so much for being a fabulous audience. i hate to say goodbye but i must. come to the jewish music festival. there are appetizers and there are amazing evening planned for you. come and be a part of it learn about yiddish. if this interested you at all come and learn more. there is so much richness no matter if you are jewish or know yiddish. there is so much to learn and enjoy. i hope you enjoyed.

i want to give a thanks to john. [applause] [inaudible]. [applause] and i want to quickly say i have some cd's down dollar. one more song. one more song. thank you. so, i wanted to say really quick i have cd's if you want to purchase them. [laughter]. [laughter] wow! i never gotten so -- um -- so, thank you. anyways i have cd's if you are interested i have cards and bios

and cd's please, sign up. i usually perform. come out. the last song so put your hands together and clap or i will be angry. thank you, again. [music] ♪[applause]

>> thank you. [applause] all right.

you guys want to -- so, there is a little song that some people know that you have seen before. a little song by a kind of food, right. and none of us like it if you had it or we tolerate it because we have to. i happen to be allergic, lucky for me! but now i sing this song because that's all i can do. put your hands together again. [music] ♪[laughter]

>> a little too much. [laughter] [music] [laughter]

[music] [laughter] [music]

[laughter] ♪[applause] >> thank you.

>> one of the most extraordinary things to me about this program is we are going to be treat todd an extraordinary panorama of style and diversity. we will start off with mr. james cagney. please, welcome the poet james cagney. [applause] >> there is sun. there is sun. there is a snake on the path sunning. there is sun. there is water in the stream, there are daisies, there are sun. there is a snake on the path sunning, there is sun. there are trees, there are daisies there is a feather there is sun. there is the feather that she gave me there is a feather there is sun. there are daisies there are words trees things there are more things than words, there is

sun, there is sun. there are fox tails there are blank there are irises that are blank there is a snake on the path in the path sunning. there is a squirrel in the trash, there is sun. there is water in the stream, there is a squirrel in the strash, there is a snake in the path on the sun sunning. there is is sun. there is song, there is a song being sung by the birds in the sun. there is flavor, there is a feather. there is hair in my mouth from her hug in the sun. there is sun. there is flavor on my tongue. there is singing there is sun. there is a snake on the path singing in the sun. there is song, there is sun. on the path there is a squirrel in the daisies there is blank in the trash there is a song, there is sun. on the snake there is a squirrel on the blank there are daisies in the trash, there is a snake

in the stream singing, there is sun. there is sun. there is a path in the trash, there is hair in the feathers, singing, there is song, there is song, there are birds there is hair in my mouth there is a snake on the path sunning, there is sun, there is sun, there is hair, in my mouth there is singing on the path there is a snake in the trash singing, there is song, there is sun. there are feathers in her hair. there is flavor in the stream, there is a snake on my tongue in the sun, sunning. there is sun. there is sun, there is sing on the sun. there are birds on the grass, there are squirrels in the trash, there are trees with feathers singing. there is sun. there is a snake on the pass sunning. there is sun. all right. [applause] >> this past saturday at the

farmer's market. >> an african brother shoved a basket of boysenberies as if paying a debt they bleed on our finger tips the man smiles proper his hand a gift says too complicated we buy 9 dollars in cherries quite and red and spotd and sweet and sour too, flavors turning in our ouths anxious as police lights we trip over the sister pushing a baby carriage. we know her but couldn't pull her name from nothing. baby sleeping cheeks soft with petals. 3 year old son digs into our kettle corn sack. later. fish tacos for her. him layian curry chicken for me.

watching children bounce in the fountain. pickled cool in water, giggles going off like chinese fire crackers. tiny teeth grudge mashing. 5 you want to fried chicken bites so golden brown. pity another poor mother her catfish, mango shake shook every wrchlt the little girl on the straw never blinked channelling opiuman cesters through the ecstasy of fruit sures. this is us at farmer's market. brother too complicate who had offers an arm for her and me. a chain of chins along his shoulders. where have you been and why has it taken you so long to come back? >> the piece dedicated to my foster father and cousin on my

adopted side. 1, daddy. old crow, jack dan jells understood my father mouthfuls at a time. jim beam and old forester where uncles rolled up in the sufficiented hennesy take it's first breath and hound dog laughter and dominos falling like hail on the dining table. relatives existed through stories and memory ease in like zombies on ropes of camel smoke and demand a texas holdum. no wonder they call it spirits. spirits vad my father with cower vas yea. spirits made him burn rubber screaming in the driveway. the marianet and tongue were skillets at mid night. i wouldn't see his ass again

until the next afternoon. twoshgs johnnie. gee my cousin john edwards volunteered for possession every week. he was certified. ex exor citizenim did nothing. colt 45, crazy horse they demand the sacrifices in blood so bottles would go to the couch friday night. walls kicked until straight jackets lay waiting on the lawn. mama would site visions of gang boys with metal vent as if it explained anything. it didn't between dusk from the and dawn saturday he was ready to blow the -- up. do you want some of this? oh , no, yes oh , no or yes , i will be damn, i will be damn, i

