WEBVTT

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Next poem is called
"Recompense."

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And the speaker, all you
have to know, really,

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is that the speaker in
the poem is Pablo Picasso,

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after his death.

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And he's taking a
trip south in Europe.

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"Recompense"

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My name is Pablo Picasso.

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And my name rhymes in French
and Catalan, even in American.

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As I travel, stopping
often, to call aloud

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the single word, lady, I find
my ghost is still feared.

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I'd like to answer,
this was my body.

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I give it to you.

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This was my art, which is
only some plumes trailing

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from my hats.

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And all you politicos
and decadents

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can penetrate the
visible, which may someday

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change to include your face.

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From the north
for several years,

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I traveled through
Navarre and Aragon,

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and what used to be Lyon
before the soldiers came.

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I wanted to find the wound
that caused the death of art.

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I wanted recompense,
but good naturedly,

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the way the
troubadours of Provence

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address their ladies fair.

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In Malaga, where I was born,
I found a broken mirror

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in a cottage a few
feet from the road.

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The mirror spoke: You
must be a strong man

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to travel so far
toward a miracle.

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I sat drinking with the
farmer, a simple man.

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And when he fell
asleep, I yelled,

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my name is Pablo Picasso,
and all words rhyme.

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In Andalusia, there is
a bird called cowbird.

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It lays its spotted eggs in
the nests of other birds,

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then disappears.

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Look for my art in
your nest, little bird.

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There is a second surprise.

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The artist carries no sword.

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Walking across a field, I heard
his slurred whistle, cowbird.

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Now I am gone, my eyes
have full freedom,

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and my name, Pablo Picasso,
hides in the bunch grass.

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Some of the birds are gray and
some black and some practice

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suffering, and some
patter their lobed feet

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on the water's surface.

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What's to be done about my
sullen disposition, my money,

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and my heirs?

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My houses and my death,
which is what I fear

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will attract your attention.

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What finally rhymes
in rocks and clouds,

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in the fat and the grain of
wood, is the life you feared.

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And I am dead, as
you have guessed.

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I have become a
pest, the great man

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who throws up shapes, who
fractures your face and arms,

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your thighs.

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Who knows what
I'll do next, lady.

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[APPLAUSE]

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