OK.
I want to read one more poem from this manuscript,
and then I'll end up with a couple of poems, lighter poems,
from Lucky Life.
I have two poems here where I'm wandering down
the street with some--
I've discovered that I have a whole bunch of poems where
I'm walking with somebody.
I mean, two men talking.
They are just two men walking down the street talking.
I have a poem in Red Coal called The Hungarian which
is about that.
In one of these poems, I'm taking a walk
with Philip Levine, and in another one
I'm walking down the street with Ezra Pound.
I think I'll do the Levine poem because it mentions
that island where the rotten angels swam across
to the Pennsylvania side.
The poem is called "Leaving Another Kingdom."
It's a spring poem.
I think this year I'll wait for the white lilacs
before I get too sad.
I'll let the daffodils go, flower by flower,
and the blue squill go, and the primroses.
Levine will be here by then, waving fountains pens,
carrying rolled-up posters of Ike Williams and King Levinsky.
He will be reaching into his breast pocket for maps
of grim Toledo showing the downtown grilles and the bus
station.
He and I together will get on our hands and knees
on the warm ground in the muddy roses under the thorn tree.
We will walk the mile to my graveyard
without one word of regret, two rich poets
going over the past a little, changing a thing or two,
making a few connections, doing it all with balance.
Stopping along the way to pet a wolf,
slowing down at the locks, giving each other lectures
on early technology, mentioning eels and snakes,
touching a little on our two cities, cursing our Henrys
a little, his Ford, my Frick.
Being almost human about it, almost decent.
Sliding over the stones to reach the island,
throwing spears on the way.
Staring for 20 minutes at two robins starting a life together
in rural Pennsylvania.
Kicking a heavy tire, square and monstrous, huge and soggy,
maybe a '49 Hudson, maybe a '40 Packard,
maybe a Buick with mohair seats and silken cords
and tiny panes of glass.
Both of us seeing the same car, each of us
driving our own brick road.
Both of us whistling the same idiotic songs.
The tops of trees flying, houses sailing along,
the way they did then.
Both of us walking down to the end of the island so we could
put our feet in the water, so I could show him where
the current starts, so we could look for bottles and worn-out
rubbers, Trojans full of holes, the guarantee run out--
love gone slack love gone flat--
a few feet away from New Jersey near the stones
that look like large white turtles guarding the entrance
to the dangerous channel where those lovers, Tristan
and his Isolt, Troilus and you know who, came roaring
by on inner tubes, their faces wet with happiness.
The shrieks and sighs left up the river somewhere.
Now their fingers trailing through the wake, now
their arms out to keep themselves
from falling, now in the slow part past the turtles
and into the bend.
We sitting there putting on our shoes, he with Nikes,
me with Georgia loggers.
Standing up and smelling the river,
walking single file until we reach the pebbles,
singing in French all the way back.
Losing the robins forever, losing the Buick.
Walking into the water, leaving another island,
leaving another retreat, leaving another kingdom.
Let me read you a couple of short poems.