I would like to read perhaps two more poems.
We've been going on for about an hour.
Let me share with you the poem that some people have liked.
And there is something about it that delights me.
My wife, Annie, is going to go out of her mind
when she hears me say this again,
but I still have to admit that it delights me
because British critics don't understand
and it makes them angry.
And they won't be told and they can't understand.
All it is is a description.
The poem is called "A Blessing."
It's a description.
And if you describe-- if you tried--
Isn't that obvious?
Simply-- if you try to describe something simply and clearly
enough, then naturally you're going to bring
your own feelings into it.
"A Blessing."
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
twilight bound softly forth on the grass,
and the eyes of those two Indian ponies darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
to welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture,
where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely.
They can hardly contain their happiness that we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans.
They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts
of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slender one in my arms,
for she has walked over to me and nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white.
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
and the light breeze moves me to caress
her long ear that is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly, I realize that if I stepped out of my body,
I would break into blossom.