How to read

Making time for the literature of our lives

Dear friends, 

For a few years, I exchanged weekly letters with a friend, Bryan. He had taken a job as a guide in a remote part of Canada — where British Columbia met Yukon. I don’t remember the exact name of the area, but I know there were salmon and bears, there was a body of water upon which a float plane could land. I remember his descriptions of mountains and forests. In his letters, he often described the sky, whether by day or night, and how the Northern Lights could amaze and unnerve him. Wherever the conflation of those things are, that’s where he was. 

“A plane comes in every week with supplies,” he wrote, just before moving there, “And I’d like it if there was a letter from you on most of those planes.” 

What an invitation. We’d become friends when he’d done a course in Dublin a few years previous to this. We were both in our early twenties, haunted by God, trying to figure things out. Me in the city, him in the wilds. 

Anyway, I wrote every week for a few years. He did too. Our letters would often overlap, so each was a small missive of what was happening in our lives: protests, experiences, opinions, confessions, funny stories. And poems, always, always poems — Bryan’s a damned fine writer. 

When a letter would arrive, I’d never open it immediately. His italicised capital-letter-less handwriting was easily recognised, and I’ve had a lifelong ability to remember people’s writing having only seen one example (of all superpowers to possess, this is not one I’d recommend; it wrecked my belief in Santa when I was five.) Typically, his letters came in envelopes he’d handmade, using pages of a newspaper or magazine, whatever he had in the wilderness. Those envelopes were works of art, and often he’d make the envelope reflect something of what he’d written in the enclosed pages: the letter started on the outside. 

I’d usually wait till the evening before opening the letter, carrying it like a promise in my bag all day. I’d treasure the first read (and the second, and often the third) late in the day, noting the envelope’s design. Before beginning to read, I’d check how long the letter was (one cup or two cups of tea worth?), clock the date, the place of composition, and any other epistemological diacritics that’d help me locate the letter in the long conversation unfolding over years and international mail transported on seaplanes. A housemate saw me settle into a chair with tea and glee one evening. “A letter from Bryan?” she asked. She’d never met him; never will. But she knew of my rituals. Stories of salmon and bears in his print. I’m a creature of return too. 

I have all those letters, they are a private literature to me. They have moved continents with me a few times. 

Image by Annisa Hale

I tell you all of this because a few people asked — in those questions posed before the New Year — how to read a book of poems. I think there might be something in the idea of reading a letter of intention: make time for the book; look at the outside (what’s written on the back, the pictures, the titles, the blurb that serves as a key to what’s inside); look at the table of contents, the dedication; check the back of the book in case there are small explanatory notes that’ll give context. It is a work of art, worthy of what time and attention you can give to it. Ten minutes a day over the course of a few weeks? Perfect. An hour? oh the luxury! A poem seeks an audience; it’s about your own worthiness as a reader too. Poems — if I can project onto them — are longing for your attention too. 

Some books come as a complete collection where the individual poems overlap with each other, and build up to a cohesive volume. Other times, a poet has gathered 40 poems they’ve written and arranged them in a sense that shows unfolding art, or interests, but without trying to build up a comprehensive whole. Some poetry books come as assemblage; others are stitched together in interdependent sequences. 

How do you know what kind of book you’re about to read? It’s hard to overstate the written material on the cover: from the design, to the title, yes. But also, importantly, the words on the back of the book: the blurbs by others, and especially the paragraph put there by the publishers are usually written with the idea giving readers a sense of the landscape they’re stepping into. It won’t give you everything you need, but it might give an elegant enough to help you know what you’re starting into.  When you read a book of poems, the point isn’t to love and understand everything inside that book — the point is to have your own experience as the poems do their work in you. That’s how the art of it works. 

I’m curious what advice you’d give to someone who is saying “How should I go about reading a book of poems?” — from the practical (sit comfortably) to the specific (scan the table of contents before launching into the book; that table can function like some kind of overview, sometimes, and help you find the orbit of the work). 

I’ll look forward to reading your comments and meeting you in the conversation, friends, as always. 

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The Latest from Poetry Unbound

Episodes 7 & 8

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Poetry in the World

New York City

Being Here Book Launch, Reading, and Signing | Church of the Heavenly Rest

The Being Here book is being launched at the Church of the Heavenly Rest in NYC (also livestreamed) on Tuesday, February 6, at 6pm ET. Here is a short conversation I had about the book. The Church of the Heavenly Rest is at 1085 Fifth Avenue.

If you’re coming in person, you can RSVP here, If you want to join online, it will also be livestreamed here.  All proceeds go to support the American Friends of the Parents Circle.

Kitchen Hymns Poetry Reading | Maryhouse Catholic Worker Building 

On Friday, February 9, at 8pm, I’ll be reading poems from a new book of mine, Kitchen Hymns (forthcoming in Oct 2024 with Copper Canyon Press and CHEERIO), followed by a Q&A. Maryhouse is at 55 East 3rd St. (*Please note that for copyright reasons this event won’t be recorded or Zoomed.) 

Person Place Thing with Randy Cohen | Columbia School of Nursing

On Wednesday, February 14, I’ll be at Columbia School of Nursing as a guest on the podcast and public radio program Person Place Thing with Randy Cohen. Join us from 3pm-4pm ET for the live recording; attendance is free but registration is required. Register here.

Time in Conflict; Time in Poetry | NYC & Online

On Thursday, February 15, at 6pm ET, I’ll be leading an in-person seminar on “Time in Poetry; Time in Conflict” as part of my role as poet in residence with the Cooperation and Conflict Centre at Columbia University; registration here (if it caps off, just check back in a few days as we’ll likely expand capacity for the in-person event). This same seminar will also be offered as a Zoom seminar on March 7, at 6pm ET, and you can register for it here.

Chestertown, Maryland

Kitchen Hymns Poetry Reading | Raimond Cultural Center  

On Friday, February 23, at 7pm, I’ll be giving a reading from Kitchen Hymns at Raimond Cultural Center. Attendance is free, but reservations are required. Register here to join. (*Please note that for copyright reasons this event won’t be recorded or Zoomed.) 

“Conflict and Poetry: a conversation” | Raimond Cultural Center

The following day, Saturday, February 24, from 10am-1pm, you can join me for an in-person workshop exploring poems, form, and some prompts. Registration is $20, and includes a light lunch. Register here.

Online

Poetry & Prayer: Three Talks on Poetry and Spiritual Direction

In March, I’ll be giving three interactive talks on poetry and prayer with the Australian Joint Spirituality Centre Development Online Series. I’ll be in Ireland, they’ll be in Australia, you’ll be wherever! The cost of registration is AUD$225 (about US$150) or AUD$80, with the option to pay what you can. The talks won’t be recorded and will include break-out sessions and time for group feedback. They will take place March 5, 7, and 14, at 7pm Melbourne time or 3am ET. Learn more and register here.