Dear friends,
We’ve just finished our sixth season of Poetry Unbound: the final week had a poem from Rumi — in a gorgeous new translation by the brilliant Haleh Liza Gafori — and a poem from the extraordinary Danusha Laméris about watching a woman sing opera as she disrobed and walked into the water; and then watching yourself watch her.
Both of these poems state a truth.
And then they say what else is true.
They aren’t sonnets. A sonnet often has a Volta, a turn, a “yeah, but” or “and yet” or “however.” The sonnet (a form I adore) can be a small punch of a poem with some tension in it. These poems from Rumi and Danusha Laméris are not doing that turn. They’re doing something else: they’re saying also. More than one thing is true at once, and these two poems take us into the generous depths of such explorations.
At the book launch a few weeks ago, I read Brad Aaron Modlin’s poem, “What You Missed That Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade,” and asked the audience to say a little of what lessons-on-adulting they felt they were late to learn. There was a beautiful, and revealing tumbling-down list of truths about the ways in the chat. Someone said they were late to learn about vulnerability. Someone else said they were late to learn that their truth was wise. The also of Brad’s poem is that it recognises what it’s like to feel like you’re late to learn a lesson, but it adds to that by offering a connection in the place of isolation. Me as well, it says. It’s not a solution; but it’s not derision either.
The “also” is something I love about poetry. It’s not interested in a singular diagnostic or analysis. It’s interested in the plural pathways that language can open up, to hold multiple things together. Probably that’s why I’m interested in conflict resolution, too: conflict asks us to pay attention to complexities. But it’s not only true for conflict, it’s also true for delight: what’s true about a friendship? What’s another thing that’s true about that friendship?
This Substack has been a joy of my life for the last few months. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you through the comments. Your reading and responses have been a gift. Thank you.
Speaking of gifts, there’s a soup recipe below. Ha! Beware: I cook by instinct, so I am deliberately — and deliciously — vague about quantities. If you feel like cursing me having read it, form an orderly queue, there’ll be plenty of you. Get to know each other while you curse my quantities; exchange poems with each other on the way. (True story: a friend once rang me in Belfast from California to ask me how many garlic cloves a particular recipe needed. I laughed down the phone at him because I knew he knew how I cooked. He asked me to tell him because he’s a man who likes quantities. I like him so I told him. We both knew I was making the quantity up. We both knew it worked. End of story.)
The next letter here will be in the new year, on January 8th. Until then, I hope all is well for you. Enjoy some soup.
With gladness and thanks,
Pádraig
Pádraig’s Irritating — But Hopefully Delicious — Soup Recipe (avec Poetry Recommendations)
Roast some garlic. Plenty of it.
Towards the end of the roasting of the garlic, roast pears on a separate tray. Yes. Pears.
Chop the vegetables. There’s a list of them in the next few paragraphs.
While doing all of this, I recommend Michael Kleber Diggs’ poem “Gloria Mundi”. Read it or listen to it.
In a hearty pot (it must be hearty) fry onions in whatever you like to fry onions in.
Once the onions smell like you want to eat them there and then, add in some freshly torn garden herbs (or dried if they’re easier). Whatever you like: I like thyme, marjoram, and sage. Stir it around until your brain starts to buzz a little with the aroma. Then add in most (not all) of the roast garlic. Take a whiff of the goodness and recite Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death” to yourself.
Once you’ve recovered from the goodness, add in some diced potatoes, diced sweet potatoes, chopped tomatoes, celery (chopped in whatever way you like), carrots, and (if you really feel like you have to) parsnips. I consider parsnips to be a vegetable of evil. But I’m told that some very fine people like them, so if you’re willing to take a chance of being one of that small coterie of people, feel free.
Put in good salt.
Put in good stock: chicken stock; vegetable stock.
Cover.
Boil.
(The soup, not yourself.)
It usually takes about 45 minutes. But the goodness of soup is that it’s happy to take longer.
If you’re a chicken-eating person, you can add leftover cooked chicken 20 minutes before the end. Pre-cooked butter beans are gorgeous, too.
Serve in good bowls. With friends. And bread. (Love the friends, eat the bread; or eat the friends, love the bread.) In the background, play some Joni Mitchell. The one about the man who makes good omelets and stew. Yes that one, from the album Blue. It’s perfection.
The pears. Remember the pears?
Take them from the oven after they’ve been roasting for about 20 minutes. Let them cool a little.
Add in some cheese: blue cheese, or Gruyère, or Manchego. Put in the rest of the roast garlic. Add a snazzy dash of salt and pepper. Mix with panache. Use this magnificence either on the top of your bread, or as a dishy dollop of deliciousness on the top of your bowl of soup.
While eating, ask each other interesting questions, like “Tell me a single sentence story about yesterday,” or “What’s something that makes you feel alive?” or “What’s a question you’ve always wanted to ask?” Keep the conversation going while the soup goes cold. Warm it up. Wash up afterwards. Start again. Keep going.
Coming up in the New Year …
Starting late January, I’ll be leading a five-session series on “Practicing the Inner Life” with the Rowe Center. It’ll be every Sunday from January 29 - February 26, 2023. It’s all online, with a program cost of $250. Registration and more information here.
Before you go … an invitation: Open Your World with Poetry
Our Poetry Unbound team loves how poetry gives us a window into the lives of those who find us. Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World comes with this invitation: write notes in its margins – your questions, memories, associations unearthed and animated by a poem you open to, and carry into your life for a day.
If you’ve picked up your copy of the book, we encourage you to mark it up (together with others, even!) and share a photo with us and others on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter (and help us find you by tagging @onbeing and #PoetryUnbound).
… and an offering
We were so sorry to discover the book’s on backorder in various places online (we checked with publishers, and learned it’ll be back early 2023). It will truly make a wonderful gift for the holidays, and for the New Year. In the meantime, here’s a small excerpt from the book, and a note from Pádraig to print out and slip into your “book is on the way!” card – sent with our warmest wishes.
Ha Ha Ha! This is just too funny. I will definitely try Padraig's Soup. It sounds wonderful. 2 days ago I wrote this silly poem and posted a soup recipe on facebook which lightened my sombre mood:
MULLIGATAWNY SOUP
A recipe For Tenderness
Tender times are these....
Near the end of the year in December
So where is the Tenderness found here?
When we need it profoundly
it can feel like no Tender abounds here.
Sometimes at home and sometimes out there
It's unfair, where's my share of TLCare?
Especially now as more hardships surround us
We need to take 'stock' of our bounties around us.
Yesterday in the midst of some minor distress
I cleaned off the table, put that question to rest.
I started to sing.
And something happened.
A Tender thing.
I circled the sponge in slow motion
Then put up a hot soup with devotion,
of curry and lentils and raisins of gold,
I decided to walk for a while in the cold.
Inside, the house smelled like Paradise Found
Outside the silence shut out any sound.
As I put on my coat and stepped out in chilled air
My soul felt a warm rush of Tenderness there.
So whether you live in the desert or north
Weather sunny or rainy or foggy go forth
Or stay where you are in one place to regroup
And make some Mulligatawny Soup.
And if you care to make it come true
It is really quite easy to make and to do
I share this recipe with love and with you:
(BTW I cook soups and so many other things while listening to Poetry Unbound. I have started a practice of going back to the beginning of the series and listening to one each day as I cook.)
Beautiful. Thank you so much. This post is a perfect example of why I love your writing and your work and your soul. This.