Library of Congress lectures; Alan Kernow on New Zealand poets, part three

Snap open. He's all eyes wedi. Darting both ways one query. Whether the moon beamed grounds the Bahnhof to hove in Homs. Or hopefully the better. And considered middle. When Dylan Thomas died. I read a poem in his memory. I don't remember that I have a rated. In public before because. Thomas's. Name I know. Is so much. On that here. I hope not on the myself too much by reading it now. It's called simply in memory of Dylan Thomas. And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life and man became a living soul.

Never talking but a telling breath fanned fire from clay up right to the tip of his tongue. Who burning to tale told all the days of his death. It was the ghost alive in a beast slung panting for ever out of the five gates are shut. The grass the fingers sheath in enough dust. And the last work at most is what all must. He hardly knew what struck him the first spark bursting the bolt of sense upon the frame of things. It was like raging the PR Doc it was the ghost buried alive in time pursed lips a plane that blew upon his brain at a distance. Pretty swarms that Rose winged him again out of their wormy throws. Adam and Eve beneath the village Bethel played Snakes and

Ladders Bibles were hot to touch. He laid his open on the cool of the sill door for fear he fumbled fruit in hand found such good omens bedfellows and he could never close the genesis for apple blossoms joy out tipping the first girl and boy and lacking time caught napping. Self scrutiny with what pierced eyes he poured life goals upon the body's private inches. SHAME IN THE GHOST rebuffed what flesh adored but the game beast on the griddle heave the torch is sinful infinitely worth saving. The beast so that at the end of that other eye the way the played between the mat in bed and midnight bed. And he said What has that done. The voice of thy brother's blood crouton to me from the ground.

Down boy it drab the earth beneath the pavements the new stones goodly storming bereavements inflamed his eyes he was afraid with the common fear that time of a blitzing sickness but under blood than blame exclaimed so blazed his darkness. Gen. thunderbolt shot her. Irrational good caged in face condemned cell burning its own breasts done assuaged cry baby crying the morning stars out. Creation raged. And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field and every fowl of the air. And brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them. And whatsoever Adam called every living creature that was the name thereof. Larm village

Peter's up to an inch from the fishy Bay whose reckless tides likely curiously Erap their twice a day reminders to fuel humans on death as taco shells that a lifeless landscape suckles fills and flushes the salt wells and the mon is a spirit. By day. By Did he valued the mere view of it the best the molded arm relaxed about slack water south with the ship shape of the shade of an aisle is landing some lounging Cape condescends to the vanishing waste a few miles that way brings your map with the Ben diamond Sans. Mere living things crackle there moments out over the breath have a green for sure and glimmers of God had not done seen but often the crawl creeps come perfect or fly starting under his feet in the track of his eye who

name them with praise again as Adam and foreman had praise that never do Adam fall in the make up for bad name the hidden son of Zebedee. Fishing is moody show the name the congregation of crabs. Dabs water birds the oh so failed to the range a fox out napping a winter's code. Name. Who never could have told the tally of his heart's house. A window shall make to the OC and in a cubit to finish it above and the door of the Ark sit in the side thereof. With a lower second and third stories shall make. A stack of whitewashed stone cramped square out upon the left of rock and butted endwise to a bushy bluff. One chink of the foreshore that. The house. Locally known as a boathouse house enough

or good flood time fit the bed pigeon post and all the stock. And the log smell the sweet savor and the Lord said in his heart I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake. For the imagine of man's heart is evil from his youth. Neither will I again smite any more every living thing as I have done. So John's Hill. Bramble and scrubby growth not much higher than a chimney puff by tides of Dead Weed up and over the path ramble far fetching Scala the brief rough prose of a broken landscape summoning how on this earth out of all rare ringers of hands and hearts one here saw him is bent beautifully judging that and sing us.

Where the Hawk where the Hill. Corps clenched for the trailing throat the shadow the shadow of the kill. Feathers afloat. But in the map of mercy among US cities dying millions he failed who chose of heavens thousand thousand pities the sparrows one. And. All. A short another sonnet. Called to introduce the landscape. It's one of those terms. That all poets write ill or wail as they occur. It's really about the problem of writing anything.

To introduce the landscape to the language. Here on the spot. Say that it can't be done by kindness or mirrors or by talking slang with a coast accent. Spotter your pieces one by one like with matches you scrape the drop nose self-styled. But it can hold a candle to the light the stairs by life is the wrong shop for pictures you say. Having all points and no feel. Ponderous pine wagging is winds up brushes daubs Lattin skies upon Chinese lagoon. What tides leaked through the mangroves and the rushes or lasted one long needles and large curtains. And where from here you go. Out with the dye. You won't. Without some word that will have lied. Sometimes.

