This poem is called "Gathered by the River,"
and it's dedicated to two friends
in Somerville, Massachusetts.
Beatrice Hawley who's a poet and John Jagel, her husband,
who's a painter.
Who were with me on the occasion that gave rise to this poem.
"Gathered at the River."
As if the trees were not indifferent...
A breeze flutters the candles but the trees give off
a sense of listening, of hush.
The dust of August on their leaves.
But it grows dark.
Their dark green is something known about, not seen.
But summer twilight takes away only color, not form.
The tree forms, massive trunks and the great domed heads,
leaning in towards us, are visible.
A half circle of attention.
They listen, because the war we speak of,
the human war with ourselves, the war
against earth against nature, is a war against them.
The words are spoken of those who
survived a while, living shadow graphs, eyes fixed forever
on witnessed horror.
Who survived to give testimony, that no one may
plead ignorance.
Contra naturam.
The trees, the trees are not indifferent.
We intone together, never again.
We stand in a circle, singing, speaking, making vows,
remembering the dead of Hiroshima, of Nagasaki.
We are holding candles.
We kneel to set them afloat on the dark river
as they do there in Hiroshima.
We are invoking saints and prophets, heroes and heroines
of justice and peace, to be with us,
to help us stop the torment of our evil dreams.
Wind threatened flames bob on the current.
They don't get far from shore.
But none capsizes even in the swell of a boat's wake.
The waxy paper cups sheltering them catch fire.
But still the candles sail their gold downstream.
And still the trees ponder our strange doings, as if well
aware that if we fail, we fail also for them.
If our resolves and prayers are weak and fail,
there will be nothing left of their slow and innocent wisdom.
No roots.
No bow.
No branch.
No memory of shade, of leaf, no pollen.
[APPLAUSE]