And this is the last poem.
This is called The Painter - A Meditation.
And although a woman painter is speaking in the poem,
I must tell you it is not my wife speaking.
She asked me, "That's not about me.
That's not how I think."
So it's not about--
it's not about her.
It's a meditative poem, so it's a little slow.
"The Painter - A Meditation."
"The wandering Jew's scarlet leaves hang in my space.
I like to think they're peaceful,
but the air pulsates and shadows shrink from the vine.
My eyes thread this space, my hands in love with light.
The light is external, its passage from grief to grace.
I had wanted to make a picture of the world
where nothing was for sale, where women walked down
to their gardens for solace and a little light.
But people sit uneasily in spaces meant for objects.
I can't hold hands with a woman whose face
is dressed with light.
When I take up the brush, I am not transformed,
nor is time mitigated.
For a long time, I meant to be depressed, a sudden jumping out
of windows without goodbyes.
Now, I paint to stay alive.
What mysteries may dwell where leaf and shadow meet,
I'd rather not find words for, having their own reasons, as in
the truth of fables.
Last night, I tried to invent something impersonal
to save my life.
Though it was hot, I pulled the covers over me
and lay in dream a while.
What I saw was a face so large, I couldn't contain its grief.
I heard my children curled in their little bags of sleep,
and their breathing calmed me the way a winter storm
keeps us from leaving the house.
I wanted to invent a glacier of such crystalline purity,
even the cleverest among us couldn't discover its flaw.
Morning caught me unaware.
Look, I'm killing a shadow--
instilling light where no light ought to be.
Sometimes I forget the world where
floors are swept for a reason.
The insane begin by neglecting to clean,
each morning, their faces in the mirror.
There is proof, there are photos of better days.
None of my paintings pose any questions.
Even the slow rise of a blue penis by the easel,
even my husband, who demands his breakfast and his morning
touch--
nothing human moves me.
I watched the slow crawl of light up the wandering jew,
deeper than flesh.
I listen to water dripping in the sink,
and children pummeling each other
in the schoolyard next door, and I think only
of flowers in a still life.
A painter loves in unspeakable places, by hand and eye.
Such cannibalism is an emotion, a courtship of flesh.
This morning, I started a still life
of cups and saucers surrounded by a house,
a small domestic scene.
I tried to paint the face.
It never came out the same.
Nothing is sure or knowable, even these eyes I call my own.
A man walks in and out, dressed with a bluish light.
We say hello, unlike the wandering Jew meeting the air,
as though leaf and stalk, elbow and bud,
were expressions of our fear of life.
There are stories, but we are separate creatures who
bruise each other when we pass.
Lord, I'd like some light, please.
The snippings of the wandering jew
weave their filaments in a jar of fresh water.
It eats to stay alive.
This morning, the household sleeps, deep
in the glacier's flaw.
Its breathing keeps me from myself.
It will carry me into my grave.
If God had a face, I'd never be able to paint it,
it would be so large.
Later, I'll go down to the garden,
and watch the ants pleasing their fat queen."
[APPLAUSE]