Transcriber: Sara Hejazi Reviewer: Tatjana Jevdjic
I just want to read you guys some poems.
I chose four poems that aren't my own and one that is.
I tried to choose poems that would allow you to use your imagination
to re-imagine some things.
Also, to prove to you that poetry isn't just this inaccessible thing
that people change the word order of their sentences –
It's alive and it's applicable,
and you'll understanding what I am saying for the most part.
First one I want to read is by a poet named David Ferry
who I studied under at BU.
He just came up with a new book.
This poem is about aging, which I think is something that we all experience.
It's called "Soul".
What am I doing inside this old man's body?
I feel like I'm the insides of a lobster,
All thought, and all digestion, and pornographic
Inquiry, and getting about, and bewilderment,
And fear, avoidance of trouble, belief in what,
God knows, vague memories of friends,
and what they said last night, and seeing, outside of myself,
From here inside myself, waving my claws
Inconsequential, wavering, and my feelers
Preternatural, trembling, with their amazing
Troubling sensitivity to threat.
And I'm aware of and embarrassed by my ways
Of getting around, and my protective shell.
Where is it that she I loved has gone to,
as this cold sea water's washing over my back?
Staying along the lines of –
I love David's metaphor of being a lobster, the insides of a lobster.
I'm [gonna] stick with animals
For a second, literary one second,
I want you to think about what it's like to be eaten by a lion,
which won't happen in America, unless you're at a zoo, I guess.
In this poem I'm going to read, is called "How To Be Eaten By A Lion"
by a poet named Michael Johnson.
And he re-imagines it.
So we usually – we imagine it as this horrible experience,
and he puts a twist on that and I thought it was good.
"How To Be Eaten By A Lion" by Michael Johnson.
If you hear the rush, the swish of mottled sand
and dust kicked up under the striving paws,
its cessation, falling into the sharp and brittle grass
like the tick of a tun roof under sun
or hint of rain that nightly wakes you,
try to stand your ground. Try not to scream,
for it devalues you. That tawny head and burled
mange, the flattened ears of its sleek engine
will seem only a blur, a shock, a shadow,
across your neck that leaves you cold.
It may seem soft, barely a blow,
more like a falling, an exquisite giving
of yourself to the ground, made numb
by those eyes. It may be easier just to watch,
for fighting will only prolong things,
and you will have no time to notice the sky,
the texture of dust, what incredible leaves
the trees have. Instead, focus on your life,
its crimson liquor he grows drunk on.
Notice the way the red highlights his face,
how the snub nose is softened, the lips made fuller;
notice his deft musculature, his rapture,
because in all of creation there is not art
to compare with such elegance, such simplicity.
Notice this and remember it,
this way in which you became beautiful
when you thought there was nothing more.
Not bad, ha?! (Laughter)
Another thing I like about poetry –
Something I've learned as I've written it for the last couple of years is that
poetry gives you the opportunity – I guess all literature does –
but poetry in specific gives you the opportunity
to experience something you wouldn't otherwise experience.
For example this poem,
I'm not gonna tell you what it's about, cause you will figure it out really fast.
This poem is about an experience that I hopefully will never have...
And the poet rendered this
both interesting to me as well as beautiful.
It's by a poet name Juliana Baggott.
This is the first poem of hers I ever read –
I haven't read any since either.
I might not, 'cause I love this poem.
But this one is called "For Furious Nursing Baby".
Frothy and pink as a rabid pig, you –
a mauler – a lunatic, stricken with
a madness induced by flesh – squeeze my skin
until blotched, nicked. Your fingernails
are jagged and mouth-slick. Pinprick scabs jewel
my breasts. Your tongue, your wisest muscle,
is the wet engine of discontent.
It self-fastens by a purse-bead of spit
while your elegant hands flail, conducting
orchestral milk, and sometimes prime the pump.
Nipple in mouth, nipple in hand, you have
your cake and eat it too. Then when wrenched
loose, you’ll eat sorrow, loss - one flexed hand twists,
as you open your mouth to eat your fist.
I love it.
If you told me five years ago I was going to wear makeup
and stand in front of people and read poems about breastfeeding
(Laughter)
I would've gone into politics.
(Laughter)
This next poem I'm going to read is rather famous –
his name is Robert Pinsky.
He is the reason I am here.
Literally, he gave TEDxNewEngland my name and they sent me an email.
He was also the last line of defense –
he approved me for getting into the Writing Program at BU,
which is phenomenal if any one of you want to go in the poetry –
that's really good.
This poem is interesting to me
because it's a way of seeing yourself outside of yourself,
seeing yourself in another context.
And I might've just liked this
because I love the movie "The Last Samurai"
where Tom Cruise learns to be a samurai.
But this poem –
I'm not gonna tell you what I think it's about, you can choose for yourself.
It's really interesting though.
It's called "Samurai Song".
When I had no roof I made Audacity my roof.
When I had no supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made Care my father.
When I had no mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made Quiet my friend.
When I had no Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made My voice my temple.
I have No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune Is my means.
When I have Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment Is my strategy.
When I had No lover I courted my sleep.
Robert's a lot better at what he does than I am.
This last poem, like I mentioned, is my own.
It's going to be coming out
in the magazine Salamander,
which is based here in Boston –
great magazine if you're looking for something to read.
I wrote a lot of poems when I was at BU
about growing up in Idaho,
which is where I grew up.
And this one is kind of the opening poem to that sequence.
It's called "Idaho History".
It has an epigram, which is the motto of the state:
it's "Mayest thou live forever",
and that comes back later on, but not in English.
"Idaho History".
Referring to the territory itself,
the Comanches said, "ídaahę́".
The Plains Apaches used it too,
but there it meant enemy.
In 1860s, Mr. Willing said that Idaho was a Shoshone phrase –
"a lie", although the sun did seem to come from the mountains.
There was no shortage of outside places to explore.
I remember raspberries swimming in their bridges,
garish snakes and mace and jars,
holding open barbed wire fences with two hands and a foot.
My eyes never left the ground in the foot hills.
I'd scoured the dirt,
hoping each stone was an arrowhead,
slicing dead reeds for Indian gum.
At the fourth grade rendezvous
I traded three beadwork geckos for leather pouches,
perfect for holding water rocks and Sagebrush lizards.
I caught one on [Unclear]
his tail flicked my fingers,
his ventral patches were blue and he was squishy.
"Astopra pechiua", I said –
and flung him through the air.
Thanks very much. (Applause)