 Welcome to Poetry Live, the Poetry Live Library, it's already past seven, so I'm going to get the gears cranking here. Why are we here? Probably because everybody likes poetry. Or loves poetry. Or likes to read poetry. Or share poetry. It's a community celebration. So some library professors, teachers, students got together and thought there should be an event to come together and cram a bunch of poetry into two hours. So what we want to do is bring as much possible poetry to each other as we can. So it's kind of my task to keep things moving along and have people come up and read one poem. No more than five minutes, so you can have as many people participate as possible. If you get through everybody, then we'll start another round. So MSU Library, MSU English Department, English Club, both in the high school library, both in the public library. And that's it, put it together. And let's just unleash this thing and see what happens. I'm Tim Donnie. I'm a librarian. And I love poetry. Can I change my life? So I go to events like this and hang out with people right here. Words on their minds. Change your life for the worse, huh? A little bit of that, too. You've got to take the good and the bad. Poetry is risky. If you love it, you might have already found out. Okay, so the idea is all read the names. You just come up. You read your poem. If you're not signed up, you've got to sign up to be able to read it. Okay, and let's start this thing. Sound good? I don't feel like I need a mic, but it pivots. You like the mic? Make sure you got the mic. So I'll leave it here. And it rises, too. Although who knows if this thing falls apart because you're adjusted. I'll let you try to find out about that. Seems to be working. All right, so I'm going to start off on a quick poem. It's called Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota. And it's by James Wright. Over my head I see the brown bronze butterfly asleep on the black trunk. Blowing like a leaf and green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, the cowbells follow one another into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, in a field of sunlight between two primes, the droppings of last year's horses blaze up into golden stones. I lean back as evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hop floats over, looking for a home. I have wasted my hour. Can you hear me? Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now? Can you? Can you? Can you? Can you? Can you even like… Yeah. Or other people really don't. Yes. Yes, both. I can put it down. This one's about my son and I wrote it down. Yeah. It's called Tetherball and Sheridan. It's July, the sky's heavy with smoke. All the streets in this town are dirt. We've found the playgrounds in a while already, hours before bed at the General Gym. Great. I'll start again. Tetherball and Sheridan. It's July, the sky's heavy with smoke. All the streets in this town are dirt. We've found a playground in a while already, before bed at the General Gym. As we head back, you spot a Tetherball, ready, old, strang, holding a dirty, packed, free, good ball. It takes me a minute to understand that I won't forget that. Sundown in a strange town, you reaching out to your tiptoes, your little hand, your waist. I can see you in the future, triple this size, slapping that ball effortlessly, your face smooth and handsome, maybe talking to friends. I'm paralyzed in the July sun. Watching it here is that dirty ball on its guiding road, slowly stops, turns back old, gaining speed now, within the amount of time. Attention, it's National Poetry Month. Happy National Poetry Month. It's also National Library Week. So there's two synchronicities here. There's a synchronicity. There's two bands. And that gives us even more momentum. We're doing some mic work here. We're doing some mic work here. Okay. Next to try out our microphone is Jack Klederman. Two very quick pitches before I read Bill and Thomas's firm build. One is, on the 24th in this room in the evening, there'll be a Dickens reading. There'll be seven readers, with seven novels part of the little bit's read, eight readers, and we'll be celebrating this as the two anniversary of Dickensburg. The other is, this Wednesday at 7.30 to 9 in the library is a discussion of Brian Doyle's Make River. And the reason I'm mentioning that is I just almost got to the end of the book and there was a quotation from Firm Hill. So I thought, see, let me read Firm Hill and Thomas. Now, as I was young and easy under the apple boughs about the lilting house and happy as the grass was green the night above the dingles starry time let me hail and climb golden in the heyday of the eyes and honored among wagons I was prince of the Appletowns and once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves trail with daisies and barley light. And as I was green and carefree famous among the barns about the happy yard and seen as the farm was home in the sun that is young once only time let me play and be golden in the mercy of his means and green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman the calves sang to my horn the foxes on the hills barked clear and loud and the Sabbath rang slowly to the holy streams all the sun long it was running it was lovely the hay fields high as the house the tunes from the chimneys it was air and playing lovely and watery and fire green as grass and nightly under the simple stars as I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away all the moon long I heard blessed among stables the nightjars flying with the ricks and the horses flashing with the dark and then to awake in the farm like a wanderer white with the dew come back the cock on his shoulder it was all shining it was adam and maiden the sky gathered