Dear friends,
We are deep in the recording for the next season of Poetry Unbound, which will start shortly into 2024.
Sometimes, folks ask about the recording process for episodes: once we’ve got permissions for a poem to be used (we always pay for permissions: artists should be paid for their work), I work up a pretty comprehensive set of notes for a poem. To write notes, I stare at the poem for too long, then ask questions about the language, the relationship of the title to the body of the poem, the relationship of the individual poem to the sibling poems in the volume (I always read the full collection, not just the individual poem; blame my theological training). I’m curious, too, about what the breaks in the poem are doing, or what the silences in the poem say. I want to know the questions of the poem, the hungers of it, and the conversation it evokes about being alive. I never want a poem to preach at me, but I do like it when a poem makes me think. No poem stands alone; it’s part of the great impulsive tide that has moved every person to write.
Once I’ve written (too many) notes, I try to memorise them somewhat. I walk, I think about the poem. When I’m awake at night, I try to recall particular lines, and how I’d speak about them.
The recording process means that Gautam, Kayla, Chris, and myself are in the studio together (well, different studios, joined via the wonders of the web of the worldwide). Usually Gautam, but at times Kayla or Chris, will lead, asking questions about the poem. I haven’t seen the questions beforehand, and I answer mostly with my eyes closed. The notes are in front of me, in case I want to make reference to any facts about the poem, but the idea is that the response is conversational in tone. Once we’ve recorded that (including two takes of the poem; before and after the conversation), the piece is transcribed, and then we begin the editing process.
When we started Poetry Unbound, we weren’t sure whether we’d take this conversational tone (it’s more time consuming) or record an essay. We tried both, and I wrote a 1000-word piece about Patrick Kavanagh’s “The One,” and we recorded it. We also recorded a conversational piece based on the same poem. There was no comparison: we knew we wanted the conversational approach.
For my part, I like both approaches — I listen to poetry podcasts that are pre-scripted, and extemporaneous ones, too. Both work, and we knew that Poetry Unbound would particularly work if we took the conversational route.
In recording Poetry Unbound, what we hope for is the moment of surprise. Sometimes I imagine that I know how the questions will come from the producers (everyone asks questions, one person leading, others chiming in later on). But even with delicious notes in front of me, I find myself answering a question in a way that I hadn’t expected. The surprises surprise me, which is part of why the project is so enjoyable for us (we hope it is for you, too).
Surprise seems like a word of pleasure, a word of delight — something to expect when the circumstances already lend themselves to it. That is — yes yes yes — a lovely thing. But I want surprises elsewhere, too: in the admission and cessation of violence; in the possibilities of dialogue, compromise, and concession. A world without surprises is not a world without decoration; a world without surprises is a world of devastation. We know how capable we are of escalation. I wonder, and wonder, and wonder what can be said about language in these weeks where language is being used as a weapon, where one person’s express statement of solidarity is taken by another as an implicit statement of hostility. I am concerned by emerging plotlines of sectarianism that come from this. It is surprise that is needed: the kind that might save us, recalibrate us. May such surprises rise. May we not suffocate those brave enough to amplify the nascent language of such surprises.
I’m curious to hear from you:
What surprise has saved you? Made you?
I’ll look forward to being surprised by your answers.
PS: This upcoming week is the last of On Being’s autumn season. And if you missed it, our recent episode with Sara Hendren is a marvel.
PPS: I’m judging a poetry prize for the Kenyon Review. This is for a single poem, and has some conditions. Head over to the “About the Poetry Contest” page at the Kenyon Review to consider entering. You’ll need to set up a (free) submittable account to enter. Fyi: there’s an entry fee of $24.
Poetry in the World
U.S.A.
Book Are Magic | Brooklyn, NY
Tomorrow, November 20th, I’ll be in conversation with the brilliant Nick Flynn on his new collection of poems, Low. Tickets are $10, and will include either a book copy or gift card to the bookshop. We start at 7pm ET, and will also be live streamed on YouTube for those who are unable to join in person. Details and registration here.
ONLINE
Reading Rilke Today
On Sunday, December 3rd at 4pm ET, I’ll join Rilke translator and poet, Mark S. Burrows and Marie Howe, to explore the writings of Rilke and why Rilke’s words challenge and inspire us, offering “words that still ripen in the silences.” Registration is free, with more details here.
Surprises, like bursts of joy and pain constantly build and shatter me. Smiles with strangers, my embodied "OG" nod across the room with a man laden with the burdens of the hegemonic isms of our times , the first whiff of rain, they all bring hurricanes of glee. The surprise of a tender touch, my epithelial cells smitten by the graze. A surprise, an acknowledgement of a "new arrival" in my field of consciousness indicates that my reservoirs of cynicism and expectations remain low and there is a welcoming space for astonishment.
As a child of war, one of terrorism and hate crimes , a boy raised within the poverties of fear and lack- it is easy for me to experience sheer terror or shock instead of surprise. I freeze, every particle of me demanding structure and the "same old". Stay in the routine, my beloved friend "fear" implores. Return from the edged. Don't receive love. It is in these moments that reframing is God. It is reframing which allows for me to see the shedding of autumnal leaves as a telegram from the incoming spring season, accidents as opportunities to learn new lessons and ruptures as the time to practice repair.
But the reframing God(s) aren't only in the ease. They knock in the dark of the night as ghosts, interpreting new loves with stagnant pudrid waters of interpretations. How do we hold the terror and beauty of surprises- and still remain open?
My darling dog continues her teachings to me. Spectacles on, she unscrolls the lesson plan for today! "It doesn't matter how often the rabbits get away," she says! We have to try again. We have to sniff and wag our tail and bark greetings at strangers and friends. The day we stop greeting others, when we close our hearts (and noses) to surprises, when we get too scared to explore is when the banality of the world (aka bullying squirells) has won"
Ps: This post was definitely dictated by my dog! I was but ....a chimp with digits to type!
I am surprised at how good I feel each day - better physically than I can remember and I am about to finish my 7th decade. Finding the proper exercise has been the gift !
And I am surprised that life delights me again after a grief so deep that it too surprised me.
Christina Baldwin ,in her book Seven Whispers, said that one of her whispered prayers is to
"surrender to surprise" ! I love that openness to what a fresh new day might bring !!!