OK, I'm going to do a last poem.
Another bird poem.
I don't know why--
I mean, these I had written these bird poems,
and now birds have come fully into my life.
I'm about to do a reading with Kent Nelson, who
has written a book called Language in the Blood
about an ornithologist I believe set in Arizona.
And I've taken up doing wildlife rehabilitation with Project
Wildlife in San Diego, and I did this
because I'd taken a float on the Missouri
and writing something about that,
and I wanted to be around pelicans because I'm
writing about pelicans, but I had
to go through my apprenticeship and there were no pelicans to--
even though I'm on the Pelican Rescue Squad I've never gotten
a call yet to rescue a pelican.
So what I'm doing is physical therapy
with lame ducks, which is not what this poem is about.
But anyway, this poem is about a pileated woodpecker.
Many winters I spent alone up at my cabin in Montana,
and my only companion would be the pileated woodpecker.
And the cat that appeared earlier in this manuscript.
I went off to Louisiana to teach and a bunch of writers
rented my house and then moved, I
think, half the writers of America into my house.
One of them, Barry Hannah, who is
known for his outlandish behavior,
and we have a very small Christmas tree farm,
and now we have a very small Christmas tree
farm that all of the Christmas trees
are full of bullet wounds.
Barry Hannah bullet wounds.
And during this time my cat disappeared,
and the pileated woodpecker disappeared, and I could only
speculate as to what happened.
But after I'd been home about a month and a half,
the pileated woodpecker reappeared
and I thought that was aside from the fact it was summer
solstice, I thought that was reason for writing
a poem of celebration.
So closing poem, "Woodpecker."
"On the day the poppies burst their tight green fist
and the gem and the geranium bloomed
all bloody red and ruby, so the pileated woodpecker returned.
He ricocheted off the pine trunk and picking
among the yellow bugs sped quickly to the pea vines.
Fat breasted he drilled his name,
then let it drip and trill around the forest, down
his throat, landlord of the mountain, mafioso
in a tweed vest, red crested wail of the sky,
he announced the summer solstice.
And we ran to the window knowing that the last snow would
melt on the bitter roots to flood our fields,
knowing it was time for aurora borealis,
heaven's beast, her tentacles flicking
like jellyfish on the shortest night of the year.
And we did the dance of the woodpecker, the fat flicker,
the pagan priest.
When the clover bloom the salsify and wild roses
and we knew that winter was over.
We did the dance of the smart, hard headed,
flashy creatures of the world.
After all, in summer, when blood is thick and dark
as the flicker's crest, when we might all
fatten on berries and weeds alone,
isn't there room for each of us, even the greedy ones?
After all, have you never wanted to drive at top speed
to slam into a tree or dive from a ledge
or catch fire or slit your wrist and let the fluids geyser?
Not suicide, but it's burning, not
rage directed at humankind, no, the heart remains a sweet berry
and ripe.
But red drives the stickleback, wild red small spots
among the green, among the brown rocks,
and so on the long day of the summer solstice when
the world spins silly with light,
we do the dance of the woodpecker,
twirling our skirts and mustaches,
tapping our resonant branches, our underwear
flashing white as we shake the irregular flags of our body
into undulant raw flight."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]