And the other one I'm going to read is call More,
and happens to be for another poet who has died.
This one is for James Wright, a poet whose work I
truly, truly admire.
One could even say that I love Wright's poetry actually.
He-- to me he was a very American poet.
Well of course, his themes were--
any fool could see that if you read the books of course,
but there was more than that, more than just
a word or anything.
There was a real feeling that one senses that is American
and I think Galway Kinnell too has that, a few poets that you
really feel like came out of the earth,
out of the American soil.
Wright was certainly one of them.
This is called More.
Last night I dreamed of America.
It was prom night.
She lay down under the spinning globes
at the makeshift bandstand in her worn out dress and two
high heels.
The gardenia pinned at her waist was brown and crumbling
into itself.
What's it worth, she cried,
this land of Pilgrims' pride?
As much as love, I answered.
More.
The globe spun.
I never want anything, I said.
I lost time and lovers, years, but you, purple mountains,
you amber waves of grain belong to me, as much as I do to you.
She sighed, the band played, the skin fell away from her bones,
then the room went black and I woke.
I want my life back, the days of too much clarity,
the nights smelling of rage, but it's gone.
If I could shift my body that is too weak now,
I'd lie face down on this hospital bed,
this icy water called Ohio River.
I'd float past all the sad towns, past all the dreamers
on shore with their hands out.
I'd hold on, I'd hold till the weight,
till the awful heaviness tore from me, sank to the bottom
and stayed.
Then I'd stand up like Lazarus and walk home across the water.