Is this what you intended, Vincent
that we take our rest at the end of the grove
nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
saying, who and how am I made better through struggle.
Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum
this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision
the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree.
O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
or if you can indeed hear what I might say
heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty
of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection.
To not be naive and think of silly answers only
not to imagine answers would be the only destination
nor is questioning color even useful now
now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
That the sun can do this to us, every one of us
that the sun can do this to everything inside
the broken light refracted through leaves.
What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
Leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
the sun touches deeper than thought.

O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing
to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
There might be nothing greater than this
nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
To correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
to toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
father, and further, the migration of things.
The homing action of geese and wood mice.
The ample evidence of the sun inside all life
inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too.

But felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.
The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that
the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
in the time of pictures and refracted light.
Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
the animal proximity of another and of nigh.

To step into it as into a large surf in late August
to go out underneath it all above and sparkling.
To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
wondrous and strange companion to all our days
and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us.
The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light
the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers
to be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing.
The sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it
the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
these starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge.

Now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.
To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
making so much more of itself here than where it signals
the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing.
Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
thought nothing might be the final and actual expression of it
that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone.

But what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar
the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
what of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line.
To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever
the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint
into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight.
That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
The fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
the gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun.

The gnarled cut stumps tearing the sky, eating the sun
the fragrant hills spoke in flowering tones I could hear
one great solace in paint and brotherhood the sky and grass.
That light was my enemy and one great source of agony
into the not near, the now far, the distant long-off line of daylight
the circle on the horizon rolling over and over into paint.
The circles grow large and ripple in the hatch-marked forever.
To move on, to push forward, to take the next step, to die.
What of the striated purposelessness in lapidary shading and line
the narrow path canopied in dense wood calling
but what is the use now of this narrow ray, this door ajar.

Into luminous dusk into dust then scattered now gone
green then mint, blue then shale, gray and gray into violet
that nothing at the center of something alive and burning
through nothing might be the final and actual expression of it.
Isn’t it comforting this notion of each and every thing
the great burning orb installed at the center of each and every thing
making so much more of itself here than where it signals.
The deep abiding sun touching down and making its impression
and yellow, yellows are the tonality of work and bread.
To feel these hues down deep, feel color wax and wane
now to think of the silver and the almost blue in pewter.

These starry nights alone and connected alive at the edge
the sky, the moon, the many heavenly forms
the sheer vertical act of feeling caught up in it.
To be held tight, wound tighter in the act of seeing
the gemstone brushstrokes in rays and shimmers.
The night sky, the deep sense of space, actual bodies of light
and the toil and worry and animal fear always with us
wondrous and strange companion to all our days.
To wonder and to dream and to look up at it
to go out underneath it all above and sparkling
to step into it as into a large surf in late August.

The animal proximity of another and of nigh.
Ah, the sun is here too in the polar region of night
in the time of pictures and refracted light
the warmth of the mind reflected in a dark time
and let us never forget indigo and the warmth of that.
The dark is not evil for it has indigo and cobalt inside
at least what the old books called science or bowed down to.
The dark is close to doubt and therefore close to the sun
but perhaps a depth that outshines clarity and is true.
The darkness bears a shine as yet unpunished by clarity
but felt things exist in shadow, let us reflect.

Inside all life seen and felt and all the atomic pieces too
the ample evidence of the sun inside all life
the homing action of geese and wood mice
father, and furhter, the migration of things.
To toil and to reflect and to home and to paint
to correspond, to be in equanimity with organic stuff
like in the middle of the flower I call your name.
Nothing truer to the good feelings that vibrate within
there might be nothing greater than this
to be in some way related by one’s actions in the world.
O to be useful, of use, to the actual seen thing.

The sun touches deeper than thought
leaves shine in the body and in the head alike
what our fathers called the good, what better celebration.
What the ancients called peace, no clearer example
the broken light refracted through leaves.
That the sun can do this to everything inside
that the sun can do this to us, every one of us
now that the white ray in the distant tree beacons.
Nor is questioning color even useful now
nor to imagine answers would be the only destination
to not be naive and think of silly answers only.

