Discover more from Poetry Unbound
Dear friends,
Thank you for your thoughts on Emily Dickinson’s brilliant poem last week. I always love reading what a text can evoke.
I was on the road for a bit this week, which is something I enjoy. To get to the airport, I walk — or cycle — to the subway, then take that to a depot, then get a bus or air train to whichever airport I’m in. While I’m often listening to music or podcasts on the way, I’ve been using those less in the last while because I love the snippets of conversation I overhear.
Here are some from the last few weeks:
“ ... Anyway, no way, he’s going to freak out again because he remembers what happened last time.”
“ ... If you tell me once more that I’m like your mother, I’ll tell her you say that.”
“ ... I think I’m coming to the end of my cucumber phase?”
“ ... My eyeglasses hurt.”
“... I’ll be home soon. Provided the bodega’s not open. Otherwise I’ll be later.”
I like these snippets. Often, they’re one side of a phone conversation (I read an article that said people speak louder when they’re on a call). I’ve written little fragments down for years. In a bus in Belfast many years ago, two teenagers were behind one, and one said, “I can’t wait till I get home so’s I can scrape the face off of me.” I think she meant “make-up”, but listen to the poetry: the assonance in “scrape” and “face”, the cumulative effect of those gorgeous f-sounds, the rhythm.
I don’t look for any one meaning in these occasional poems. They arise, are heard — or not heard — and float off to the sky. With unremembered language, people describe the news, the weather, their feelings, their workplaces, their colleagues, enemies, friends, lovers, neighbours, and strangers. Delicious phrases are spoken and then forgotten forever. Or, mostly forgotten forever.
What is a poem? It is a made thing. What are these small phrases? It is the world of ours, made and made and made and made, as people go to work, wait for the late bus, look for that brand of toothpaste, arrange a protest against the war, take a risk of trust, swear at the news, and talk to themselves.
I’m sure you have heard such small poems that have stayed with you for a long time — what are they? If you can’t remember one, have a listen as you go about your life, and then come back and tell us. No context. No identifying anyone. No upsetting or exposing data. Just a fragment of language doing its own work: making and unmaking and remaking the world.
It is a week of American thanksgiving, a week I still forget to remember (I was happily scheduling meetings for Thursday and wondering why colleagues looked at me funny). If this is a week for such thanksgivings, I wish you well in it, and I hope that there are even more bits of sentences that glue themselves to the inside of your skull, waiting there like a friendly imp to repeat themselves forwards and backwards.
Poetry in the World
A list of events: Online, in the US (Durham, NC; New York City, NY), and the Scottish island of Iona
PS: I’ve got two books coming out in early 2025 — Kitchen Hymns and 44 Poems on Being with Each Other. You can pre-order them wherever you buy books.
December 8, 4–5.30 p.m. Eastern Time, Online
To mark the week of Rilke’s birthday, the very good Mark Burrows is once again gathering people for a 90-minute chat about the beauty and brilliance of Rilke’s work. Myself, Mark, and Krista will each share some of our favourite poems from that magnificent poet. You can register here.
January 10–11, New York City, New York, US
I am giving a two-day seminar at Union Theological Seminary titled “You you you” that looks at prayer and poetry. Please note that this is in person only, not hybrid. You can find out more details and register here.
March 10–15 and March 18–23 2025, Isle of Iona, Scotland
I’m holding two Poetry Unbound retreats on the gorgeous Scottish island of Iona; each retreat is the same. Both retreats are booked up, but you can get on the waiting list by contacting the folks at the St. Columba here.
Subscribe to Poetry Unbound
Open your world with poetry
I don’t know why but this has stuck with me for over a decade now— I was in a Chipotle in West Virginia, waiting outside of the bathroom for quite a long time, and finally a 7ish year old girl blasts out the door and she looked me right in the eye and said, “By the way! The soap is blue!”
When I entered the bathroom the sink was full of blue soapy foam. I sat on the toilet and just laughed & laughed.
There is something utterly delightful about a short poem or snippets of poems. My grandfather recited Fog by Carl Sandburg so many times, I know it myself and I can still hear him recite it when I read those words. And "I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree..." and "Hope is the thing with feathers..." are two of my favorite snippets! A favorite modern day poet, Billy Collins has so many short "snippet-able" poems but his collection, Musical Tables, is brilliant. One perfectly fits my almost 64-year-old life most days:
3:00 AM
by Billy Collins
Only my hand
is asleep,
but it's a start.