 In the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, obviously, during the Depression era, when he was a young man, he had difficulty finding work. This is a poem about that experience, and also it's about growing up with his brother. But he wrote it in the early 1990s when it was about 60s, so his brother would have been gone for a long time by then. He would have come to some knowledge concerning what work is that perhaps didn't count when he was young. That's the name of the poem and the book that's from what work is. We stand in the rain in a long line, waiting at Fort Highland Park for work. You know what work is. If you're old enough to read this, you know what work is, although you may not do it, or get you. This is about waiting. Shifting from one foot to another. Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair, blurring your vision, until you think you see your own brother ahead of you, maybe 10 places. You rub your glasses with your fingers, and of course it's someone else's brother, narrower across the shoulder than yours, but with the same sad slouch, the grin that does not hide the stubbornness, the sad refusal to give in to rain, the hours wasted waiting to the knowledge that somewhere ahead, a man is waiting and will say, No, we're not hiring today for any reason he wants. You love your brother. Now suddenly, you can hardly stand the love flooding you for your brother who's not beside you or behind you or ahead because he's home trying to sleep off the miserable night shift that Cadillac so he can get up before noon to study as German. Works eight hours a night so he can sing Wagner, the opera you hate most, the worst music ever invented. How long has it been since you told him you loved him? Held his wide shoulders, opened your eyes wide and said those words, maybe kissed his cheek? You've never done something so simple, so obvious. Not because you're too young or too dumb. Not because you're jealous or even mean or incapable of crying in the presence of another man. No, just because you don't know what work is. Double dose of English professor. You can take a nap maybe. But what I've got is a little bit of William Blake who's a poet that I mean I write about, I study, I lecture about but I have never really in my life ever spending time reciting so I just have this opportunity to try to recite a bit of Blake and it's kind of fun to think about him in a different way than I usually do so this is from the marriage of Heaven and Hell, one of his illuminated books which has pictures so you're going to have to make the pictures in your mind as I'm doing this but just one bit of a word of how to listen to this because Blake is weird and one thing to listen for when you're listening to this is just to be thinking about that he's rewriting, I mean in his mind he's writing the Bible and working his way through a number of books of the Bible from Genesis, certain way to the book of Proverbs all the way to Revelation but throughout the whole piece echoes commandments so listen for commandments at various times but it's not the 10 commandments he's after and what he's after is the type of commandment that shows up in Genesis where God says let there be light and then there's light it's that kind of thing that he's playing on Rintra roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air hungry clouds sway upon the deep once meek and in apparel's path the just man kept his course along the veil of death Roses are planted where thorns grow and on the barren heat sing the hymnbees then the apparel's path was planted and a river and a spring on every cliff and tomb and on the bleached bones red clay brought forth till the villain left the paths of ease to walk in apparel's paths and drive the just man into barren climes now the sneaking serpent walks in mild humility and the just man rages in the wild for lions' throne Rintra roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air hungry clouds sway on the deep as the new heaven has begun and it is 33 years since its advent the eternal hell revives and lo, Swedenborg is the angel sitting at the tomb and his writings are the linen cloths folded up now is the dominion of Edom and the return of Adam into paradise see Isaiah 34 and 35 chapters without contraries is no progression attraction and repulsion, reason and energy love and hate are necessary to human existence from these contraries spring what the religious call good and evil good is the passive that obeys energy evil is the active springing from energy good is heaven, reason is hell a memorable fancy as I was walking among the fires of hell delighting in the enjoyment of genius which to angels looked like torment and insanity I collected some of their proverbs thinking that as the sayings used in a nation mark its character so the proverbs of hell show the nature of infernal wisdom better than any description of buildings or gardens when I came home on the abyss of the five senses where a flat-sided steep frowns over the present world I saw a mighty devil folded in black clouds hovering on the sides of the rocks with corroding fires he wrote the following sentence now perceived by the minds of men and read by them on earth how do you know but every bird that cuts the airy way is an immense world of delight closed by your senses five the proverbs of hell you see time learn and harvest teach in winter and joy drive your carp and your plow over the bones of the dead