This is a poem that's funny also but it
gets kind of serious at times.
And it's called "Art is Poetic."
And that was kind of posturing on my part.
Art is poetic, the art of poetry.
This is what I think poetry is.
And it's true in the sense that--
is the sense of revelation of self
and how much can one reveal.
How important it is to reveal yourself,
to be vulnerable with people you care about.
But what are the boundaries to that.
And-- but really the poem should be called something like truth
or dare or--
I forget.
I had another title for it.
So there's some people, after dinner,
playing the game of telling--
most embarrassing stories.
That's what it should be called.
And there are some people named who are sitting right here.
[LAUGHTER]
"We already had a few glasses of wine
and the woman wanted to go first so eagerly she
raised her hand like a sixth grade girl, composed herself
and began.
This was years ago I was taking a plane
from San Francisco to Boise and I got stuck in the toilet.
I couldn't unglue myself.
I kept banging on the door until the stewardess came and yanked
hard on my arm, nothing.
And pretty soon there was a small line
of passengers curious, horrified, then amused.
Then wanting to be helpful, each of them
giving a big yank, and nothing.
And me getting more and more than less and less embarrassed.
Then some good soul brought me a glass of wine.
Lunch arrived on a tray.
[LAUGHTER]
Then they begun to pull again ripping each other's hands
in an uneven tug of war.
They were chatting, tipsy, getting to know each other,
forgetting my predicament.
I could hear them telling their own most embarrassing stories.
Then the clink of glasses, laughter, and so
on until we landed, Jesus.
And a man in a worker's uniform stepped gingerly
onto the toilet around my bulging thighs
with his excuse me, ma'am."
By the way, this woman because this happened to her
they changed the way they built in toilets.
The whole compartment was way too big.
The toilet bowl was separate parts.
And because she got stuck, all America
changed how they made their toilet.
[LAUGHTER]
I'm out of here.
"And a man in the worker's uniform
stepped gingerly onto the toilet around my bulging thighs
with his excuse me ma'am, staring
and trying not to stare.
And with a long screwdriver undid the entire compartment,
plastic walls, sink, the toilet itself, and then pop,
the suction released and I was free.
The sound must have echoed through the plane
because I heard this terrific applause.
[LAUGHTER]
Stewardess, pilot, co-pilot, passengers clapping and that
was it.
[LAUGHTER]
And that was it.
It was as though a balloon had been suddenly blown up and just
as suddenly deflated.
She didn't seem embarrassed but bashful rather.
This middle aged woman, plain, and pretty,
and plainly dressed, seated with her knees locked together
like a newly pubescent girl in a room full of adults.
Then a long pause, a shifting on the couches and the chairs.
Then Ann screeched, the way she does when she's confused.
Then some Brandy, then Eric, the mischievous psychiatrist,
calls for another story and I started.
But in the middle, Gail gave me that look
that said the story was more than embarrassing.
Too much about to be revealed.
So I stuttered to a stop.
Inappropriate personal disclosure, Max called it.
And I laughed, unsure suddenly of what exactly
was appropriate.
How open should one be, and where
was that line you crossed at your own peril,
and of what value was the crossing?
To make us feel more comfortable in a conforming world
or harmful, alienating, casting a person out.
The woman started up again.
Her husband caught in bed with a man prettier than she was.
The search for the missing tampon.
The hotel garden in Prague.
One story sliding into another like someone who caught out
confesses every sin, every crime, even those
she hasn't been accused of.
And none among us had the courage,
if that is what it was, to give back
the dignity she had so eagerly given away to say no more,
that's all we need to know.
That's all I've got, she said.
Now she was blushing, turning a bright red
as though she had turned herself completely inside out.
As though she realized that the telling of her own most
embarrassing stories was itself a most embarrassing story,
someone would tell later on her, and she wouldn't be
there to sort of modulate it.
She started to cry, really sob.
Even so she looked beautiful in that moment.
Extraordinary, this unprepossessing woman.
Innocent in her way.
Like a wet red infant glowing on the couch the way
we would have been if we had no secrets.
We who are still complex, and secret, and proud."