First of all, I'm going to start with the very first poem,
because it seems to me that--
it's a poem that though it looks like it is dissing prose
writers, it's actually an acknowledgment of the hardship
that goes into every writing.
And also because this poem was inspired by a young poet who
lived here in Tucson.
His name was Morgan Schuldt.
And he had actually been my student
at the University of Virginia.
Then he came here to the University of Arizona,
got his MFA here, started a magazine of prose poems.
That featured exclusively prose poems.
And then wrote to me and said, would you
contribute to the magazine?
And I said to him, I'm not sure I believe in the prose poem.
Because this was our relationship.
I would challenge him and he would come back and we would--
And so, and of course, I sent him the prose poem.
"Prose in a Small Space."
It's supposed to be prose if it runs on and on, isn't it?
All those words, too many to fall into rank and file,
stumbling bare ass drunk onto the field reporting for duty,
yes, sir, spilling out as shamelessly as the glut
from a mega billion dollar chemical facility,
just the amount of glittering effluvium
it takes to transport a little girl
across a room, beige carpet thick under her oxfords,
curtains blousy with spring--
is that the scent of daffodils drifting in?
Daffodils don't smell but prose doesn't care.
Prose likes to hear itself talk, prose
is development in denouement, anticipation
hovering near the canopies, lust rampant in the antipasto--
for example a silver fork fingered sadly
as the heroine crumples a linen napkin in her lap
to keep from crying out at the sight of Lord Campion's
regal brow inclined tenderly toward the wealthy young
widow--
prose applauds such syntactical dalliances.
Then is it poetry if it's confined?
Trembling along its axis, a flagpole
come alive in high wind, flapping its radiant sleeve
for attention-- over here, it's me.
While the white spaces--
air, field, early morning silence before the school bell,
shape themselves around that one bright seizure.
And if that's so what do we have here, a dream or three
paragraphs?
We have white space too--
is this music?
As for all the words left out, banging at the gates,
we can let them in, but where would
we go with our orders, our stuttering pride.
That is for Morgan.
[APPLAUSE]