again and the sun grew round that very day so it must have been after the birth of the simple light in the first spinning in place the spellbound horses walking worn out of the winnie the stable on to the fields of praise an honor to own foxes and pheasants by the gay house under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long in the sun born over and over I ran my heedless ways my wishes raced through the house high A and nothing I cared that my sky blue trades that time allows in all his tuneful turning few and such morning songs before the children green and golden follow him out of grace nothing I cared in the land white days the time would take me up to the swallow thrown loft by the shadow of my hand in the moon that is always rising nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields and wait to the farm forever fled from the childless land or was I was young and easy in the mercy of his means time held me green and dying though I sang my chant as I plight the sea hi everybody thanks so much for coming tonight this is like my favorite thing that you're all favorite and I just have to say I only love poets I am not a poet so I am reading someone else's poetry but I'm reading the poetry of a really cool guy his name is Ben Awkry and he is a Nigerian British poet and I got to meet him last year when I was in Oxford at the Oxford Literature Festival and he's the coolest guy so great so I thought well I have to read some of this up this is different because it's prose poetry and I'm just going to read excerpts from a longer prose poem called Poetry in Life and it has sort of chapter in it I'm just going to read a couple of chapters from it number one Kevin knows we need poetry now more than ever we need the awkward truth of poetry we need its indirect insistence on the magic of listening in a world of contending guns the argument of bombs and the madness of believing that only our side our religion our politics is right a world fatally inclined toward war we need the voice that speaks to the highest in us we need the voice that speaks to our joys our childhoods and to the guardian knots of our private and national condition a voice that speaks to our doubts our fears and to all the unsuspected dimensions that make us both human and beings touched by the whispering of stars number four poetry is not just what poetry is poetry is also the great river of soul murmurings that runs within humanity poets merely bring this underground river to the surface for a moment here and there in cascades of sound and suggested meaning through significant form poets want nothing from you only they can listen to their deepest selves unlike politicians they don't want your poets true poets just want you to honor the original pact you made with the universe when you drew your first breath from the unseen magic in the air thank you okay next one of my favorites poets sir dancer voila voila yeah he didn't know how to spell this this is called this is a contest I entered that was supposed to write about war and peace and how war is bad, peace is good people get hurt so here's how I came out the violent flame consumes the violent games the cosmic mimic was making quite some cosmic mimicry which was well beyond your machine based biomimicry crying like a motherless child swimming in bad vibes then climbing imaginary walls trying to cling to the transparent parent developer scriptural guidance roll off said some non-thing the war torn world is not all that bad here chuckle head and get intense stuff like a not messed up potaster would be such a disaster potaster is a bad port now he learned another word apparently in fact there are some mouth watering non foods and eye popping invisible thrills and think equitable explanations here to all this it's not all that bad, bad baby the disembodied boy said the war is in your head cracker jack the conflict intensifies by your tension and the global warming comes from the heavy energy of you just rubbing people the wrong way and more you got warring in your members the chattering in your brain and if you continue to make secret that those who disagree with you know the cosmic mimic is going to appear again and up your ante and if you are so anti this and anti that and anti antibiotics and anti bacterial you are going to be such a sick puppy and more you who are heady corporations baby republicans they are really wiggling the seat of power with a lear sneer wait, I'm freaking me out wait, I'm freaking me out shout at the peace freak no I mean I'm not mean I mean you make me out to be mean and you make me them cheap to jowl the testy protester in the cosmic mine with an edit soon down on the proverbial monkey pile line the monkey mine pile each feeling super superior hot under the collar when low and behold so that spark starts the holy spirit to burst flames of sweetheart contact twin fires of true love at one meant heat to do its perfect work within and without without ever going out for dancer on 11 11 months 12 years okay Robin Curtis what are you eating anyway also he's a leaker too in some way he's worked for probably 20 years he was born in Wales and grew up in northern England and now he lives on the island on the Seattle so if you may know him in his work for me to see how he keeps deepening and bringing an ancient and contemporary wisdom in his work this particular one I'm going to tonight call Song for the Salmon I especially like because it talks about journeys and what it's like to have been away for too long from something you love and then how good it is to return to it and how that starts again on a new cycle Song for the Salmon for too many days now I have not written of the sea nor the rivers nor the shifting currents we find between the