Now I'll get to the program of--
the first poem in the program is--
yeah, is a poem called The Departure.
And the occasion for this, I think
it is some sort of academic interest anyway for the poets.
I have been staying at an artist colony in New Hampshire
for about a month, the MacDowell Colony,
and it's a very nice colony.
They leave you alone.
They put you out in the woods, and there you are.
And the longest poem, which I'm going
to read a little bit later, The Seven Days,
was also written then.
It put you out in the woods, and there you are, alone
with yourself and you don't know how long you could stand it,
but you work.
And then you start to go out in the world.
And there's this kind of missionary business
of going out, and doing something about reforming
everybody, making them better.
Involved in leaving the artist colony, with all your poems
under your arms, especially if you're going to do what
I was doing that summer.
I was heading off to the Library of Congress.
And so I had a great sense of mission,
and yet I felt kind of foolish.
And so here's this poem about leaving the MacDowell Colony.
The artist must leave these woods now.
He must put his books and files back in the car,
and stuff his bags and shirts, and shorts and sweaters.
And clean his room and take a load
to the dump, wherever the dump is.
And go the rounds, and say goodbye to the artists, goodbye.
And the trees, goodbye.
And cash a check, and fill up with gas
and set out for the world again.
The world, to talk up art.
The world likes that.
It likes to get news of the spirit fresh from the woods.
What birds are saying and frogs.
Its system is very thirsty.
The artist will fix that.
He will bring in a car load of essences, quick on the thruway.
Mists for everyone's parlor, sunsets done up nice.
Cities want their essences done up nice.
So the artist must leave these woods now.
For that.
He takes a last walk in the woods.
What is the news, woods?
And the woods reply, in their woodsy way,
that the news is woods, woods.
And he hears the news, notes it down and walks back
to his shirts and sweaters.
While out of the sky, art in its arty way keeps saying, goodbye.