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Presentation 110
The Renee Poem
I adore Renee because she is true to my idea of the human heart. There is something pink in her
smile that reminds me of orchids, of my dream of my mother in a garden. She is incredible! A red
mountain! She has an equestrian sensitivity to me, and I am surprised by the gentleness of her
eyelashes. There is no form of beauty that she reaches for that she does not reach. Her hair is
sort of chestnut and wild, and it appeals to me. I want to know more about the care she takes
searching for pure roses.
Presentation 101
Joanne Monforte works at Perkins, and she is cute and pretty and sweet. How carefully we
watch her! Joanne is dark and cute and has dark eyes; she laughs and giggles and tickles the
busboys. Joanne is concentrating on writing a meal ticket. A piece of her hair has fallen on her
cheek; a piece of her hair has fallen around her neck. She has very sad eyes; she is very lost; she
is very alone. She sways with friendship and blows her bangs off her brow. She nods. Her dark
eyelashes have conquered the night. Thoughtful, quick, lovely Joanne!
Presentation 484
Lament for Marwood
It is raining now, in quiet little drops, and Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. Is it
nothing new for you to have raindrops on your fingers in the solitary dark crying of the night?
Marwood, the hangman of England, is dead. There is no reach to this moon-touched universe
beyond the hero's star; eagles drift through crimson foreign ports; and Marwood, the hangman of
England, is dead. Marwood's black box is sunk in a grave, his skeleton of ebony and ash is
ancient earth. Marwood, hear the gulls cry out Marwood, the hangman of England is dead.
Presentation 580
Jenny Perkins
In my mind, I profile a night, using my dark ink, a night of antlers and wild deer, and cherries that
grew beside black walnuts. In my mind I have arranged these drawings on a wall for you, Jenny,
and shall add some more drawings of brilliant galaxies done in India ink, and shall place there
also a drawing called "Childhood Among Wild Cherries." In my mind I profile a night drawn out
of childhood, and I wanted your portrait there, beautiful and pure as the beginning of the first
love poem. Ideally, this is what my poem must be.
Presentation 1987
A Poem Ending With Dead Thunder
A castle shuddering with C-sharp major: a lake's silent, unexplored colors. This little world of a
cloister with its churchyards under a diamond-spinning heaven near a forest and a town is
identified by a moon-wheel, ready for Christmas snow. Here we can half-rest until one hundred
rainstorms of brilliant gold spill onto smoked glass and towns fall into the sun. Such features, part
of an ordinary flower, figure in ordinary sonatas, the ones in which Schubert proves his Egyptian
roots. Hard to believe her clarinet: It's getting harder to believe that dream-work should unfold
dead thunder.
Presentation 430
Ancient Explosions are Destroying My Sleep
Your music, Doctor Rose, springs like chokecherries to the lips of the soprano all April. April
may, or it may not. Last April, it was music, stars rushing their beautiful manners and bleak
mannerisms, the sea-battles of September, your cold red High Church. Ancient explosions are
destroying my sleep. There are too many angry tulips streaked with blood, too many stars with
blood in their hair. Show me the blasted steel column where they hung Doctor Rose, his heart
hammered with a burning television and a red clock, black star leaf in a planet, sword-sorcery,
crushed midnight diamonds.
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William B. Hunt was born in Illinois in
1946, and his Grandfather, being involved with the famous
Mount Rushmore project, has strongly influenced his writing.