Of eyes and smiles, of eyes and affection
heal me and grant me laughter’s bounty.
Or if you can indeed hear what I might say
O, dear heaven, if you are indeed that
the leafy vine twisting and choking the tree
this inward spiral of whoop ass and vision.
Or why am I I inside this empty arboretum
saying, who and how am I made better through struggle
nestled into our portion beneath the bird’s migration
that we take our rest at the end of the grove
is this what you intended, Vincent.

 

Peter Gizzi, “Vincent, Homesick for the Land of Pictures,” in The Outernationale (Wesleyan University Press, 2007)

*
Note:  On February 27th, 2013, Peter Gizzi was in McCosh Hall to read and discuss his recent work with students and faculty at the invitation of the Contemporary Poetry Colloquium.

 

 

Richard Diebenkorn, Girl in White Blouse, 1962

 

From the Notebooks of Anne Verveine

By Rosanna Warren

 

I.

 

When his dogs leapt on Actaeon, he

cried (did he cry out?)—He flung

 

his arm to command, they tore his hand

from the wrist stump, tore

 

guts from his belly through the tunic, ripped

the cry from his throat.

 

That’s how we know a god, when the facts

leap at the tenderest innards, and we know

 

the god is what we can’t change. You

stood over me as I woke, I opened my eyes, I saw

 

that I’d seen and that it was too

late: the seeing

 

of you in the doorway with weak electric light

fanning behind you in the hall, and my room and narrow pallet steeped in shadow

 

were what I couldn’t change, and distantly

I wanted you, and, as distantly,

 

I heard the dogs, baying.

 

 

II.

 

And yet the fountain spends itself, and it is

in the clear

 

light of its losing that we seem

to take delight:

 

you dipped your hand in its running braid

to sprinkle my forehead, my lips.

 

Garden deities observed us: three nymphs

with moss staining their haunches, a pug-nosed faun.

 

The wound in water closed

perfectly around your gesture, erasing it,

 

so that only the glimmer, swiftly

drying, on my face recalled

 

our interruption

of the faultless, cold, passionate, perpetual

 

idea of the stream’s descent—

which, unlike ours, would always be renewed.

 

 

III.

 

I kissed a flame, what did I expect.

 

Those days, you painted in fire. Tangerine, gold:

one would have had to be a pilgrim to walk

through that wall of molten glass.

 

And purification

could be conceived, if not

attained, only after many years,

 

in autumn, in a fire greater than yours,

though menstrual blood still tinged the threshold

and our ex-votos were sordid—scraps of blistered flesh

 

taped to kitsch prayer cards—and neither of us knew

the object of this exercise, except

having, inadvertently, each of us, burned

 

we recognized the smell

of wood smoke, the slow swirl

flakes of wood ash make in heavy air;

 

and we were ready, each in a private way, to make

the gifts the season required.

Mine was the scene

 

of my young self in your arms,

eyes in your eyes, clutched in the effort

to give each other away—when I glimpsed

 

behind your pleasure, fear; behind

fear, anger; and knew

in a bolt some gifts

 

conceal a greater gift.

I have kept it. Now I am ready to give it back

into darker flame

 

in this season of goldenrod, the ardent weed,

and Queen Anne’s lace in its mantilla of ash.

And yet, how lumpishly, how stupidly I stand.

 

How much that is human will never burn.

 

 

IV.

 

And if you should answer?

I listened, years before I knew you, to the whine

of wind through the high stony pastures above my childhood village;

 

I breathed lavender and thyme and burned my bare legs

on nettles, scraped them on thistles, and rubbed

the sore skin till it reddened all the more. When we

 

walked the uplands together, you burned your hand

and I kissed the crimsoning nettle-rash. “We are the Lords of need,”

you said Hafiz said,

 

and I believed you, and we were.

In the rugs of your country, carmine is crushed

from insects, cochineal; saffron gold

 

is boiled from crocus stamens; and indigo

of heaven and fountain pools is soaked, hours upon hours,

from indigo leaves. “Like the angel Harut,”

 

you said, “We are in the calamity of love-desire.”

The angel is chained by neck and knees, head down, in the pit of Babel

for falling in love. Your carpets

 

told a different story: scarlet and saffron

blush as in Paradise, and God reveals himself

in wine, flame, tulips, and the light in a mortal eye.

 

All night you held me, sleepless, on my childhood cot in the stone house;

all night the wind seethed through crags and twisted olive trees,

high on the scents of thyme and goat droppings. “All night,”

 

Hafiz sang, “I hope the breeze of dawn will cherish the lovers.”

