Dear friends,
I was so moved reading the memories you shared from last week’s letters — from significant ones to peripheral ones, and everything in between. Thank you.
For the newsletter this week, I am interested in how good art is registered in the body.
Our Poetry Unbound offerings this week are from Michael Klein and Maria Dahvana Headley. Michael’s poem “Swale” is, ostensibly, about a famous racehorse he had cared for. Swept into this hymn of praise is much else too: time, change, love, aging, reminiscence, gratitude, the soul, other-than-human animals, and their magnificence … I heard the poem first when a friend read it to me over a meal in New York. We had Manhattan’s most magnificent hummus and babaganoush on the table in between us, and I swear even the food wanted to make shapes of praise while this poem was read aloud in a corner of the West Village. I remember the rest of the evening, but I also remember that the poem registered itself in me like a dynamo.
(Where was found this holy hummus? Moustache, if you must ask.)
Maria Dahvana Headley’s translation of the epic poem Beowulf is worthwhile reading in its entirety. We only have the first 25 lines on the episode. I bought a copy months ago, and instantly bought another because such brilliance must be shared. The energy and verve and declaration of her introduction — never mind her translation — was like electricity: I kept on standing up and walking around while reading it. The opening lines set the scene for a story of drama, of heroes, conquests, reputation, men, valour, wonder, and woe. “Bro” it starts out, a sonic nod to Seamus Heaney’s rendition of “So” as the first word in his translation, but a playful — and pointed — nod to the communities of men evoked through much of the long poem too.
When I read a poem that energises me — whether it’s a poem of lament or revenge or love or observation — I often feel the poem’s power in my eyes, legs, and hands. I want to stand. I want to clap. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears: joy, sadness, empathy, shock … I don’t know — all of them. When I heard “Swale,” an eatery lit up, and I felt like I had no need of the train; I could walk the many miles home. “Beowulf” left me unable to sit still. The declaration and demand of Maria’s translation were like a fuse to some delicious dynamite.
[Dynamite: linked to dynamic, dynamo, from δῠ́νᾰμαι (dúnamis; Greek): forceful, energy, power.]
I turn to language because language — when it is focused on its creative powers — can be a source of energy, energy for the good. If a poem can say “look at what I can contain!” then its readers may find themselves capable of containing their multitudes with less war. Poems describing chaos often employ form, and form can offer something about the possibility of language to do its proper work: to be a vehicle.
I don’t want governments to employ poets to write their strategies and policies. But I do want governments to be attuned to the power of language to move, and to employ that power for the purpose of moving populations towards that which will create, sustain, maintain, and improve — something that sparks energy for hospitality, not hostility. No wonder some writers’ works are sometimes deemed a crime: the language of war seeks an echo, and good writing comes in slant. (They shall hammer your swords into ploughshares). A good intervention in any conflict is one that transforms enmity’s energy into an imaginative possibility for a future that had seemed hitherto impossible. Then the hard work follows — more language, negotiations, years, bureaucracies, etc. All praise for all. This is what might save us. The spark. The work. The saving. The possibility that language can register in the body and cause us to up and do something.
So. Here’s the question for today: When has language been so dynamic that it caused you to do something? Anything — a dance, an embrace, a peace treaty, a whoop, a yawp, a cry.
I await your words, friends.
PS: As part of preparing for this week’s Beowulf episode, I watched the entirety of Maria Dahvana Headley’s “Tell Me A Story” address given as the 2023 Tolkien Lecture in Oxford. See if you can bear to stay seated while beholding the brilliance. Bro!
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Episodes 13 & 14
You can also listen on Spotify, poetryunbound.org, or wherever podcasts are found.
Poetry in the World
Feb. 21 at 6:15pm, Memphis, Tennessee, US
I’ll be part of a conversation with Barbara Brown Taylor at Calvary Episcopal Church’s annual Lenten series. More info here.
Feb. 23 at 7pm, Chestertown, Maryland, US
I’m doing a reading from the forthcoming Kitchen Hymns; however, it is sold out.
Feb. 24 at 10am, Chestertown, Maryland, US
I’m holding a half-day workshop, and limited tickets are still available.
March 5, 7, 14 at 7pm Eastern Australia time, online
I’m giving three talks about poetry and spirituality, as part of the Australian Joint Spirituality Development series. Learn more and register here.
March 7 at 6pm ET, online
I’m leading a Zoom seminar called “Time in Conflict; Time in Poetry” about conflict in time and poetry. Register for it here.
March 15 at 7pm, London, England
I’m giving a talk for the paperback release of Poetry Unbound; 50 Poems to Open Your World. Registration here.
May 17 at 2–4pm, Camden, Maine, US
I’ll be talking about the word “you” in poetry at the Camden Public Library. You can attend either in person or over Zoom.
May 24–26, Boone, North Carolina, US
I’m leading a a 48-hour Poetry Unbound retreat, where there will be poetry readings, responding to prompts, and sharing. Information and registration here.
June 27–July 7, Patmos, Greece
I’m one of the speakers at the 10-night “Journeying into Common Good” salon, together with Krista Tippett, Allison Russell, JT Nero, and Joe Henry. More details here.
Hi everyone!
Since Pádraig mentioned words’ import to nations and reducing conflict, I thought of the words that were shared by young poet Amanda Gorman at the inauguration of the current president. I share with hope to spark action over indifference. I was so brightened and heartened by her words, spoken by her in a yellow coat against a blue sky offering us encouragement and forward movement:
“When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it.”
I just want to thank you for this language in today's post: "If a poem can say 'look at what I can contain!' then its readers may find themselves capable of containing their multitudes with less war." I read that sentence several times—found myself nodding and smiling.