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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538779" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Poetry Reading At West Point</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I read to the entire plebe class,<br>in two batches. Twice the hall filled<br>with bodies dressed alike, each toting<br>a copy of my book. What would my<br>shrink say, if I had one, about<br>such a dream, if it were a dream?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Question and answer time.<br>"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,<br>and gave his name and rank, and then,<br>closing his parentheses, yelled<br>"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give<br>me a headache when I try</div><div style="margin:10px 0">to understand them?" he asked. "Do<br>you want that?" I have a gift for<br>gentle jokes to defuse tension,<br>but this was not the time to use it.<br>"I try to write as well as I can<br>what it feels like to be human,"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I started, picking my way care-<br>fully, for he and I were, after<br>all, pained by the same dumb longings.<br>"I try to say what I don't know<br>how to say, but of course I can't<br>get much of it down at all."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By now I was sweating bullets.<br>"I don't want my poems to be hard,<br>unless the truth is, if there is<br>a truth." Silence hung in the hall<br>like a heavy fabric. My own<br>head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Matthews">William Matthews</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538779" data-title="A Poetry Reading At West Point de William Matthews" data-description="I read to the entire plebe class, in two batches. Twice the hall filled with bodies dressed alike, each toting a copy of my book. What would my shrink say, if I had one, about such a dream, if it were a dream? Question and answer time. "Sir,..."></div> </div> </div>
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