 So if you have not signed up to read, please do go up to the table and sign up because that's how we're doing it. Welcome to Poetry Live. I'm Jan Zuma. I'm a librarian faculty member at MSU Bozeman over the library. And I'm really, really happy. This is one of my favorite nights of the year. And so I'm glad everybody's here, and that we have so many people willing to put themselves out there and read a poem, either their own or their favorite poem. This is National Poetry Month, as most of us know. And so we do this every year. This is a cooperative event, a collaborative between Bozeman Public Library and the MSU Library. And this is also part of MSU's Year of Engaged Leadership. So I don't know how many of you know about that year. It started last August and will end in May. And during this, we're having events and activities that help develop leadership skills of students and faculty and staff and community members. So whether you know it or not, as you come up and read a poem, you're actually participating in a leadership activity. So thank you for doing that. I'd like to thank the planning committee before we get started. Susan Gregory, Wave, there she is. Carmen Clark, Rita Kroon, Angela Tate, Mary Ann Hansen, and Sheila Banan. And Sheila happens to be our time keeper back here. She's a very, very important woman. She was supposed to be subtle, Nan. I'm no subtler here because we really, really do want to hold it to three minutes per person. So what is the signal? Yeah, what is the signal? She has a flag there, so she's going to wave it. She told me I did not have to bring a book, so I did not bring a book. And tonight what we also want to say is that, you know, in the past we've had people comment for quite some time, you know, comment extensively on our column. And really what we want tonight is to have the column sort of stand along. So you might want to just say the name of your column, but not give a lot of background. Keep us kind of in suspense about what the meaning is. One of my favorite sort of comments about poetry by Barbara Hyde. The art of saying everything and reducing it to nothing. So we want to keep that spirit here. The art of saying everything and reducing it to nothing. So I also want to thank Jackie Frank back there for filming. And the deal with the filming is that if you sign a release form, it gives us permission to put your reading up on the MSU Library's YouTube channel. So if you don't want to be up there, don't sign a form. If you've forgotten, go please do sign a form. We also have the Friends of the Library. They're selling both in public library friends. They're selling poetry books back there. Memberships, et cetera. So it's not by their table. The guidelines for tonight are in your chair and they repeat some of what I've already told you. So on the flip side is an evaluation form. This helps us a lot to figure out whether or not we want to change the way this goes next year. So I think that's all of the evidence that I need to do. So I want to get down to the fun stuff. And I have a great privilege tonight of introducing the only person that we really scheduled to retell is our first reader. And I don't know how many of you know Mary Kiefer. But Mary is an artist, a former librarian. And she is the person for whom we have to thank all the publishers that are out in the foyer there. This is Mary's artwork. Can you stand up? Is she going to do it? This is a special exhibit celebrating William Stafford's 100th birthday. So these poems, these pictures are illustrating the lines from one of his poems. And Mary's going to read the poem tonight. Mary has been painting for 30 years and she has a great love of land, of the landscape, and expresses this through her paintings. And she'll see when you notice them on her intermission. She uses both intuition and imagination to express what she feels about the subject. And I think this is very much my poetry. So you're a visual artist. So Mary, thank you. Thank you, Jan. My pleasure to be here. And I think the words speak so clearly of the love I feel for Montana. So I'm just going to go right into the poem as Jan suggested. She's a big country. So part of it I'm going to give the title first. That's an important clue. Godiva County, Montana. She's a big country. Her undulations roll and flow in the sun. Those flanks quiver when the wind caresses the grass. Who turns away when so generous a body offers to play hide and seek all summer? One shoulder leans bare all the way up the mountain. Limbs range and plunge wildly into the river. We risk our eyes every day. They celebrate, they dance, and flirt over this offered treasure. Be alive, the land says. Listen, this is your time, your world, your pleasure. She says pleasure. If anybody wants to move up front, there are plenty of seats up here. And we won't hurt your kind of friends. There are also chairs. More chairs to serve than that, too. So I have this list of names. And I'm going to try and not swap new things, but I probably will. Come up, do your thing, and we'll just go through this. So the first person after Mary is Layla Kirchner. And you can use the mic or not. I'm going to probably stop using it and just start shouting people's names. Yeah, I'm not sure. It's pretty good. Hey, can you all hear me when I'm talking like this? Yes. Awesome. I will use the mic though. Sorry, your ear drums. Okay, so this is a slam home that I wrote called Pay Attention. Desensitization. Have you heard that word? Here's the short translation. The modification, trepidation, confrontation, and greater sensation into a pitiful compilation of nonsense. The passive portrayal, no betrayal of our