So I'll close with this poem, and I
want to thank you for your attention
and for supporting poetry, And please keep
poetry in your life, always.
I am happy to answer questions, but we're not
going to have a Q & A, so I can sign a book
or you can just come up and ask your question.
And I wanted to say, try to think,
try to keep your childhood in your life, too.
Because I'm trying to write about my mother's
house, and every room in childhood has a particular aura
or feel, but some of your rooms are more special.
So when I read this poem, I want you
to think of what room in your childhood
had a very special power for you.
And just maybe you can be transported there,
because this poem has to do with how a child kind of saves
themselves through inventing God or something,
or inventing presence or inventing something
that will save them.
And I think it exists in rooms and space
and also outside those things.
So it's called "In a Calm Room on Earth,"
and it's in my new thing that I'm working on.
So thanks again for all of you.
Very grateful.
And by the way, Tyler writes great poetry.
I just want to out him, because he's sitting here
and he's in the corner of my eye,
and I'm thinking, like, they don't
know he writes great poetry.
So if you email him and he doesn't answer back right away,
let him work on his poem.
"In a Calm Room on Earth"
And this takes about four minutes
to read I hope I have a little time left.
I have three minutes left, so I'll go a minute over.
"In a Calm Room on Earth"
The spirits sleep inside the objects,
a note sizes up and divides,
a thought precedes the dove's call,
formlessness hovers under roots and webs
while a child reads and sleeps,
hauling pelagic clouds the suburbs push against space.
In a long light sliced by the shadow knife on a couch
between patterns and planes, on rough cloth
made by hands and machines,
she touches the back of a word,
textures of the actual colder gold than the reed moon,
violet auras on wood, pawns on the chessboard face
the toy stove,
creation not caught or made,
hauling strategic clouds the suburbs push against space.
In a room shrunk by time electron spin after now
ignoring distance and fame, the page shakes off dust and delay,
Earth gathers in the talking back,
the child reads and sleeps, touching the front of a word,
reading from right to left, nearby the mother pounds
something,
meat or something, stones in the fireplace called flagstone,
The father will be home soon now,
will the father be home soon now?
Electrons race in the carbon before frail joy creeps in,
they jump between shanks of color inside Western heat,
in the clock, in the clock, clock, clock,
the fours talk back to the threes
death holds the zeros in place, a feeling, a feeling of trouble
the child does not fear death, she hasn't read enough yet,
limitless forms in the fabric, in the frame of the couch,
in the kiln dried bowls on the table, in the wood, in the ash,
in poplar or oak,
in webbing of cushions, in burlap and muslin,
made by unseen hands,
springs and textures, plush tufted fabrics
of accent chairs,
in plastic final on earth, in the brain, in the maybe,
in electrons from workers of matter,
a presence composed of actuals,
in actuals composed of probables,
a presence arrives for the child,
It will stay with the child when the mother goes,
It will stay with the mother when the child goes,
the child can't see in the reading
the brought to itself by itself,
It is felt and felt, and it seems friendly, scattered
through time from the nothing,
before the frail joy seeps in, it's 3 PM in the family home,
hauling historic clouds, the suburbs push against space,
where does the presence come from?
Not from the Lord, he was angry,
history leaks through the nerve net
to things made by unknown hands,
brought in full company here from the world
to the child in the calm,
through the strands of paint, clay, straws laid flat,
boxes with beads and figures, crisscrossed and dutiful auras
from far away,
The three talks back to the four in the back of the eye,
a cheering, a feeling, a double, someday
she'll know what this is,
but she is a vague shy child, transfixed by units of time,
brought up, brought in, like a made thing,
almost loved completely,
was she loved completely?
Where does the presence come from?
entering earth and sky, the undone done, the redone,
set in from far away, the silver straw, the painted spoon,
the light bright bowl, the probable sleep
between outlines,
the row of LPs nearby, slightly slouching against shelves,
musicals and showy operas, the books only two people read,
someone calls it a metaphor, someday
she'll know what that is,
For the unseen unseeable, the vast unseeable,
yes, you try to get at a feeling,
you try to get at the feeling,
reading before sleep, the others played nearby,
one child played manic sonatas, one child traded
cards by himself,
western light climbing the trellis, xeric plants
from iron fixtures,
obscure, obscurely obscure, a world obscurely felt,
the auras press into matter, tethered to made and unmade,
an emptiness to vault, half in, half out of words,
or this is how it seemed, you read it
as a child feeling sleepy,
you lay in the arms of a presence,
if presence is only a metaphor,
you lie in the arms of a metaphor.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]