Facing backward
Facing forward
Dear friends,
On a train this week, I thought I’d sat in a seat facing the direction of travel, but I hadn’t. It was due to be a long-ish journey — five hours — and once we started moving, I resigned myself to seeing backwards.
I made a list of some things I saw: Grand old factories in red brick; churches; houses — homes that the kids growing up in return to every day from school, the familiar colour, the gate, the feel of their front door, the smell once they enter; yards full of broken-down car parts; graffiti; old train tracks; tall electrical wires; swamps; piles of gravel; cars on roads; town halls; bridges; boarded-up buildings; rowhouses painted in friendly colours; trees whose leaves were turning from green to autumn; the backs of buildings; fields of electrical pylons; a city in the background; a proud river; craftsmanship in the decorated railings of bridges; the insides of tunnels; fences and coils of wire on the fences; “hate my mind, love my soul” inscribed on the underpass beneath a cast-iron bridge; a courthouse; granite with a hint of blue, granite with a hint of pink; trucks going this way and that; people waiting to board other trains; birds; dogs and people walking dogs; gardens; rubbish heaps; lakes beneath the bridge; mountains in the background.
Whenever I end up facing backwards on a train, I reach for Mark Doty’s poem “Bill’s Story.” The narrative poem describes a larger family dynamic where Bill’s sister is dying, likely from degenerative early-onset dementia that has come as a result of living with HIV. It is tender, funny, insightful, and worth reading (the entire collection My Alexandria is gorgeous).
At one point, the poem’s speaker is describing the train trips to the hospital to see his sister:
I used to take the train to the hospital, and sometimes the only empty seats would be the ones that face backwards. I’d sit there and watch where I’d been waver and blur out, and finally I liked it, seeing what you’ve left get more beautiful, less specific.
From “Bill’s Story” in My Alexandria by Mark Doty (University of Illinois Press, 1993)
The way Mark Doty has the speaker accompanying his sister in her last days and links it with the physical act of facing what’s receding is an act of poetic beauty. The line break at “and finally” always makes me catch my breath. I admire whoever Bill is, and his sister, and the distraught mother of the poem too. Alongside that, I admire the tenderness of the poet’s craft, the way the few pages of his poem encompass care in the midst of a pandemic. He reminds us of every death having a story, every ending having a narrative of grief, and how the living need to find a way of living with the deaths we’ve not been able to prevent. Mark Doty gives such perspective to this family’s story in how he describes the way things “waver and blur out … seeing what you’ve left / get more beautiful, less specific.” Oh the things time does.
The question for this week is one I keep returning to, because I find it evergreen: What do you see now that’s receding from you? Are there new things you can see in it? Do things sit differently with you with the passage of time, or are they fresh, full of feeling, of what Patrick Kavanagh calls “the grief of things growing”?
For those of you new to this newsletter, welcome! I read all of the comments, and they are a highlight of my week. Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, speaking with each other, and making connections here in this Substack. It is a weekly joy.
PS: Friends, I’ve been presenting The Corrymeela Podcast for the last few years, and there are five episodes being released this autumn. I’ve loved presenting it (ably guided by the phenomenal producer Emily Rawling). Find it wherever you podcast your podcasts, or go to corrymeela.org/podcast
PPS: Throughout the fall, Blue Flower Arts is hosting a series of digital workshops with a stellar set of writers — Keetje Kuipers, Safia Elhillo, Chen Chen, Mahogany L. Browne, and Haleh Liza Gafori. You can sign up and purchase access to any of them here.
PPPS: My good friend Marie Howe is teaching a workshop in Asheville, NC, called “Out of the Depths: Writing Prayer”. The workshop is from May 4–8, 2026, and registration closes on December 7, 2025. You can find all the details here.