will be damn. [applause] >> this is called someone else's child. and i guess it's a sort of an imagined conversation with a took place in a real moment in my father's hospital room in a matter of weeks before he died. my father is my foster father and there was always in my life this level of awkwardness because i was not biologically his own son. and he and i never got to have the conversation that i imagined here on page in this piece. so, there is a lot of truth in it. and here we go. someone else's child. >> i'm going to write a poem about you, i said. shall i tell the truth or make

something up. what would you write about me. i'd write about the small things like catching my first perch on a cane pole and slapping you up side the head with it. it was the last time i fished you know that you cussed the water black mad. i never touched a fishing pole again. why would you want to write that? silence. do you remember when mom tried to teach me how to ride a bike? no, he said, let me hear it. why i can't ride a bike. i out weigh my mother by 50 pounds though her effort to help find my balance is more colossal than any man. my father root indeed pockets

watches us at a distance like we are on a channel he'd like to turn. that's a sad poem, he said. cant you write nothing happy? not with you in it, i said. but i ain't never hit you, thumped our head once or twice. mostly, i'm stuck remembering what we never did, share something. play catch, even. was not athlete. tried teaching you how to drive. sitting next to me on the freeway holding the steering wheel sdont count. well ain't had no one to teach me none of those things neither. did you ever hold me when i was a baby, i asked? gnaw, afraid i'd drop you sides you were someone else's child

didn't think we would keep you long. thought she was take you back to your people. if you wrote a poem about right now, he said, about us here in this room, how would it go? >> last rights. while sitting with my father waiting for his end white tooth sprouting from his wintry branches i watch the hospital clock. see us men watch one another and not look at each other for an hour and 15 minutes. it never occurred to either of us to even say, i love you. all you write, he said, are sad poems. what would you have me write?

the truth. your poem ought to be called, with no seat and go like this. he did the best he could with what he had and he ain't had nothing accept the blues. >> [applause]. >> the book was published this year by the university of georgia press. it is available at the back of the auditorium this afternoon. it is called blood ties and brown liquor. and he is also been the finalist for the 2006 poetry prize. please, join me in welcoming mr. sean hill. [applause]. >> i want to read from blood and brown liquor today. this book is about my home town in georgia. it's also where [inaudible] is

from. and i started researching the history of [inaudible] and sort of fell into the history of black people there because it was not taught in school. so -- in order to write about the history i had to invent a character to explore this history. the character's name is si loss wright. >> first poem i will read is titled silos write at age 71914. it's about silos follows a fishing riggel in the shallows. he describes the line in his tablet as much pride in that line as a man and his son. he giggles and goes on. the next letters come easy. with this he will have more than a mark to bind.

rambling across the page again and again in messy rows along it flows until he goes off the page's edge. he smiles. he's surprised to hear when his mouth opens. that's mine. so, this really lovely book that georgia put together for me has great painting on the cover. a painting of mcintosh street in georgia painted in the 1940's by a man, frank stanley herring. i saw this painting after i had written this next poem and after i talked to my grand mother and she mentioned this street to me. i didn't know it existed because by the time i was coming up the black business district was gone. and the past few years i think they erected a monument to it.

nigger street. 1937. mcintosh street the sign reads like the apple. red but not red delicious red but like red on red eyes gravy on grit the and stop lights and green and yellow. and red like those powders and syrups kept behind the counter at blocks pharmacy. red. and red like the stripe on richard's barb bar pole and the stitches on button holes on over alls of those coming to down on saturday. solid red at the blue moon and red like the eyes of the late staying patrons on sunday mornings. and in church the red of the edge of white pages in a black

bound bible coming together, closing. red as a congregation rises. [applause]. >> this references a lynching. the lynching of 2 couples in monroe, georgia occurred july 25, 1946. it's now referred to has the morris ford lynching. insurance man, 1946. silos you might not be here april. ain't none of us never promise said tomorrow. if you died you would need a will. that way you control your nickel when you are gone. get your ducks in a row you might not be here come april. yeah, your policy is up-to-date and we will pay say if you lose an arm at the elbow at the mill. if you died you need a will. double pay for accidental deaths

we have you down. your wife will not need to borrowo. you might not be here come april. being alive is enough to get you killed. do you hear about the folks in monroe? if they hang you from a tree you need a will. your folks won't have to worry about a meal with this insurance when that day of sorrow come. silos you might not be here april. if you died right sudden you'd need a will. >> this next is titled no one's real high button. >> beat, beat, beats here the sound of the train on the georgia road the claps of wheels at the gaps of the joints of the rails the beat of the hammer on iron andan vil at the smithing. shaping shoes for mules and horses and the red metal and

water is the train's wiftel. the last word returns like watermelons here with summer heat. beat with the hammer. beat when he, a boy, broke to the garden at the county jail at night when the beat men were asleep. there's were the sweetest. the dull that you had before the crack beneath the heart and move on to the next. he moveod to woman and settled on one. and busted her with finality. he measured time raising the sweetest watermelons for a time and time served he returned. a man. and he lay on the tracks of the georgia road cradled by the rails. heart stopped. >> all railroad abandoned. between across ties. trees