Listening in the Kitchen

First off, let me just say I have a really hard time listening to poetry podcasts. If you're not careful, you'll wind up listening to someone spout off dogmatic-sounding ideas like "Edna St. Vincent Millay was all Debbie-Downer" and then you're subjected to a horrible, dramatic reading that makes you cringe all the way down to your toenails. Or at least that's how I feel and, as a result, listen almost exclusively to poets reading from their own work. 

One series I've absolutely fallen in love with is Poetry Lectures and by Poetry Foundation. Contrary to the name, you're not subjected to someone philosophizing from on high. Instead, you're typically listening to a reading by a poet or a conversation between poets with a little guidance from a host. If you're lucky, the poet is reading from their most recent work and it hasn't been published yet so you're getting a preview! You also have the chance to hear poems that are still works in progress which can be fascinating. It's a great reminder that even (or maybe especially?) the giants of poetry have to revise too. I believe they're also all unscripted so you get a peek at the actual person rather than the sleek, polished version. Check out Seamus Heaney's reading for an excellent example of this. These episodes are organized by the poet's name rather than a generic title, so if there's someone you can't stand, it's easy to filter. 

Essential American Poets (also by the Poetry Foundation) is another must-listen. Though no longer posting new episodes, the poets were selected by Donald Hall when he was Poet Laureate and you can hear some great readings by Billy Collins, Lucille Clifton, Wallace Stevens, Sharon Olds and many, many more. Like with Poetry Lectures, the poet is reading their own work. The podcast also includes a short biography before each reading which serves as a great introduction for old and new readers alike.

Poetry Off the Shelf, hosted by Curtis Fox, is good but can occasionally cross the "too much analysis" line. Set up as a conversation on a poet between the host and another poet or person-of-letters, Fox likes to right dive into "What's that line MEAN?" At it's best, you get some fascinating insight into a poet's work. At it's worst, it reminds you of those college class discussions that almost made you swear off poetry for good. Personally, it makes me want to raise my hand and interrupt - side note, it never looks good when your partner walks in on you baking bread and angrily talking over a podcast. But, that only happens occasionally. This podcast is well-worth the listen and helps me think concretely about what works and what doesn't in a poem and why I think the way I do. 

So there you have it - the podcasts that I continually have on around the house while I'm cooking, cleaning, on the subway (but not when I'm at the gym - I would fall down on the treadmill from listening too closely). It's a great way to fit in poetry when you're too busy to sit down with a book or if you just enjoy multitasking. Though you only get a new episode once a week, there are always the back episodes to browse through. I hope you enjoy and if there are any others I've left out (probably quite a lot), let me know! 

On Showing Up

After winning a prize or publishing a poem, it is very easy to identify as a poet/writer and (if you're anything like me) ride it until the wheels fall off without writing another word for two years. Sure, I've dipped my toes into the poetry pool here and there - I've attended readings, written a sporadic poem, found myself pleased in the moment with a metaphor or simile that has slipped it's way into everyday speech. But have I prioritized writing? Put a giant elephant in the middle of my living room, square in front of the TV and painted poetry across it's side in giant neon letters?  

Of course, we all know it's not just a matter of choosing one activity over another; life does get in the way. Before I moved, I was working two jobs (three, if you count dog walking) with one day off a week. One blessed day free of obligations. And do you know what I did with that day? Laundry. Grocery shopping. Reading a book. Planning my wedding. I get it, life gets extraordinarily crowded with to-do lists. 

And yet, there was always this nagging feeling that I was procrastinating and ignoring something massively important - making time to write. If you want a clean house, you make time to pick it up. Want internet access? You take fifteen minutes to pay that effing Comcast bill. If you want to quit being a lapsed poet then you need to READ and WRITE. In fact, put off paying your bills or cleaning house and write. Then, when you're done with that, put on a podcast and listen to a poetry reading while you do the dishes.

Don't believe the crap about the lonely poet in the lonely tower - that's just an excuse. Anyone can jot down a word or a thought to keep the poetry conversation going within yourself. Make it easy to do, or alternatively, incredibly difficult to choose NOT to do it. 

Yesterday, I was riding the train looking at the snow swish by the windows and I thought to myself "Gawd, we look like we're going WARP speed in here! We could be skipping whole universes!" Not a serious thought, particularly when the train is going about ten miles in hour in stop-and-go traffic, but I wrote it down on my phone and suddenly, I kept writing and out popped a short little poem. Nothing glamorous but it's there.

What I'm trying to say is that poetry, at it's heart, is about taking the time to slow down; to notice and record, to take joy or grief and write it's name in a hundred thousand different ways. Do yourself a favor and make it impossible not to show up. 

Revisions!

