WEBVTT

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Two more.

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This one's called "Saturday
and its Festooned Potential."

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Really like the title, you know.

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OK, I wrote this poem.

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And then, about two
hours later, Hadley Guest

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called me to tell me
that her mother Barbara

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Guest had passed away.

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It's like one of those things.

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Barbara Guest, does that
ring any bells to anybody?

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Her new book of poems,
collected poems just came out,

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and I just really invite you to
find her work and to read it.

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It's absolutely
glorious, and she's

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worthy of being
compared to Stevens.

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She's a great poet.

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So I'll read this for her.

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"Saturday and its
Festooned Potential."

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"Faces, unlike weather,
never return, no matter

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how closely they resemble rain.

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In this theater, time isn't
cruel, just different.

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Does that help?

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When the overgrown skyway
becomes calm, humans get quiet.

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When the notion of myth
or collective anything

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is undone by wind chimes
by a gentle tink tink.

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When the mind is opened forth
by a gentle tink tink, or light

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speckled and whooping
in the periphery.

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When light whooping
and speckled is most

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pleasing to a body at rest.

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When thought, open
attaches itself

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to repose to the forehead.

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When twigs swaying just outside
the library's large glass

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signal, scratch, and join
to an idea of history.

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When twigs scratching,
join to an idea of time,

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to a picture of being.

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Like to be beside and becoming,
to be another and oneself.

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To be complete inside the poem.

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To be oneself becoming a poem."

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