A little scrap of prose which is composed for no other purpose than to attract the customer. Says something that seems quite beyond its intention. Sometimes one can hardly define what it is and I tried to define what this was. The intention. In this little scrap in the burn the scrap itself was on the the cardboard box that contained a clockwork toy and the toy was a boat and the bird contained a man and the man was an oarsman. And when you wound him up he rode and he was a most delightful toy for children to play with in the bath or anywhere you like and he was called Jack in the boat. And on the box was printed Jack in the boat is always ready to row across the bar or lake wind up the motor and watch him dip its blades like a true oarsmen in in

with never tiring enthusiasm. Children children come in to look through the crack in the corner of the middle of the world at the clockwork man in a cardboard house. He's crying children. Crying. He's not true really. Once he was new like you you see through the crack in the corner of the middle of the night the bright blue man on the wind up see oh he went so beautifully. He's not true reality. Grove was the pleasure land they never should have painted on the front of the back. The funny brand of weather for the crack in the corner of the middle of the picture let the colors leak go away. He's not really. One of the time children come and look through the crack in the corner of the middle of

the day a jack in the boat where the light leaves float. He's dying of a broken spring. He's not too ready. And a short very short. Again one of those poems. About the difficulty of writing I suppose. He cracked a word to get the inside of the inside. Then the whole paper bag for the man said we're right and good. The shrunken kernels like black tongues in dead mouths derided the sillinesses of song and wagging wisdom. These made a

small done by the hopping Cheryl's froze to the floor and those made patterns half witted cameras glared at finding as usual huge meteorites in mass land. Bare faced robbery. He sad sad sack mechanically adding to the small by to the patterns on the floor conscious of nothing but memories wishes and a faint but unmistakable pricking of the thumbs. The beginnings of his joy. And to conclude I would like to read. One with the title a small room with large windows and the other with the title. An oppressive climate a populous neighborhood. The small room with a small room with large windows the room actually

exists. I didn't make it up those somebody's plate they said. What a useful metaphor for New Zealand. A rather self flattering metaphor which I think the expression is. I said I would rather not where it is not intended as a metaphor for New Zealand. There is in fact actually such a room. There are such pine trees outside it visible through the windows. In fact everything that seems there is visible in the is actually visible or was at the time. I rather think that is or should be so. That may be heresy. What it would look like if really there were only one point of the compass not known. Elucidate all other porters proving nothing but quaint obsolete expressions of two nor would it be and seeds birds children lovers and thoughts bore down the unwinding a

biding beam from birth to death. What a person. Or parabola you describe yours I mind simple as that with a pop of the puff of nonchalant stars up top then down beautiful dead stick down. Through north all the way. Nevertheless. One way to save space in the world of trouble. A word on arrival. A word on the patch or. A passage of proud verse. Rightly construed. And honoring. Then do it it. The ensuing silence says. That's more like it. Seven aging pine trees hide their heads in air but planted on bare knees supplicate wind and tide. See if you can see it. If this is it half of heaven half land half water what you call a view strung out between the windows and the

tree trunks. Below sills. A world moist with new making where the mangrove race number their cheated floods. Now in a field Azure are rapidly folding swales a cloud sable a bad bitching squall thrashes the old pines has them twitching root and branch room running of Gotterdammerung. For knowledge infects them to the heart. Comfortable to create your own comfortable to damn slime sack of mangrove for its muddy Duckling with diamond knotted to the vein leeches. In the interim how the children should be educated. Pending a decision. A question much debated in our island realms it being as it is out of the question merely to recognize the whole 360 degrees which prudence if not propriety forbid it is necessary to avail oneself

of AIDS like the Bible or no bible free swimming tuition not six no six and so on not to direct so much as to normalise personality protect from all hazards of crime parentage diet whatever it is exists. While on the word it is understood there is a judgement. Preparing which finds the compass totally without bearing and the present course correct beyond a doubt. There being two points precisely one in one. A king fish is naked. Och a light upon a dead stick in the mud. A scarlet geranium wild on a wet bank. A man stepping it out in the near distance. With a dog in the bag. On a spit. On a wire in a mist.

Again it impacting. Exploded a dozen divers dunces like a burst of accurate fire. And last of ore. And nearest. In both time and place the newest of these is. Written in New York City a few years ago. And called an oppressive climate a populous neighborhood an understatement. I should think for Manhattan in the middle of July you know almost any summer and for work the literal record is. And why not tell it. There I was in I think 64 steps stairs in what I think is known as a railroad apartment

or inland agent's terms a high type walk up. It was very hot indeed. I looked from this back windows straight across to that back window and there see standing in the through current rippling his white shirt and briefs a gray headed man who turns retreats returns for the corners. No doubt of linoleum to the naked soul. And looks from that back window straight across to this back window and there see standing in the through current naked but for my white briefs a brown headed man. Put it that we know and respect each other's individuality he is not a grain. Because I am content with brethen reject the shirt. Nor is my own free spirit offended because he cannot comfortably acquiesce in this

inspection complete eye to turn from the rare and pad the apartment through for the coolness trolling of linoleum to the naked sow to the street front window and there see a brown cloud girl crouched on the ground floor. One up and to the right a blue nightgown but industry gets out of bed and passes from view. A boy re-arranges is below. I plan to the flight above I hand shift the pot plant from the sill one hand the perfection of anonymity. What we cherish is our own business. This hand innocently withdraws its treasure put it simply the owner may be stripped naked for the heat and have nothing to hide but himself. Satisfied I put no impertinent questions to myself concerning these companions least of all any literally question.

Hell let's face it is horribly hot and overcrowded. But where else do you find the nice days of neighborly regard. More observant and the mythical nuisance of neighborly love better understood than in this city. We have been dealing so long. Anyone. Thank you. Now one current hour has been heard discussing the work of New Zealand poets on another program recorded under the auspices of the Gertrude Clark with all poetry and literature are fond of the Library of Congress. This program was one of a serious presented by national

educational radio in cooperation with the Library of Congress. They seized the national educational radio network.