But the breeze of dawn is the angel of death.

You are in your far landscape now, I am in mine:

 

the wind complains and I can’t understand the words.

And if you should answer?

You, ten years away, in a different wind.

 

“We are in the calamity,” Hafiz sang. “But tell the tale

of the minstrel and of wine, and leave time alone. Time

is a mystery no skill will solve.” We should

 

thread words like pearls, you said, and the grateful sky

would scatter the Pleiades upon us

though we couldn’t see, and that was long ago.

 

 

V.

 

The carpet is not a story. It is a place,

garden of crisscrossed pathways, labyrinth,

fountain, pool, and stream.

 

As though the fabric had ripped at the vanishing point

at the top of the street

of ashen façades and slate-sloped roofs, you stepped

 

through the gap, out of your own world.

I had already lost my world.

We met in a torn design

 

which we tore further, pulling the tall warp,

thread wrapped tightly around our fingers until it bit the flesh

and the rue de Lille unravelled.

 

I know about design: it’s my job,

arranging other people’s letters in star charts

that phosphoresce in the dark between the closed covers of books.

 

You knew about design from the holes

blown through your country.

We spoke in a language of no country on earth.

 

You moved slowly, in shadow, teaching the shadows

to echo my name. You ripped my shirt at the neck.

Was it The Beloved I held, holding you?

 

Down the middle of the carpet the river

weaves a thousand gray glimmers into the deeper green.

The river knows about mourning; that’s its job.

 

How many years has it practiced? With such fleet fingers. A man

woke me at dawn this morning, sobbing and cursing in the street,

reeling from sidewalk to gutter and back again.

 

On my long gray street, the rue de Lille, where I still live.

 

 

 

NOTES: Anne Verveine is an imaginary French poet. She was born in 1965 in the village of Magagnosc in the Alpes Maritimes, and attended the lycée in Grasse. She never studied at a university. She lived obscurely in Paris, avoiding literary society and working as a typographer and designer for a small publisher of art books. She published a few poems in provincial journals, but no book of her own work. She was last seen hitchhiking in Uzbekistan in August 2000; is presumed kidnapped or dead. Anne Verveine’s sister found these poems in notebooks in the poet’s small apartment in Paris after her disappearance.

I translate them.

 

 

“From the Notebooks of Anne Verveine” from Departure,

W. W. Norton & Co., 2003

 

______

On September 25th, 2012, at 4:30pm Rosanna Warren, Bain-Swiggett Vis­it­ing Pro­fes­sor of Poetry, will be reading and discussing her work in McCosh 40 as part of the Princeton Contemporary Poetry Colloquium‘s guest speaker series.

 

By James Tate
for my father, 1922-1944

Your face did not rot
like the others–the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot

like the others–it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger’s life,
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.

—

On Wednesday, March 28, 2012, at 4:30PM, James Tate will read with Zadie Smith in McCosh 50 as part of the Althea Ward Clark W’21 Reading Series.

The valley
edge by edge
bare field by field
I walked through it through you

rain by rain
cold by cold
root absence
and the purposeful cold

Eye opened
slow
but what is slow

–Jean Valentine, from Break the Glass (Copper Canyon, 2010)

by William Carlos Williams

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow

changed by white curtains―
Smell of cleanliness―

Sunshine of late afternoon―
On the glass tray

a glass pitcher, the tumbler
turned down, by which

a key is lying―And the
immaculate white bed

Poetry@Princeton is on a bit of a break this summer, but we’ll be back when classes start in September. In the meantime, we’ll try to post events to the Calendar as we hear of them, so it wouldn’t hurt to check the site periodically throughout the coming months.

The second biennial Princeton Poetry Festival will be taking place on Friday, April 29 and Saturday, April 30 in Richardson Auditorium.

Readings and discussions begin on both days at 2pm. Advance tickets may be purchased through University Ticketing at 609.258.9220.

If you haven’t already checked out the schedule, you should do so here.

Want to hear more about Poetry at Princeton? Check out this video by Nick Barberio in which poets from Princeton talk about poetry and read their work.

by Major Jackson

XIX.

