WEBVTT

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I wrote a long poem called
"Sun Exercises," which

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I will spare you eight
parts of, but I'll

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give you the first three.

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It's based on a yoga exercise
called Sun Salutation,

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and the first three parts don't
really get into that much.

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What they do is have
the poem in microcosm.

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In the first part, I simply
establish a landscape

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by the ocean in
England, which serves

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as a motif through the poem,
references to men in a boat

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and the ocean as a kind
of a symbol, I guess.

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Yes it is.

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In the second part, I
perform what I would modestly

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call an active exorcism on
the creepy parts of myself,

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and I try and name
my weak heartedness.

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On the third part, I
begin to celebrate,

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and I refer to the
festival of Easter,

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which was a favorite festival
for my Catholic boyhood

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in England.

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Only here it's in Wisconsin,
above the Mississippi.

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So I read just these first three
parts of a long pretentious

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poem called "Sun Exercises."

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"One: face the sun, fold
the hands, legs together,

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stand erect.

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I'm walking by the
sea with my mother.

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There is a jail built on the
sand at the water's edge.

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We hear faint cries from inside.

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The jail rocks softly like a
box with an animal inside it.

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In a small boat,
my father goes by.

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It is a calm sea.

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Rowing with him are his father
and his father's father.

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As the three men
go by, my father

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pauses from his rowing
and waves to us.

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My sister Mary is
standing on the beach.

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She is staring into the sun.

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Her belly swells.

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She must lie down.

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I ask her why she
lies down on the sand.

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She says, to give
birth to my pain.

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After a little while,
her belly subsides.

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She lies quiet.

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My sister Angela stands
looking at the waves.

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Like a queen she tries to
command them, go back, go back.

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The tide creeps forward,
licks at her feet.

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Her hands are resting on a pram.

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The pram is filled with fish,
small fish of a kind you

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can catch in any country.

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The tide comes in.

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She steps back
letting the pram go.

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It floats off from her.

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How soon do we turn to
men who swim in the sea?

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And here is my mother, content
to sit and watch the water.

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She's remembering
when she was a girl

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and the long, long wrinkled
hair of the four sisters.

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She is content to be dreaming
of them in the long afternoon.

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My three women of the sand.

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Peter comes up to me.

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Evening already, a darker blue.

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He has coils of rope
on both shoulders.

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My brother is prince of ropes.

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He says it's time to go.

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My brother at home among
heights, which I fear.

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He says, we must rope up.

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Soon we are bound together.

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We walk to the base
of a steep cliff.

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It goes up and up.

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I cannot see the top.

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Evening already, at
night coming down.

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We make the first toeholds.

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We begin to climb the high
stone face of the father.

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"To inhale and raise the
arms, bend backward."

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You, I accuse, you Michael Moon.

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Mad moon boy, how mad
you are, nobody knows.

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You got drunk at dawn.

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You ride the spider bare
back across the dawn.

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You stand on your head on the
moon alone, little tomb lover.

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Ophelia, Ophelia, drifting
along, ah, such a sad song.

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When you were small,
what was your nightmare?

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My nightmare was that the moon
rose over the world's edge.

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It stared at me.

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It climbed.

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It smiled, and was mocking me.

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If I didn't wake myself up
before it climbed too high,

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I'd be dead.

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What now do you dream?

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I feel the shadows of
Europe creep over my sheets.

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I hear the French.

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I hear Agincourt and its arrows.

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I see my brain, my
brain the potato,

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the black three-pound
potato in an Irish field.

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I hold up my brain caked
with the dirt of ancestors.

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I wave it.

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Do all my thoughts
come from this thing?

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I rinse it in a stream
like an old washroom.

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I race through the streets,
this moon brain in my hands

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Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachtani?

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My God, my God, why
has thou forsaken me?

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This is the night the dead
headmaster turns toward you

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with a fresh exam.

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This is the night
the crucifix clicks

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open under the black
gloves of the burglar.

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This is the night the rat
runs out for his free gift.

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This is the night the
boneless bird flies.

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This is the night that children
crouch in the stone rocket.

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This is the night a
mother chains her child

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to a dead animal.

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Eddie, Eddie, it's
my father's name.

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Oh, you Moon, you
potato man, you toy,

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how can we rid the
town of this rat?

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Moon, I summon you.

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Michael Moon, I call you
out from your shallow grave,

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from your brown bag
in the potter's field.

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Come forth.

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Moon, get up and
mend your wounds.

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All the children know that song.

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See the rocking chair rocks
backwards and forwards trying

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to rock itself into a man.

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Moon, get up and
mend your wounds.

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See the woman croons a
quiet song to the driftwood

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she holds in her arms.

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Moon, Michael Moon,
mend yourself.

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Come forth."

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Third last part.

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"Three: exhale and bend forward,
for the hands are in line

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with the feet.

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Touch the knees with your head.

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Easter, again.

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I light a candle in the window.

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On a hill in Wisconsin I
light a hundred candles.

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O little prisoners strapped
to your wicks but dancing.

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I gather dry wood
from behind the house.

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I pile and light it.

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And I remember the
vigils, Easter Eve,

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the night of the new fire.

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The whole church darkened.

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The priest breathing on
the water of the font.

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The priest taking the huge
hunk of Paschal candle

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and sliding it into the water.

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And the kindling of the new
fire, the passing from taper

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to taper until all God's people
stood in a flickering silence.

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Each fist flowers
with a new fire.

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We boys went round with
poles, lifting the Lent cloths

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off the statues.

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Now, the sun sinks into
the bluffs behind the lake.

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I say to the sun,
do you die too?

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He tells me, no.

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I go down to meet
the snake, alone.

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Always, I return.

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I rub sticks together.

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I dance.

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I ride the roads.

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I run up and down
the hills on fire.

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The peasants of Europe
are marching with torches.

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Run, run, over Wisconsin,
now with torches

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through the abandoned farms.

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Roll blazing wheels
down hills, let there

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be beacons on each height.

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Hoist fires like children
on their father's shoulders.

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I'm the boy of new fire.

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I am the King you feast from.

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I am the fellow of flares.

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I slide down to the
lake, still frozen.

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I breathe my English
breath three times

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on this Midwestern water.

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And in the pool I make,
I dip the moon corpse.

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White as the cold Christ,
body of the father.

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I the moon man,
Easter upon myself.

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There is my house on the
hill and all its lights.

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If I could cut a cloth of such
flame and all winter wear it.

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If I could bless and multiply.

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If I could pass out these
flames among my friends

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and every house, like my
castle of many candles,

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and every family and friend
this night receive new fire."

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