islands for too many nights now I have not imagined the salmon threading the dark streams of reflected stars nor have I dreamt of his longing nor the life swing of his tail for dawn I have not given myself to the depth to which he goes for the cargo is a crystal water cold with salt as the plains of ocean swaying beneath the moon I have not felt the lifted arms of the ocean opening up its white hands on the sea shore nor the salted wind whole and healthy filling the chest with living air I have not heard those waves falling out of heaven on your earth nor the tumult of sound and the satisfaction of a thousand miles of ocean giving up the strength on the sand but now I have spoken of that great sea and the ocean of longing shifts through me the blessed inner star of navigation moves in the dark sky above and I am ready like the young salmon to leave his river blessed with hunger for a great journey upon the drawing time Thanks, Robin Next we've got Bonnie Clark Shoveling I discovered perfectly etched under the snow a line of footprints remnants of steps of perfect moment to be fused to the sidewalk and then covered configuring by falling snow leaving no dent no indentation no trace of the walker that passed her by the bypasser and telling my shoveling what we do this is a poem I wrote myself and I do not recall this one is called The River Truth I love as I sail a curved mass I hold no matter how fast the waves may roll or how big the storm may be I never give up and when I die my soul shall once more roam this beautiful mysterious ocean applause Marquita I was a sailor once but now I realize everybody is a sailor Carolyn Hopper on my road is that okay? and I'm going to dedicate this to Jerry Murnin who was a member of the writing group that has been dating here going on two years maybe going on three going on three years he was among other things a park ranger in Yosemite and Yellowstone and he passed on as he was writing his memoirs of years as a ranger with that and throughout all of us who heard him when I pick this up I want to take this one second I found I wanted to read it and I saved the copy on which he wrote notes so I'm saving this in case I ever write a poem and everybody since you all really didn't like it in my father's house in my father's house are many mansions if you only knew, preacher that a man could if he chose inside the doors of desks he locked the doors of the mansions at his leaving all that I can find are walls of paper a patent an invitation letters of congratulations a letter ending appointment a letter by hand dated 1937, dear son a letter tight dated 1937 dear father death claimed the builder at 92 at 21 he was full of promises in 1937 when he was 21 he was full of promises in my father's house are many mansions as I sit through pieces of paper of various types from the finest linen to scraps of notepads I pull my eyes away from the drawer of paper mansions to the view outside where the wind throws leaves up throws leaves to the ground and I remember the girl I was who played that side and I wish to fall into piles of many colored crisp leaves again to play outside the walls of paper mansions and I go to prepare a place for you preacher, I hear what you say but I do not find a place for myself in the drawers of desks in letters decades old one last graph an invitation with an official looking seal touches my eye I lift it from the pile I read the handwritten note ladies to wear long dresses I close the door and go to dance and wait it looks like next we got is it Carol? hi everybody thanks for coming in the title of this poem is Ellie and the Thousand Preys and the inspiration for my poem is Ellie, nine-year-old Ellie on the way up to the ski hill Ellie tells me in fourth grade English a story about the girl made sick by the bomb that fell on her feet she's folding a thousand cranes so she can make one magic wish it's the perfect day in Montana the mountains unfurled in pristine peace snowy against the blue all winter Ellie has been making paper hats boat smits, chairs, birds origami nation occupied her home and mine Ellie says matter of fact the girl in the story is now in the hospital is probably going to die but Ellie tells me she wants to be young and hip then she skis off come to Montana spring the sandals who made for life will return meanwhile Ellie and I go skiing imagine the wonder of a thousand cranes flying over Japan well, if you love her, please help you at this one you are leading in the winged world and you know what it is Gael welcome Gael Gael what a little expensive so the game went in the winged world but I actually translated that to my native language and that's actually difficult to translate, it's more of an energy than a physical object where I began writing this poem accessing that that essence of opening the world it's not a physical thing but it's a feeling and a flight so that's when I began writing this poem I will not be lost when there's the arrival of first light the morning call of her she is yelling all around she is dancing all around already grandmother, I'm ready to understand the beautiful greedy count of her I know that you feel the thunders over your shoulder when the morning start first swam upon the horizon before you ran in crisscross fashion before all these houses of mortal or flood I can see them each of these hieroglyphs that are still lying in the ground still almost signaling the genealogy of twilight sprint I know you'll be there within the glittering realm when every breath is a soft enrobed shorn into the abyss offerings to palms of affirmation in my dream I implode by the living marrow by the storytelling river by this consolation moment in my dream I have become the first breath the child of first flight remember