That moment in church when I stared at the reverend’s black
kente-paneled robe & sash, his right hand clasping the back
of my neck, the other seizing my forehead, standing
in his Watch this pose, a leg behind him ready to spring,
his whole body leaning into the salvation of my wizened soul,
I thought of the Saturday morning wrestlers of my youth who’d hold
their opponents till they collapsed on a canvas in a slumberous
heap, and how it looked more like a favor, a deed, though barbarous,
a graceful tour out of this world, that chthonic departure
back to first waters, and wondered what pains I endured
in Mr. Feltyburger’s physic’s class, worshipping light, density, mass,
preferring to stare long at snowdomes or the carcasses
of flies pooling above in the great fluorescent cover, and how beds
are graves, my mother and father kissing each other’s head,
their cupped faces unhurriedly laying the other down,
and how all locked embraces light in my mind from below
in blue-neon like you’d find on the undercarriage of sports cars,
and then what came was the baker stacking her loaves,
one by one, into little coffers, and Desdemona’s
last surrender to Othello’s piercing glance, and Isaac shown
a militia of clouds over Moriah, and the dying we submerge
in a baptism of pillow, and how we always loiter at this verge,
there, between rising up and falling back, as in now, this tank
of sound I swim in, gripped between the push and yank
of his clutch, caught in that rush of tambourines next to solemn
trays of grape juice and bits of crackers held by deacons when
the reverend, serious as a pew, whispered, “Fall back, my son. Fall.”

—-
from Hoops by Major Jackson. New York: W.W. Norton & Company 2006.
On Wednesday, April 6 at 12:30 p.m. in McCosh 40, Jackson will be reading from two long poems, “Urban Renewal” (from Leaving Saturn and Hoops) and “Letter to Brooks” (Hoops).* The reading will be followed by an intimate discussion between Professor Jackson and students & faculty. Lunch will be provided.

This lunchtime reading and conversation is proudly sponsored by the Princeton English Department’s Contemporary Poetry Colloquium.

*Complete copies of these poems are available in McCosh 22.  Professor Jackson’s essay “A Mystifying Silence” is also highly recommended reading.

by John Dryden

Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own:
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mold with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorr’d alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young friend perform’d and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Thro’ the harsh cadence of a rugged line:
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betray’d.
Thy generous fruits, tho’ gather’d ere their prime,
Still shew’d a quickness; and maturing time
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Once more, hail and farewell; farewell, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue;
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

Michael Johnduff writes:

Can we separate Dryden’s elegy for John Oldham (raging satirist and translator, dead at just thirty) from Dryden’s criticism of John Oldham? Perhaps it’s unfair to call what Dryden does here literary criticism, but then again everything of Dryden’s we call criticism looks pretty much the same. Only the stately tone is different, since the criticism’s stylistics (not unlike “harsh cadence,“ “thy generous fruits […] still showed a quickness”) always unfolds into a nuanced, yet thoroughly practical poetics (not unlike “satire needs not those,” “a noble error, but seldom made,” “time / mellows what we write to […] rhyme”) in an almost irreverently offhand prose. But don’t we think these cool, composed lines are indeed a bit irreverent when they say Oldham lacked (can the parenthesis soften this at all?) “the numbers of thy native tongue”? Whatever we want to call such acts, they introduce another subject of the poem–Oldham’s “poetic mold,”–we can’t but feel is slightly different than the elegized “soul,” and so should be separate.

What is crucial to understand, though, is that for Dryden, the “poetic mold” really is something in which “souls” are “cast”: he is too skeptical of the formalist tradition to criticize “what we write” without also letting it express a more essential tendency, without also making us uncertain whether work or author have “rugged” qualities (or whether “Oldham” is work or author). So the strange comfort Dryden seems to find in this ambiguity may not be entirely out of place: the inseparability of the critical and elegiac subject comes from staying true to the amorphous nature of the difference between writer and reader. And this is an ambiguity central to the relationship between two working poets, or what we might call practicing (rather than practical) critics, who read and comment upon each others’ work. Indeed, the noble austerity of the last line is only possible because, for Dryden, this ambiguity is the same as the ambiguousness of the tie that bound him together with Oldham in life and still binds them together: it is the “same poetic mold” Dryden finds himself cast in.

