John Sexton
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Celebrating Poetry
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<noframes><body><div id="smallorange">March 12, 2010</div> <br><br><B>BILL MOYERS:</b> In these final weeks of the JOURNAL we'll be returning to some of the people and places familiar to our most faithful viewers. Viewers like you. For instance, the <a href="http://www.dodgepoetry.org/" target="_blank">Dodge Poetry Festival</a> in the old canal town of Waterloo Village, New Jersey. <br><br> <b>LUCILLE CLIFTON:</b> running and<BR> time is clocking us <br><br> Every two years for two decades, poets from far and wide have gathered there to celebrate their love of language. I've covered it over the years and here's an excerpt from the documentary, "<a href="http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/poetry/index.html" target="_blank">Fooling with Words</a>." <br><br> <b>LUCILLE CLIFTON:</b> oh pray that what we want<BR> is worth this running,<BR> pray that what we're running<BR> toward<BR> is what we want.<BR><BR> <b> GALWAY KINNELL:</b> After Making Love We Hear Footsteps.<BR> Well maybe I don't have to read that one.<BR> <BR><BR> <b>AMIRI BARAKA:</b> This is called Monday in B Flat. I can pray all day and God won't come, but if I call 911, the devil be here in a minute.<BR><BR> <b>DEBORAH GARRISON:</b> I'm never going to sleep with Martin Amis or anyone famous. <BR><BR> <b>COLEMAN BARKS:</b> There was a time when a man said poems and friendship grew visible. <BR><BR> <b>KURTIS LAMKIN:</b> They call it a festival. It's like a carnival, you know, and you're the ride. You know can be a roller-coaster if you want or whatever. <BR><BR> we do right<BR> we do wrong<BR> we do time overtime<BR> we do what it takes to shake the snake<BR> that coils around our humble lives<BR> whatever we can do <BR><BR> we do lunch<BR> we do meetings<BR> we do fundraisers we do marches<BR> we send a million men<BR> to carry peace to the heart of a cold cold nation<BR> some say we don't count<BR> we do<BR> we always do<BR><BR> suppose there's a god<BR> who thinks that we are god<BR> who loves us so deeply she followed us here<BR> we work so hard every trick looks like a miracle<BR> and then we name the trickster god<BR> if there is a god<BR> who thinks that we are god<BR> do we hear her prayer<BR> do we hear her prayer<BR> do we? do we?<BR><BR> <b>STANLEY KUNITZ:</b> The poem is on its way in search of people, towards complete fulfillment- it has to have an audience, it has to be in touch with other human beings.<BR><BR> <b>SHARON OLDS:</b> She was four, he was one. It was raining. We had colds. We had been in the apartment two weeks straight. I grabbed her to keep her from shoving him over on his face again. And when I had her wrist in my grasp, I compressed it fiercely, for a couple of seconds. To make an impression on her. To hurt her. Our beloved firstborn. <BR><BR> I even almost savored the stinging sensation of that squeezing: the expression into her of my anger -- never, never again, the righteous chant accompanying the clasp. <BR><BR> It happened very fast. Grab, crush, crush, crush, release. And at the first extra <BR> force she swung her head as if checking who this was, and looked at me,<BR> and saw me. Yes? This was her mom. Her mom was doing this. <BR><BR> Her dark deeply open eyes took me in. She knew me; in the shock of the moment<BR> she learned me. This was her mother, one of the two whom she most loved, the two<BR> who loved her most. Near the source of love was this.<BR><BR> <b>W.S. MERWIN:</b> Yesterday<BR> My friend says I was not a good son<BR> you understand<BR> I say yes I understand<BR><BR> he says I did not go<BR> to see my parents very often you know<BR> and I say yes I know<BR><BR> even when I was living in the same city he says<BR> maybe I would go there once<BR> a month or maybe even less<BR> I say oh yes<BR><BR> he says the last time I went to see my father<BR> I say the last time I saw my father<BR><BR> he says the last time I saw my father<BR> he was asking me about my life<BR> how I was making out and he<BR> went into the next room<BR> to get something to give me<BR><BR> oh I say<BR> feeling again the cold<BR> of my father's hand the last time<BR> he says and my father turned<BR> in the doorway and saw me<BR> look at my wristwatch and he<BR> said you know I would like you to stay<BR> and talk with me<BR><BR> oh yes I say<BR><BR> but if you are busy he said<BR> I don't want you to feel that you<BR> have to<BR> just because I'm here<BR><BR> I say nothing<BR><BR> he says my father<BR> said maybe<BR> you have important work you are doing<BR> or maybe you should be seeing<BR> somebody I don't want to keep you<BR><BR> I look out the window<BR> my friend is older than I am<BR> he says and I told my father it was so<BR> and I got up and left him then<BR> you know<BR><BR> though there was nowhere I had to go<BR> and nothing I had to do<BR><BR> <b>COLEMAN BARKS:</b> Don't worry about saving these songs, and if one of our instruments breaks, it doesn't matter. We have fallen into the place, where everything is music. We have fallen into the place, where everything is music. Poems reach up like spin drift on the edge of driftwood along the beach, wanting. They derive from a slow and powerful route that we can't see.<BR><BR> <B>BILL MOYERS:</b> I used to want to know what a poem like that means, but I have to say that as I've gotten older I don't care so much about the meaning of the poem anymore. <BR><BR> <b>COLEMAN BARKS:</b> Right, right. Or about rephrasing it in other words. But do you feel it? <br><br><B>BILL MOYERS:</b> Yes. <BR><BR> <b>COLEMAN BARKS:</b> Yes. That's all he's after. He's trying to get you to us to feel the vastness of our true identities. <BR><BR> I see my beauty in you.<BR><BR> I see my beauty in you. I become a mirror that cannot close its eyes to your longing. My eyes wet with yours in the early light. My mind every moment giving birth, always conceiving, always in the ninth month, always the come-point. How do I stand this? We become these words we say. A wailing sound moving out into the air. These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere. How does your face contain them? I'm a fly in your honey. Then closer. A moth caught in flame's allure. Then empty sky, stretched out in homage. <BR><BR> I see my beauty in you.<BR><BR> I see my beauty in you.<BR><BR> <B>BILL MOYERS:</b> There you have it - one more reminder of poetry's great power to take a moment in time and hold it forever. But as we told you last year, the future of the dodge festival has been in doubt. Its long time patron - the <a href="http://www.dodgepoetry.org/" target="_blank">Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation</a>, which was adversely affected by the financial calamity of 2008, announced there would be no festival in 2010. <BR><BR> But lo and behold, as the word spread, individuals and other sponsors came to the rescue - and in October, downtown Newark will be transformed into a "poetry village' and the festival will vibrate again. <BR><BR> You can find out all about it on the <a href="http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/poetry/index.html" target="_blank">JOURNAL's website at pbs.org</a>. When you go there you'll find <a href="http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/blog/2010/03/whats_your_favorite_poem.html" target="_blank">one of my favorite poems</a> by the long time director of the Dodge Festival, my friend Jim Haba. It's called, "Yes to Blue." Read it, and then <a href="http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/blog/2010/03/whats_your_favorite_poem.html" target="_blank">post your favorite poem.</a> I look forward to reading them.<BR><BR> That's it for the JOURNAL. I'm Bill Moyers, and I'll see you next time. <BR></body></noframes>
March 12, 2010
Celebrating poetry.
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