PROLOGUE: A LITTLE POEM
Oy, Gott, send me a little poem,
you’ll never miss it.
Sweet gottenyu!
You know how I could use it.
Not Paradise Lost or the book of Job I’m asking,
only something normal,
a little poem proper to me.
I want voices of things chattering in it
like it has rolled around with the earth a while.
Let it smell of something,
smoked fish, a woman’s skin,
a gedile mid grivn,
red wine under the nose
just before you drink.
Did I ask to hear the earth thumping in it,
like on the third day?
Or for peace, happiness, justice,
the wicked withering away?
No, a little poem only,
to watch water flowing through rocks,
fishes still in the current,
geese flying over,
noisy, like children.
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My daughter and I are sitting down and walking through some Stevens (Disillusionment at 10 o'clock, Domination of Black, Sunday Morning, Not Ideas about the thing -- But the Thing Itself, and others including Bantams in Pine Woods). She is a junior at SAIC in Chicago. And wonders about the possibility of you being a guest speaker in the school's Artist Series. Her photography teacher, Heidi Norton, is involved in selecting visiting artists. A course on Wallace Stevens could be a valuable addition to the work if the
ReplyDeletecurrent generation of students. Look forward to hearing from you.
Phil Mowrey -- pmowrey@dbdnet.com