Set Fire to the Stars Page #3

and a First Lady!

Hello. How are you?

- I'm a friend of John's.

- John who?

John Malcolm Brinnin.

Him.

Do you want feeding?

- A hot pastrami...

- No, thank you.

Ice cream, please.

- Two cherry cokes.

- And a Bourbon on the side.

Shoot twice from the South,

Drag 'em Wild and a Houseboat.

A shot of red eye.

We'll be playing this.

What is this marvel?

Pinball?

Pinball.

Do you like me?

Am I irresistible?

I must warn you,

I might break your heart.

Strange little foreign man.

With one stroke of her paw,

she was gone.

Don't mention it.

Jesus, is that you?

I've already outlived Jesus.

Why do you keep it? You look so...

Smaller. Half the size.

Yes... and prettier.

Yeah, prettier.

- It's a real shame.

- Incredible.

- What happened?

- Is every woman

in this pigsty of a town out to get me?

Hey, we were just saying, mister.

Yes, we were only saying.

John?

Hello, Jack?

John?

Christ, buddy,

where the hell have you been?

I've been looking

all over Manhattan for you.

The Beekman Tower

said you'd checked out.

Yeah. We were asked to leave.

Why was that?

There was a... misunderstanding.

You know how partisan

these Midtown hotels can be.

Something got lost in translation.

Between England and America.

Who said it was Dylan?

And he's not from England. Actually.

Come on, John. Come on. We had a deal.

You keep me in the loop

and I clean out your closet.

It doesn't need cleaning.

That's not what the

Beekman Tower concierge told me.

I understand the management asked you

to find quarters elsewhere.

- Which I have.

- Where?

Look, you know

how sensitive this is, Jack.

Tell me about it.

I've got Loomis

and the faculty asking questions.

You think that stunt Thomas pulled

at Harvey's party went unnoticed?

I'm trying to protect you, John.

I'm on top of this.

Sure doesn't sound that way.

Just give me some more time.

Yale is three days away.

I'm not an alchemist.

I can do this, Jack.

I can get him ready for America.

You listen.

Carefully.

There is a line in the sand

and you haven't stepped over it yet.

But I'll ask you again.

Where are you?

Please deposit ten cents for the next

- for minutes.

- John.

John?

John, are you there?

Answer me...

John!

John!

At last. A couple of sarsaparillas

for the ladies.

And two shots of red eye for me

and my luckless comrade here.

Two Fifty-Fives and a red eye. Twice.

Give it wings.

The name's Rosie.

Oh, right, yes. Well hello, Rosie.

Whatever. What's your story?

If you have one.

I'm a poet... poetry professor.

Manhattan.

This is my friend's

first trip to America.

I'm his Boswell. His amanuensis.

You must be a poet. You talk funny.

So who's your friend?

Dylan? Now he really is a poet.

A famous one too. From Wales.

Huh? Like Moby Dick?

Not exactly.

He is touring America reciting

his work and the work of others.

Poetry, hey.

Aren't you both... men?

Yes, isn't that funny.

I get off in an hour.

Oh, we'll be long gone by then.

Okay, Mr. Poetry. Make sure you pay.

Settle up before you go.

You wake early...

and you go out to work and you

get home and you go back out

again because you need

something for you.

And you repeat that...

You repeat that until something grabs

your attention and forces you to listen.

"I'm leaving."

And then you stop.

Everything loses it's worth.

It's meaning.

So you find a stool, and a glass...

sometimes an ear.

- You're welcome.

- And...

and you wait, I guess,

for the next surprise.

"The beauty of the world

and the paragon of animals, yet to me,

what is this quintessence of dust?"

"Man delights not me,

nor women neither."

I have to get this done I'm afraid.

It wouldn't be fair on the students

if I kept them waiting.

Did they ask you to do that?

Ha. They expect me to.

I'm head of poetry and creative writing.

"You tried to break my father

and I walked on.

My dreams became the collateral

of another boys dawn.

To a chorus of hopeless liars

I still walked on

Amongst the damned and the hungry,

Who share the same song."

If only they knew

their work was being read by you.

It's very moving.

Brave boy.

You don't just cough up

parents and dreams,

hope and shame easily.

And you certainly

don't scribble all over it.

I'm his teacher,

but please tell me something

that I could pass on to him.

That would mean a great deal.

You think I'm such a big deal.

There's no rhythm to it,

just an idea that's unexplored.

The first half belongs to

Robert Frost and the rest...

me, probably.

He's bullied by his own question

and rhyme,

but all this is easily solved

by confidence.

So if you want me to be helpful,

truly of use to this young mind,

then tell him Dylan Thomas

thinks he's great.

Don't do this to me, John.

I'm not ready for her. Not yet.

What if she needs you

- or the children...

- They always need me.

That's why I'm here!

I've overstepped the mark. I'm sorry.

I really haven't slept. Sorry.

It would mean the end of us, John.

- Dylan, where are you going?

- Walk.

Coming?

It's good that we're doing this.

Clear our heads before the next charge.

It's beautiful.

I've a few ideas about the Yale reading.

Apparently the Provost

is quite a stickler for...

- Wish I knew more.

- Sorry?

The names of things...

plants, animals, clouds,

but the answers aren't there.

They were never put there.

I can't describe the jealousy

that bubbles up inside me when

people offer their knowledge on tap,

without asking.

- Is that a warning?

- Don't be so sensitive.

You're scared of your talent.

Oh yes. Terrified.

I knew it.

All your behaviour is just deflection.

From having to admit it's real

and precious and fragile.

No person could be so connected

to the earth and human spirit by chance.

It needs craft

and you protect that craft

by investing in the trivial

within strangers.

Am I right?

Dylan, what are you doing?

This is a pure way to travel.

That's not your boat.

- Are you getting in?

- No.

- Suit yourself.

- Dylan... no.

Dylan.

Jesus, Dylan. These are wool pants.

You'll have to keep your arms straight

and let the weight

of the oars do the work.

- You're very deft at this.

- Why wouldn't I be?

Sometimes I don't understand you,

and that's hard for me to admit.

You lose me in a haze of language

and imagery that often

- don't belong togeth...

- Kiss me.

- No.

- Take me to bed.

- Absolutely not.

- Then punch me in the nose.

Bloody my mind with your rage

and forgive me nothing.

Hold me tenderly as your friend

and keep my secrets.

- I don't understand.

- Yes, you do.

It's about feeling something

and allowing ourselves to feel it first,

before we tear it apart for answers.

Clarity and understanding are last.

So you write for yourself?

For everyone.

That's a big ask.

Nobody asked.

"Not for the proud man apart

From the raging moon

I write on these spindrift pages

Nor for the towering dead

With their nightingales and psalms

But for the lovers,

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