Next poem is called "Recompense."
And the speaker, all you have to know, really,
is that the speaker in the poem is Pablo Picasso,
after his death.
And he's taking a trip south in Europe.
"Recompense"
My name is Pablo Picasso.
And my name rhymes in French and Catalan, even in American.
As I travel, stopping often, to call aloud
the single word, lady, I find my ghost is still feared.
I'd like to answer, this was my body.
I give it to you.
This was my art, which is only some plumes trailing
from my hats.
And all you politicos and decadents
can penetrate the visible, which may someday
change to include your face.
From the north for several years,
I traveled through Navarre and Aragon,
and what used to be Lyon before the soldiers came.
I wanted to find the wound that caused the death of art.
I wanted recompense, but good naturedly,
the way the troubadours of Provence
address their ladies fair.
In Malaga, where I was born, I found a broken mirror
in a cottage a few feet from the road.
The mirror spoke: You must be a strong man
to travel so far toward a miracle.
I sat drinking with the farmer, a simple man.
And when he fell asleep, I yelled,
my name is Pablo Picasso, and all words rhyme.
In Andalusia, there is a bird called cowbird.
It lays its spotted eggs in the nests of other birds,
then disappears.
Look for my art in your nest, little bird.
There is a second surprise.
The artist carries no sword.
Walking across a field, I heard his slurred whistle, cowbird.
Now I am gone, my eyes have full freedom,
and my name, Pablo Picasso, hides in the bunch grass.
Some of the birds are gray and some black and some practice
suffering, and some patter their lobed feet
on the water's surface.
What's to be done about my sullen disposition, my money,
and my heirs?
My houses and my death, which is what I fear
will attract your attention.
What finally rhymes in rocks and clouds,
in the fat and the grain of wood, is the life you feared.
And I am dead, as you have guessed.
I have become a pest, the great man
who throws up shapes, who fractures your face and arms,
your thighs.
Who knows what I'll do next, lady.
[APPLAUSE]