What then is a soul cast in a poetic mold, but something like an oxymoron which this poem continually finds faith in, rather than confusion? I can’t help but think this is what made T.S. Eliot say the poem “deserves not to be mutilated” in his essay on Dryden (Selected Essays (1932), 315): the innocent little notion starts to give the whole poem its honesty, to make it true to the facts of the loss of a fellow poet, and as it does so we feel it is more and more innovative, almost useful as an elegaic strategy. For rather than commune with the dead by invoking what is not “cast” in a “mold,” Dryden undoes the insubstantiality the soul should have, in order to commune better. The “ands” in the opening lines–“too little, and too lately,” “to think and call,” “and thine,” “and knaves and fools”–make this clear, and, gathering the force of polysyndeton, they start to imply a near, an alike, a with, a same. At a certain point we feel the soul is kindred to Dryden only because it is in the mold. I can’t but hear “alloyed” behind “allied,” and the fluidity involved in being cast “with” other souls, seems to me molten, something that only cools and hardens. We start to remember that speaking of the fluidity of the soul in general is wrong to begin with: souls are supposed to fly or flee, while it’s blood that is supposed to flow. But Dryden, we see, was wont to exploit the connection between these two, and we’d rather have it that way. “Ast illi soluuntur frigore membra / vitaque cum gemitu fugit indignata sub umbras,” says Virgil, and though Dryden insists Turnus’ “vita” is a “soul,” he keeps it in same place as the blood: “The streaming blood distain’d his arms around, / And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound” (Aeneis, 12.1376-7).

Of course, we can attribute Dryden’s taste for the seeming substantiality of the soul to his Catholicism, towards which he was moving just as he wrote this elegy (he converted in 1685). Certainly he lacked the anguished relationship to carnality that allowed Milton to go to such amazing extremes in verse and prose in explaining the morning of Christ’s nativity, or even the (only seemingly) milder frustration that forced Marvell to write his “Dialogue Between the Soul and the Body,” or the Mower poems. But we shouldn’t think that because the sublimity of lines like “the pink grew then as double as his mind,” were impossible for Dryden, this was because he was complacent about the issue:

Can I believe eternal God could lye
Disguis’d in mortal mold and infancy?
That the great maker of the world could die?
–The Hind and the Panther, Part I, 80-82

Leave it to Dryden to explain how he feels in a parody of a doubt, which this is: in the context of The Hind and the Panther (1687), the passage echoes anti-Catholic slander, even as it dramatizes his anxieties before his conversion. But the dense poignancy of such a triplet (which we also find expertly used above), the plainness of what should be grotesque if this were full-on mock-mockery (“infancy,” and “die,” and especially “mold,” should be more like “lie” and “disguised”), is a sign that this is doubt that cannot be flatly dismissed. So if Dryden here does not overcome disbelief, he certainly negotiates an anxiety; if he does not justify the ways of God to man, he makes the principles of faith shine through the harshness and roughness of ambiguity:

For what my senses can themselves perceive
I need no revelation to believe.
[…]
Let them declare by what mysterious arts
He shot that body through the opposing might
Of bolts and bars impervious to the light,
And stood before His train confessed in open sight.
–The Hind and the Panther, Part I, 96-99

So too in his poem to Oldham above. It seems fitting, then, to end by adding that, if we are tempted to place the the “mold” in which the soul is cast almost on the side of the concrete and bodily, we see this too is checked in favor of something again more oblique:

To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young friend perform’d and won the race.

When souls study, drive and arrive, the mold they are cast in does not make them material. Or at least that’s what Oldham’s death proves. Blood here, in fact, is something slipped on, like a mistake:

Now, spent, the goal they almost reach at last,
When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste,
Slipp’d first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain,
Soak’d with the blood of oxen newly slain.
The careless victor had not mark’d his way;
But, treading where the treach’rous puddle lay,
His heels flew up; and on the grassy floor
He fell, besmear’d with filth and holy gore.
–Aeneis, V.426-433.

by William Stafford

If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by—
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
“Who are you really, wanderer?”—
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
“Maybe I’m a king.”

As part of the English Department’s annual celebration of the great poet’s birthday, the Art Museum is pleased to host this year’s William Stafford Poetry Reading. Attendees are invited to bring their own favorite poem by Stafford for reading and discussion. Birthday cake will be served. For more information, please contact Elizabeth Lemoine at elemoine@princeton.edu.

Location: Art Museum
Date/Time: 01/14/10 5:30 pm – 7:30 pm