I'm going to begin with a couple of poems
that I was asked to read.
I was asked to read a few of the poems
that I wrote about Sylvia the pig.
And I think I'll start with some of those to warm up with.
Sylvia was a Hampshire pig.
She was black and white, that is to say.
And she was a pet pig.
She lived most of her life in Vermont, some of it
in Western Massachusetts.
And she was a house pig.
And not only was she trained but she trained her piglets
like a cat training its kittens.
And somehow rather, I don't know how
it happened because my publisher is really very nice and very
considerate and I usually get consulted about these things
but somehow or other look the kind of jacket
copy for this book claim that these pig dreams, which
is what the pig poems were called, were wry satire.
Well, they weren't.
[LAUGHTER]
I've always been very fond of pigs and I was fond of this pig
and I just got into trying to articulate her life
and thoughts.
[LAUGHTER]
So I will read you the opening poem of the Pig Dreams.
And I will also before I do so read
you the titles of those poems because it gives you
a little idea perhaps of that book, which first appeared
as a separate book actually with pictures of Sylvia
and friends in pastel colored pictures
by her human person Liebe Coolidge who's an artist.
So Pig Dreams: Scenes from the Life of Sylvia
comprise "Her Destiny."
"Dog Brothers," "The Cat Pig," "Winterpig," "The Bride,"
"Her Task," "Her Secret," "Her Nightmare," "Her Lament,"
"Her Sadness," "Her Sister," "Her Delight," "Her Judgment,"
"Pig Song," "Her Vision," "Her Prayer,"
and finally "Isis Speaks."
Most pigs are worshipers of Ishtar
but her best friend was a cow and so
she also worshipped Isis.
Now, I'll read you the first one, "Her Destiny,"
which sort of sets the scene.
The beginning piglet among piglets.
The soft mud caking our mother's teats, sweet squeal grunt.
Her stiff white lashes, the sleepy glint
of her precious tiny eyes.
But I am Sylvia.
Chosen.
I was established pet, to be the pig of dreams,
the pig any of us could be, taken out of the sty
away from the ravaged soil of pig yards.
Freed from boredom and ugliness.
I was chosen to live without dread of slaughter.
For three days after they took me I hungered, nowhere a teat
to suck from, no piglet siblings to jostle and nudge.
At last in the full moon's sacred light
in the human room where I'd run in circles
till my tapping trotters almost gave way,
the he human, naked and white as my lost mother,
bent on all fours over my untouched bowl,
his beard a veil before me.
And with musical loud sounds of guzzling, showed me eating.
Gave me the joy of survival.
Quick learner, soon I could hold my shit.
I was rocked in warm human arms, cuddling.
Every pig could be cuddled if there were justice.
Every human could have its intelligent pig,
every pig its dexterous human.
Our lives would be rich as creamy corn, tasty as acorns.