senses. So pay attention. This is an intervention about the convention of downplaying perception when it comes to tension. How we swarm at the mention of what? Nothing. Precisely. We have to give up the way of the sagely nod at the woes of yesterday. Heartbreak? I get it. Death? I feel your pain. But do you? Did you actually take that moment to hear the fear and the tears as the gears of darkness turned to fire that burns? When was the last time you took a long moment to think about the fear of dying? Dying there in the unknown, trying to imagine what comes next? When was the last time you thought long and hard about what it would be like to lose and live without your neighbor, your friend, your confidant, your mother, your father, your sister, your dog? We buy in our minds to buy at our time because we worry about what we'll find if we let ourselves go down there. Unimaginable, indescribable, indefinable. Because we can't think of it now. Not until the demons of the deepening dark whisper dread in the moments before dreaming until dawn of the next day dance them back to hell. But we shouldn't forget. So pay attention. Because here's the real danger of our obsession with repression of comprehension. We not only forget how to fear, we forget how to believe. We've heard the morals and the benefits of morals, of why to be moral, to be brave, to save despair for some other day. You've heard the messages made by minds molded to words in the story books between the pages you turn as a child. But those as embers of wisdom fall on unlistening, not death, years, that hear only what they expect to hear and give no deeper thought. If I were to regale you of the tale of how Pandora opened the box and let loose a gale of malice that could have derailed everything, but didn't because she also released hope. Would you hear it? Or would you feel it? Because it's hard to hear how believing in something, anything, can save you. But it's easy to feel it. Provided you wake up long enough to terrify the concealment. So pay attention. Experience the terror of drowning with no salvation. Shiver in the ecstasy of realization. Remember what gives value to inhalation and exhalation. You are alive. And to ignore it is a violation of everything that could be right in a wrong world. And I'll admit it's exhausting. It can catch your breath away a sharp fall and snatch your heart out of your throat. And I'll admit it's painful because the shadows will take openness as a chance to take you. But the hero that slew no dragons was never a hero at all. So pay attention. Where have you been? Expense. Very, maybe one of the very first English ballads, Anonymous, from the 15th century. Some of them, I'm not going to read it in Scott's dialect, which I'm not flowing in. You, therefore, will miss some lines and the harshness and roughness of this most perfidious story. The king sits in doomferling town drinking the blood-red wine. But where will I get a good skipper to sail this new ship of mine? Oh, up in spack and elder night sat at the king's right knee. Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor that ever sailed upon the sea. Our king has ridden the broad letter and sealed it with his hand and sent it to Sir Patrick Spence who's walking on the strand. To Norway, to Norway, to Norway, o'er the foam, the king's daughter of Norway, tis thou must bring our home. The first word, that Sir Patrick rid, so loud, loud left he. The next word, that Sir Patrick rid, the tear blinded his he. I had to read that one. Oh, who is this has done this deed and told the king of me to send us out this time of the year to sail upon the sea. Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet, our ship must sail, the foam, the king's daughter of Norway, tis we must fetch her home. They hoist their sails on Monday morn with all the speed they made. They had landed in Norway upon a wooden stay. They had not been a week, a week in Norway, or two when death of the lords of Norway began aloud to say, ye Scottish men, spend all our kings gold and all our queen's fee. Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud, full loud I hear ye lie. For I brought as much white money as gold, my men and me, and I brought a half full of good red gold out o'er the sea with me. Make ready, make ready, my merry men, all our good ship sails the morn. Now, ever alack, my masters dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon yesterine with the old moon in her arm, and if we go to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm. They had not sailed a league, a league, a league but barely free, when the lift grew dark and the wind blew loud, and girly grew the sea. The anchors broke and the top massed loud. It was such a deadly storm, and the waves came over the broken ship till old her sides returned. But where will I get a good sailor to take my helm in hand till I get up to the toll-top mast to see if I can spy land? Oh, here am I, a sailor good, to take the helm in hand till you go up to the toll-top mast, but I fear you'll never spy land. He had not gone a step, a step, a step but barely one, when a bolt flew out of our goodly ship and the salt sea it came in. Go fetch a web of the silken cloth, another of the twine, and wrap them into our ship's side and let gnaw the sea come in. They fetched a web of the silken cloth, another of the twine, and they walked them round that good ship's side, but still the sea came in. Oh, lo, lo, where our good Scots lords to wet their corkeel chun, but long or air the play was played, they wet their hats abound. And many was the featherbed that fluttered on the foam, and many was the good lord's son that never more