I'll read a couple more, and then I
will read a bit, just a little bit from the memoir.
And then we'll be done.
I want to read this poem because I
was asked to do the podcast here,
where you get to pick things from the archives,
like point them out.
It's a great podcast.
I recommend like-- so they asked poets,
and you choose readings, and do a little audio thing.
And I found an audio of Gerald Stern, who
passed away not so long ago--
the great poet Gerald Stern, reading his poem "Lucky Life"
here, which is a great reading of it.
And I was thinking after that that how I he passed away.
And then I was thinking about how
a long time ago, a friend of mine
and I had tried to go to a party at his house.
My friend had gone to grad school with him.
And we went and we drove from Boston to New York.
And we got there, and it was the wrong night.
And we were like all excited to go to a real--
the first real party with poets, and it was the wrong night.
We were there.
So we drove back.
And so the poem is called "Dead Flowers,"
which of course, is the name of a great song by The Rolling
Stones.
"Dead Flowers" for Gerald Stern.
Now that you are gone,
I'll never get hit by a piano dropped from a cloud.
I'll probably die holding a book I told everyone that I read.
Without you, everything will be the same.
My son turns his light on so early,
I've already thought unspeakable thoughts.
And you will never drive again along some river
with too many consonants in its name.
It will keep flowing north like the Nile,
Crying tears of comprehending joy without irony or shame.
It is said, you were always talking about how good
you were at dancing.
It is said you wore a hat made of straw that you stole
From the perfectly preserved room of a dead poet.
It is said, you said, he didn't need it anymore.
I told my friend I was going to write you in the hospital.
But as is my way, I keep learning
if you don't write it down, the thought just flies away.
Where does it go?
Maybe into the trees, or someone else's head.
And isn't that the point anyway?
Now that you are gone,
I can say to every pigeon I pass
That it was beautiful to be a nun having unspeakable thoughts.
And you will not hear me or maybe who knows.
I remember going to your door on the wrong evening
With a friend I see no longer.
The party was next weekend.
We listened to Dead Flowers all the way back to Boston in shame.
Now, that you are gone, I can finally write this poem.
I can say the only true thing I remember going to your door.