the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by incapacity he who desires but acts not breeds pestilence the cut worm forgives the plow dip him in the river who loves water the fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees eternity is in love with the productions the busy bee has no time for sorrow if the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise prisons are built with stones of law brothels with the bricks of religion how do you know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough or from the end the comb is his song of liberty let the priests of the ravens run no more in deadly black with horse note curse the sons of joy nor their accepted brethren whom, tyrant, he calls free lay the bound or build a roof nor pale religious lechery call that virginity that desires but acts not for everything that lives is holy that's pretty good all right moving along it's Anthony Wumato so the poem today is pretty short it's called Root 3 written by David T. He's finding by an obscure scientist that teaches that on the stage I can't remember it's a math poem so it combines poetry and math which is something that doesn't happen very often so math people that drive along by their liberal rights friends might hear this I fear that I will always be a lonely number like Root 3 a 3 is all that's good and right I must my 3 to keep out of sight need the vicious square root sign I wish instead I were a 9 for 9 could fork this evil trick with just some quick arithmetic I know I'll never see the sum as 1.7321 such as my reality, a sad irrationality one heart, what is this I see another square root of 3 is quietly coaxing by together now we multiply to form a number we prefer rejoicing as an integer with the way of the magic wand we break free of our mortal bonds my square root sign has come with me my love for you has been renewed thank you it's still on but we'll keep going and next we've got Jesse Tower this is a science paper that I lost control of thanks to my English profession so I'll just jump in legacy of a cosmology I know that you are interested in that you believe and I know that the world too is in trouble though they will not believe for many years yes, for many ages since they cannot understand John Carter to Edgar Rice Burroughs God of Mars 1918 who we are and where we come from in the bent of stellar cosmology is in a mirror of physics of little that I'm used to there's no good fiction historical drama and period pieces are hard months to crack often it is there are 5 points in this circle and 3 in this one you stare at it write it down and note it and wait stellar cosmology is in terms of information as useless as the number of rocks on the surface of Mars there's nothing I don't disagree with hence no conflict in empirical terms true fault for the dazzling bit of math but I've said it was an off mirror cosmology is a place looking outward where looking outward is into the past and the past swings you into the future we divine where we are going by measurements of ancient starlight the discovery of a battlefield and other relatives relics of human habitation can be analyzed against what we are now in this earthbound antiquity formulates ideas of who we are today in terms of physics and cosmology defines the present the stars have always been our dreams our portents we cannot see them without seeing our future in terms of physics and cosmology we are extraordinarily nitpicky beings imagine a beast a creature that has no immediate need to which counts every blade of grass it ever encounters all the days of its life this creature of hope or power stresses over a single missed one we gather and gather data we do we stare at the dots on the chalkboard eat our jelly beans and sleep on the floor fretting over those dots they were given to us they must have meaning we burn enormous amounts of resources searching for smaller and smaller things to count if we can't stuff our faces in some crowning we figure out how to shrink our hearts among the stars we divine the futures of our lives predictions coupled with omens until the omens were predictable in this way for the old world a great deal of the globe is found not only to be missing but far larger than expected future was created gazing at the past and continues to hold promise the greater focus of other planets like Mars to move the frontier upward are being counting ways paid off the idea of other Earths has haunted the mind for centuries as if the passive turtle ghosted by the glimmer of dream and prophecy like gold in the stream we have counted flowers in a breeze strong a draw fishing the deep, sheep on the cliff bows and blades, the moon at noon fruit on the tree, wolves and weeds to say there should be shock in our math leads to no mystery for me turning a scope to space is as natural as can be perfectly suited, the Earth observer is safely free the sky is large and full of secrets something we absolutely detest in not solving we count, gather and measure in our drive to discover what we find whispered by our stellar lover is that she is our mother sorting and defining is the drama of another by seeing into the universe past and playing with the unseen we uncover the symmetry we are comfortable with not only is the frontier a promise of range we desperately want to know is this all there is after our moonshop we got a clear view of what terraforming old soul would cost a species if if this is our only ecosystem