Poetry in the World
A list of my events: Online and in the US (Manhattan and Kingston, NY; Atlanta, GA; Cleveland, OH; Portland, OR; North Kingstown, RI; Chicago, IL; Cambridge and Stockbridge, MA; Notre Dame, IN) and the UK (Iona, Scotland)
I’ll be participating in the 2025 Collective Trauma Summit, a free digital conference. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
October 15, Manhattan, New York
Join me for a free lecture alongside Episcopal Bishop Marianne Budde at St. Thomas Church. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’m leading a retreat day called “Poetry, Prayer, and Place” at The Cathedral of St. Philip. Tickets at reduced rates are available. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
Poet Philip Metres and I are having a free virtual interactive session as part of the Catholic Nonviolence Initiative Series at 7 p.m ET. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’ll be visiting Case Western Reserve University to have a conversation with Michele Tracy Berger. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
Come say hello to me at the Portland Book Festival. (For more info and the complete author lineup, click on the date heading.)
November 14, North Kingstown, Rhode Island
Together with Sophie Cabot Black, I’ll be reading as part of Spencer Reece’s “14 Gold Street Series”. Turn up — it’s free, and it’s at 5:30 p.m ET. (For the location, click on the date heading.)
December 1, Cambridge, Massachusetts
I’m delighted to be reading with Martín Espada at the Blacksmith House Poetry Series at 8 p.m. Admission is $5 and can be paid at the door. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
December 5–7, Manhattan, New York
I’m thrilled to be part of the Irish Poetry Festival at the Irish Arts Center; I’ll be doing two events. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’m glad to join Mark Burrows for Reading Rilke Today, his free annual Rilke event, in this year of his 150th birthday (Rilke’s, not Mark’s) at 4 p.m. ET. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
December 11, Chicago, Illinois
I’m honored to be reading alongside E. Ethelbert Miller at the 27th Annual Peace Concert, which is a free event. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
December 19–21, Stockbridge, Massachusetts
I’m leading a retreat called “Poetry of Peace” at the Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
January 29, Berkeley, California
I’ll be presenting a keynote at The Center for Faith and Justice on the 29th of January at 7:00 p.m. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
February 26–March 1, Kingston, New York
I’m leading a weekend retreat workshop called “Poems of Longing”. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’ll be giving the keynote for a symposium at the Raclin Murphy Museum of Art. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
June 27–July 3, 2026, Iona, Scotland
Krista and I will be leading a week of conversation (with some musical guests) on Iona, an island off an island off the west coast of Scotland. It is filled, but if you want to be on a waiting list, you can email the Saint Columba hotel by clicking on the title just above here.
Thank you for your thought provoking questions and this poetic energy that you give us every Sunday morning. 💜
At my age, there is long receding tunnel of life! Its walls are covered in graffiti. Some, black, sooty words: Disappointment. Grief. Sorrow. Strife. Lucky for me though, most are bold, colorful masterpieces of art: Satisfaction. Fun. Connection. Joy. Every time I look down at the narrowing end of this tunnel I see something new. The more of a human I become, the more human I see in others, past and present. And I give myself grace for not knowing then what I know now. 😎
This weekend I was at a pumpkin patch with my daughter, who is now 12. In one moment, she came bounding up to me, and appeared so long-legged and grown that I had the odd experience of unfamiliarity… it was one of those moments when an adult says to a child, “I barely recognize you anymore!” I immediately made jokes about how she wasn’t allowed to keep growing, and then found myself searching for photos of her three-year-old self on my phone. There she was, full cheeks and innocence, dragging a scarecrow decoration like a friend, wearing pink butterfly wings for Halloween. And there my mom was, too, who cared for her granddaughter so much, who has now been dead for more than three years. How I loved seeing my mother love my daughter.
I took a screen-shot of the past image and saved it to my current photo library, before lifting my eyes from the tiny screen towards my now twelve daughter, who was running and laughing in real time.
Facing backwards felt good for those few moments, but ultimately they brought me back to the love of the now, not yet passed, yet always passing.
It’s like we’re always riding backwards on the train, isn’t it? I can’t see tomorrow. I can see right now: my daughter as she’s playing, moments to cherish as they keep sliding by, life moving forward into some semi-predictable yet unknown destination. Which brings me to the core of everything, which whenever I get there, is always the urge to love.