came home. The ladies rang their fingers white, the maidens tore their hair, all for the sake of their true loves, for them they'll see no more. Oh, lo, lo, may the ladies sit with their fans into their hand before they see Sir Patrick Spence come sailing to the strand. Oh, lo, lo, may the maidens sit with their good combs in their hair, all waiting for their own dear loves, for them they'll see no more. Oh, forty miles off Abadur, it is fifty fathoms deep, and their lives, good Sir Patrick Spence, with the Scots lords at his feet. It does not belong to you. It's not an object I could wrap up and give. Disregarding all the health hazards I'd be violating mailing it to you, it's not pretty, and it most certainly does not sing a Disney tune. Why would you want to immortalize a slimy, gooey muscle? Even if you think it true, my heart does not beat for you. It pumps blood throughout my body. In fact, it will beat over 2.5 billion times in my life. None of which are dedicated to you. My love has many boundaries. No stealing hearts, no giving hearts, and no promises with all my heart. If I didn't have a heart, I would not exist. My body would be null and void. My persona left to be discovered in a distant future. Even not to worry, I'll make sure to get a rain check on my life. Not that you care because you got my heart. All I want, I want my heart, and so I should keep it where it belongs, anatomically and emotionally. I think with my brain and feel with my fingers, I am not emotionally dead, just seeing white roses painted red. If this was the last month of your life, would you take out your bag of greenings, hurry up and do at least a few, or would they get buried in the ashes of you? Would you choose to live your life the same, yet savor every little moment that goes by, putting aside the usual angry games, giving out love more, no hate now, why, what would you do? Would you call up all your friends and those letters you put off for years, reach out to everyone before it is the end, speaking from your heart with glowing tears, what would you do? Would you go further into memories very deep, those secrets that ought to come out at last, clear away everything you no longer need to keep, forgive yourself and others for what happened in the past, what would you do? Would you take a trip that was put off for a long time, all because you were afraid you could die? Maybe now there won't be excuses or seeing a bad sign, because even a very scary journey would be worth a try, what would you do? Would you take the time to look within, see that God has chosen for you, knowing that ignored completely could be a sin, since they are yours, especially given to do, what would you do? It is time for us to speak up and sing, it is time for us to jump and dance, it is time to think of all we have to bring, before we don't get the chance. This one's C.K. Williams, a poem called Wait. Chop, hack, slash, cleaver, boning knife, axe, not even the clumsiest claw of a butcher could do this so cruelly. Time, as you do, dismember me, render me, leave me slop in a pail, one part of my body a hundred years old, one not even there anymore, another still ribbon with idiot vigor, voracious as the youth I was, for whom everything always was going too slowly, too slowly. It was me then who chopped, slashed, threw you, across you, relished you, gorged on you, sludged your invisible liquor down raw. Now you're polluted, pulse clock, countertanked you, befouled you, you suck at me, pull at me, barbwire knots of memory tear me, my heart hangs inert, a tag end of tissue firing, misfiring, trying to heave itself back to its other way with you. But was there ever really any other way with you? When I ran, as though for my life, was my fleeing from you or for you? Was my frightened youth fray, leave me nothing but shreds? Aren't I still? When I snatch at one of your moments and clutch it, a pebble, a planet, isn't it wearing away in my hands as though I, not you, were the ocean of acid, the corrosive in which I dissolved? Wait, though, wait. I should tell you too how happy I am, how I love it so much, all of it, chopping and slashing and all. Please know I love especially you, how every morning you turn over the lingering earth, for how would she know otherwise to do dawn, to do dusk? When all she hears from her speech-creatures is wait, we whose anguished wish is that our last word not be wait. This is a poem called Two My Twonies by a writer I like named Kenneth Koch and a son of a poet named Lydres. Two My Twonies. How lucky that I ran into you when everything was possible, from my legs and arms and with hope in my heart and so happy to see any woman, oh woman, oh 20th year, basking in you, you oasis from both growing and decay, fantastic unheard of nine or ten-year oasis, a palm tree, hey, and then another, and another, and water. I'm still very impressed by you. Whether in these falling decades have you gone, oh, and what lucky fellow, unsure of himself, upset and unemployable for the moment in the case, do you now live? From my window I drop a nickel by mistake with you to race down to get it. But I find there on the street instead a good friend, X, N, who says to me, Kenneth, do you have a minute? And I say yes, I'm in my 20s. I have plenty of time. In you I marry, in you I first go to France. I make my best friends in you and a few enemies. I ride a lot and am living all the time and thinking about living. I loved to frequent you after my teens and before my 30s. You three together in the bar, I always preferred you because you were midmost, most lustrous, apparently strongest. Although now that I look back on you, what part have you played?