worries about the states famine and greed discovery of so immense a number of galaxies glazed our mind it was the flash of game in the trees having our particle physics begin to meld with astrophysics in the interim we build weapons of war and fear to use them turns the whale by the snout the warm current brought with it the scent of a new ocean this news may not have brought the reaction but my impression is that it confirmed our inner suspicions and chasms an intensely miniscule in an intensely miniscule amount of time the tangled tumble of elemental tables converted with the wherewithal witnessing interstellar weather our solar system, a singular soles is not alone in the circumnavigation of our stellar cluster brilliant blossoms bubble from our beams below burns banal becomes Jupiter and stars lowered of the ancient heavens Jovi and worlds we call them our past is our future and we doodle up from the eye a top of the mountain we yearn to be nurtured by a nature that we both seek to escape and embrace who are we wayfarers and dawn treaders we stand on our shores with hills of grace and faces grim paddles ready for each limb between us the sea dog named Jim we have hadron gun, we probe the quantum quartsuit, dim sum cosmic streams, theories of everything and at the other end a dim foreign sun to lose our place a special sum of a moment when we find a comet this old world we call home for most others we want another place to build our throne much much too far to foam on that day many may call it a miracle a mark of the sublime it is no intelligent design for others never call a past eternal the ember we lit and torched to candle to flame it is just another astrological sign arrived right on time but who am I to say I am no ancient Greek or Babylonian freak I am a loser with no great winning streak a union atheist perhaps is too neat to sail up a neo-nostic creed without humanism none of it matters at all a growing number of us are already asking is there anyone else who wishes to play ball after understanding our complexity perhaps computing the universe's creation is the easiest thing of all so how long will we last if the universe is so stated and vast how long until we fall our lives are short our span and quick tick times 10 catastrophe, apocalypse, cataclysm and judgment day on a solar eclipse doggas beg us to remind us of our sin but the cloak of pious hesitance stumbles steps to stumble below the eyes of the dark can't be cast aside there are other events of heaven and earth like equinox, like solstice and the turning of the tide perhaps the nights have grown shorter and we approach our longest day a frosted dog-wrong winter has crept from the sea yet we get retired by points on the chalkboard and we draw a star it is Venus, phosphorus Lucifer and Jesus it is wisdom the symbol of David and Solomon the Arthurian legend it is the five virtues of chivalry the five wounds of Christ the star is wood, fire, water earth and air Pythagorean roots gilded with the golden ratio we represent our senses and connect ourselves to the universe in our past patio the base 10 comprehensions of an amalgam of our maximum of counting digits by staring upward the bent mirror impulses this reflection into our gibbons three points on the chalkboard create a triangle the base shape of our Euclidean geometry is a symbol of protection in ancient Germany our muse is nine the base unit of empire man, woman, child our fate is three the size is most utilitarian small, medium and large correspond to the holy trinity good things come and freeze bad things come and freeze Pythagoras believed in free it is a crown to me everyone must have a beginning, middle and end how many times must you try and try again first do not succeed indeed, three there is a heaven, a hell, a midgard physics is not immune with its electron, proton and neutron balance even further reign supreme with gauge balsam, quartz and leptons do not be worried, do not be alarmed there is nothing magic or special in the observance observation is made from a tree there are five points in this circle and three in this one, squeak, squeak, squeak and we eat our jellybee what does it mean? it does not matter if it is something unseen and it's a tough enough to crack but that's what it is to be a human being what about Ann Humphrey? do you want to ask? Dan here? service title is the song of the mouth work I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone I'm beloved by the legion of the lost I haven't got a box of man atone and a dime or two will satisfy the cost I don't attempt your hyphalutin flights I am more or less uncertain on the key but I tell you boys there are lots and lots of nights when you've taken mighty comfort up me I weigh an ounce or two and I'm so small you can pack me in the pocket of your vest and when at night so weirdly you crawl into your bunk and stretch your limbs to rest you can take me out and play me soft and low the simple songs that trouble your heartstrings the tunes that used to fancy long ago before you made a mess of things then a dreamy look will come into your eyes and you will break off in the middle of a note and then with just the dreariest of sighs you drop me in the pocket of your coat but somehow I've bucked you up a bit and as you turn around and face the wall you don't feel quite so spineless and unfit and so bad a fell after all do you recollect the bitter arctic night your camp beside the canyon on the