| ROBERT PINSKY: In this
little room at Boston University, Robert Lowell taught a remarkable poetry
class. The students included Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and George Starbuck.
I wonder, has there ever been a more impressive group of poets gathered
as teacher and students? The room itself is not so impressive. I work
here, and I know that the chairs creak, the radiator is erratic, and the
noise from outside can be annoying. But poetry is an art for the voice
and the soul. The physical tools don't need to be splendid. Here is my
poem, "Jar of Pens."
Sometimes the sight of them
Huddled in their cylindrical formation
Repels me: humble, erect,
Mute and expectant in their
Rinsed-out honey crock: my quiver
Of detached stingers. (Or, a bouquet
Of lies and intentions unspent.)
Pilots, drones, workers-the Queen is
Cross. Upright lodge
Of the toilworthy-gathered
At attention though they know
All the ink in the world couldn't
Cover the first syllable
Of a heart's confusion.
This fat fountain pen wishes
In its elastic heart
That I were the farm boy
Whose illiterate father
Rescued it out of the privy
After it fell from the boy's pants:
The man digging in boots
By lanternlight, down in the pit.
Another is straining to call back
The characters of the five thousand
World languages dead since 1900,
Curlicues, fiddleheads, brushstroke
Splashes and arabesques,
Footprints of extinct species.
The father hosed down his boots
And leaving them in the barn
With his pants and shirt
Came into the kitchen,
Holding the little retrieved
Symbol of symbol-making.
O brood of line-scratchers, plastic
Scabbards of the soul, you have
Outlived the sword-talons and
Wingfeathers for the hand.
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