consciousness.
OK.
All right.
Now, so what happens is the poem feel
involves the kind of split consciousness.
Number one, this guy is going fishing, and number two,
he keeps talking about Charlemagne.
OK.
I guess a lot of people picked it up, right?
Charlemagne really on another level
that it's just not in the poem.
Charlemagne is really my relating
to my daughter coming on conquering, marching.
And I'm trying to write and I'm calling that fishing.
But anyway, the poem is called Feel.
The day needs curtains.
So the wind uses butterflies.
But there is no one at home like the buttercups, who
come by their yellow decisions again and again to see you.
Evenly around, the temporary edges of apples like children.
My face becomes accustomed to sudden endings of rain.
And I slosh again descending gracefully looking for worms.
At social gatherings, worms eat apples and read my books.
If they had feet, I could call them Charlemagne.
Sunlight conquers the grass by flashing blades.
Once in a while, I crack a twig to prove the shade
is suffering.
Charlemagne, who needs you.
A river is a mouth.
When it screams, fish disappear.
I touch my real uncomfortably and call the attention brother.
Huddle is in the deep meet the same broken dreams on land
we call unreasonable.
I go back to read and repeat.
Charlemagne, who needs you.
Lock the gate like you are the owner behind the pasture.
Take your time reaching the car.
Use your life on the stand, the fish you've caught.
The worms they ate who read and poor Charlemagne.