WEBVTT

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This poem is called
"Gathered by the River,"

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and it's dedicated
to two friends

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in Somerville, Massachusetts.

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Beatrice Hawley who's a poet
and John Jagel, her husband,

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who's a painter.

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Who were with me on the occasion
that gave rise to this poem.

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"Gathered at the River."

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As if the trees were
not indifferent...

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A breeze flutters the candles
but the trees give off

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a sense of listening, of hush.

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The dust of August
on their leaves.

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But it grows dark.

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Their dark green is something
known about, not seen.

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But summer twilight takes
away only color, not form.

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The tree forms, massive trunks
and the great domed heads,

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leaning in towards
us, are visible.

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A half circle of attention.

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They listen, because
the war we speak of,

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the human war with
ourselves, the war

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against earth against nature,
is a war against them.

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The words are
spoken of those who

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survived a while, living shadow
graphs, eyes fixed forever

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on witnessed horror.

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Who survived to give
testimony, that no one may

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plead ignorance.

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Contra naturam.

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The trees, the trees
are not indifferent.

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We intone together, never again.

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We stand in a circle, singing,
speaking, making vows,

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remembering the dead of
Hiroshima, of Nagasaki.

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We are holding candles.

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We kneel to set them
afloat on the dark river

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as they do there in Hiroshima.

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We are invoking saints and
prophets, heroes and heroines

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of justice and
peace, to be with us,

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to help us stop the
torment of our evil dreams.

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Wind threatened flames
bob on the current.

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They don't get far from shore.

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But none capsizes even in
the swell of a boat's wake.

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The waxy paper cups
sheltering them catch fire.

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But still the candles sail
their gold downstream.

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And still the trees ponder
our strange doings, as if well

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aware that if we fail,
we fail also for them.

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If our resolves and
prayers are weak and fail,

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there will be nothing left of
their slow and innocent wisdom.

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No roots.

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No bow.

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No branch.

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No memory of shade,
of leaf, no pollen.

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[APPLAUSE]

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