Birdsong is in the dishes

this March morning, grey sky 

shouldering through the open window - 

longer days a rubber band stretching 

until it snaps in late June like lightening.

Here, each lemon, each flash of a chipped, 

gold-rimmed plate a blessing of light. 

Forget your perfect offering, when you come 

back to me, tangled in wild thoughts, 

I nurse you on amber honey, soft fields 

of purple clover.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes
this March morning, grey sky
shouldering through the open window -
longer days a rubber band stretching
until it can't, late June snap like lightening.

Here, each lemon, each flash of a chipped,
gold-rimmed plate a blessing of light.
Forget your perfect offering, when you come
back to me all tangled in wild,
I nurse you on amber honey,
soft fields of yellow and gold.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes
this March morning, soap up to my elbows,
grey sky shouldering through the open window -
longer days a rubber band stretching
until it can't, late June snap like lightening.

Here, each lemon, each flash of a chipped,
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light.
Forget your perfect offering, when you come
back to me tangled in wild, pollen strung
beneath your nails like gold pearls,
I nurse you on amber honey,

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
soap up to my elbows, grey sky
shouldering through the open window
like a promise of longer days -
rubber band stretching until it can't,
late June snap like lightening.

Here, each lemon peel, each flash of a chipped,
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light.
Forget your perfect offering,
when you come back to me, tangled
in wild, pollen strung like gold pearls
against your skin,

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
soap up to my elbows, grey sky
shouldering through the open window
like a promise of longer days - a rubber band
stretching until it can't - late June snap
always as sudden, as unforgiving as lightening.

And when you come back to me, tangled
in wild, snow strung like iced pearls
against your skin, I am still at the sink
clutching scrubber and soap. I am reminded
to forget your perfect offering, each lemon peel,
each flash of chipped gold-rimmed plate
is a blessing of light.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
soap up to my elbows, grey sky
shouldering through the open window
a promise of longer days - rubber band
stretching until it can't - late June snap
always as sudden, as unforgiven as lightening.

And when you come back to me,
tangled in wild, snow strung like pearls
against your skin, I am still at the sink.
But forget your perfect offering, each lemon
peel, each flash of chipped, gold-rimmed plate
a blessing of light.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water,
grey sky shouldering through the open window
a far promise of longer days - rubber band
stretching until it can't - always the late
June snap as sudden and unforgiven as lightening.

And when you finally come back to me,
tangled in wild, snow strung like pearls
against your skin, I am still at the sink,
scrubbing as if it were my moon mission.
Well, forget your perfect offering, each lemon peel,
each flash of chipped, gold-rimmed plate
is a blessing of light.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water,
grey sky shouldering through the open window,
an anemic promise of longer days. Yet always
the late June snap and we are flung back
into half-light. But forget your perfect offering,
here, each lemon peel, each flash of chipped,
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light.

***

Birdsong is in the dishes this March morning,
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water,
grey sky shouldering through the open window,
an anemic promise of longer days. I close my eyes,
dream of the wild tangle of blooms and sunlight
pouring across your garden in the riot of May.
Yet always the late June snap and we are flung back
into half-light. But forget your perfect offering,
here, each lemon peel, each flash of chipped,
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light.

*** 

Birdsong in the dishes this March morning,
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water,
grey sky shouldering through the open window,
an anemic promise of longer days. I close my eyes,
dream of the wild tangle of blooms and sun
pouring across your garden in the riot of May.
Yet always the late June snap and we are flung
back into mouths of half-lit months. 

But forget your perfect offering, here, 
each lemon peel, each flash of chipped, 
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light. 

***

Birdsong in the dishes this March morning, 
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water, 
grey sky shouldering through the open window, 
an anemic promise of longer days. I close my eyes, 
dream of the wild tangle of blooms and sun
pouring across your garden in the riot of May. 
But forget your perfect offering, always 
the late June snap and we are flung 
back into the mouths of half-lit months. 
Here, each lemon peel, each flash of chipped, 
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light. 

***

Birdsong in the dishes this March morning,
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water, 
grey sky shouldering through the open window, 
an anemic promise of longer days. I close my eyes, 
dream of the wild tangle of blooms and sun
pouring across your garden in the riot of May. 
But forget your perfect offering, always
the late June snap and we are flung 
back into the mouths of half-lit months. 

***  FINAL

Birdsong in the dishes this morning, 
up to my elbows in soap and greasy water, 
grey sky shouldering through the open window, 
anemic. I close my eyes, dream of the wild 
tangle of blooms and sun pouring across 
your garden in the riot of May. Yet, 
always the late June snap and we are flung
back into the mouths of half-lit months. 
Forget your perfect offering - here, 
each lemon peel, each flash of chipped, 
gold-rimmed plate is a blessing of light.

copyright mdavis 2013