trail your tent to the tiny square of orange light the moon above consumptive light and pale your supper cooked your little stove would glow you tired but snug and happy as a child then it was turkey in the straw till your lips were nearly raw and you hurled your bold defiance to the wild do you recollect the flashing lashing pain the gulf of human blackness overhead the lighting making riviers of the rain the cattle horns like candles of the dead you're sitting on your bronco there alone in your slicker and sick with cold do you think the silent bird did not hear the mockingbird or relish silver threads among the gold do you recollect the wild Magellan coast the headwinds and the icy roaring seas the nights you thought that everything was lost the days you toiled in water to your knees the frozen rat lines shrieking in the gale the hissing steeps and gulfs of livid foam when you cheered your messmates nine with Ben Bolton, Clementine and Dixieland and seeing Nelly Holm let the jammy banjo voice the younger son who waits for his remittance to arrive I represent the grindy gritty one who sweats his bones to keep himself alive who's up against the real thing from his birth whose heritage is hard and bitter toil I voice the weary, smeary ones of earth the hellots of the sea and of the soil I'm the steinway of strange mischief and mischance I am the strativarius of black blank defeat in the down world where the devil bleeds the dance I am simply and symbolically me I am the irrepressive spirit of mankind I am the small boy playing knuckle down with death at the end of all things known where God's rubbish heap is thrown I thrill and pivot triumph at a breath I am a humble little bit of tin and horn I'm a byword I'm a plaything, I'm a jest the virtuoso looks on me with scorn but there's times when I am better than the best ask the stoker and the sailor of the sea ask the mucker and the hewer of the pine ask the herder of the plane ask the gleaner of the grain there's a lowly loving kingdom in its mind Rebecca Pilgrim? I have a reading so I have my phone on my phone my smart phone I have a piece of paper in my clutch good this is one of my favorite poems that I wrote in grade keeler's creative poetry we used to go to church together we went to continually build your faith and I went to sit next to you we heard the same words but they meant more to you than they ever did to me thank you this was your community you knew everyone and everyone loved you right excuse me writing the church's bright red mower you maintained the beauty of the earth surrounding your sanctuary you always had the tools they needed and offered to fix everything yourself at least giggle's when you sing you loved singing about him for your little old man voice never created the right notes I remember one Sunday I was looking forward to singing with you the grandma had been out of town you told me we couldn't go without Grammy because all the old ladies would flirt with you without protection I laughed and agreed I'm going to Dairy Queen instead the last time I visited your church I didn't sit next to you I couldn't I don't think it was allowed instead my brother took your place and held me tight we both listened but it's hard to hear the room was nearly silent but we didn't want to hear I wish I could remember what was said but maybe it's best I can only remember the sound of your voice maybe like the fine so I'm not from here from Seattle and so I just heard about this yesterday I wrote this poem last night and I finished it this morning and decided to read it on the mark I'm going to call it Remembrance there comes a point in time when one remembers their childhood as a whole, as a thing separate from the life they're now living this might be exhilarating a more real side of the maturity we already know we have it might be frightening as we're pushed into a world we've heard stories of our whole life but it's this famous world which we know nothing about allow me to explain the world to whom we now belong provides no safety nets it festers thoughts and feelings that we like to call pleasure there comes a point in time when one remembers their childhood when it becomes a thing of the past something we now mainly long for we must build ourselves a fortress and spend our time foraging for sustenance but no when we remember it becomes our time to work pretty good because we've got three bullets left and we've got another time to get them in we keep moving I think next is Orion Orion Thompson did I get that right? the walking movement or the waiting movement warming the stage I can know that okay, Jesse Kaiser I'm going to be reading from unlike the console because I could not stop for death he kindly stopped for me the carriage held with just ourselves and immortality we slowly drove he knew no haste and I had put away my labor and my leisure too for his stability we passed the school where children played and lessons scarcely done we passed the fields with gazing grain we passed the same site we passed before a house that seemed a swollen ground the roof was scarcely visible the corners spun out since then to centuries but each feel shorter than a day I first termized the horses hats for Tory Lieutenant it looks like next we've got Jerry Johnson yeah, it's me okay welcome back to you thank you to live in Bozeman is to experience weather and I've found these interesting few years I've been here that you can read the paper then you can