Robert Pinsky Reads "Jar of Pens"

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 themHuddled in their cylindrical formationRepels me: humble, erect, Mute and expectant in theirRinsed-out honey crock: my quiver Of detached stingers. (Or, a bouquetOf lies and intentions unspent.)

Pilots, drones, workers-the Queen isCross. 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 boyWhose 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 backThe characters of the five thousandWorld languages dead since 1900,Curlicues, fiddleheads, brushstrokeSplashes and arabesques,Footprints of extinct species.

The father hosed down his boots And leaving them in the barnWith his pants and shirtCame into the kitchen,Holding the little retrievedSymbol of symbol-making.

O brood of line-scratchers, plasticScabbards of the soul, you haveOutlived the sword-talons andWingfeathers for the hand.