“They hang in the sky like questions”
Skylarks and buzzards and vultures, oh my.
Dear friends,
Reading your interactions to the “Poems as Teachers: Conflict and the Human Condition” episodes this week has been an education too. Thank you for taking the time to engage, to write, to share from your lives — of the violences we contend with, the moments of change, the profound moments of deep disillusionment and unexpected about-turns of our lives were writ large in your generous responses to the great poems. Thanks, as always, to the poets, the publishers, and to the readers and listeners — you — for the time and the language.
Over the next week or two, I will re-read everything you’ve written (in emails, comments on Substack and other social media platforms), and we will continue to consider how it is that the intuition of poetries can be part of the public and private conversations we have about matters of policy, public life, politics, and survival.
Alongside all of that, of course, is the important reminder of how poetry is an inconvenient friend. Where opinion might be sought, a poem may present us with a bird; where binaries are desired, a poem may split us in three.
I am back on the road, with trusty bag, trusty travel kettle. Awake at 4am in a Pittsburgh hotel earlier this week, I opened up the window. My room looked over the bricked-in powerhouse of the hotel, with the sound of fans, pipes, the guts of air conditioning, water heaters, and radiators of the building. There was the early blush of light coming into the horizon, and also, gloriously, the sound of a skylark. A soloist whose small body piped out music that carried across the city, clearer than the machine. I leant out the window and snapped a photo. Pittsburgh — home of old factories, three rivers, big buildings, and a friendly skylark. Their song is varied and sustained; I hear that lines of their tunes can reach syllables of the hundreds.
Yes. Syllables. In birds. Them too.
In the last few weeks, I have also seen turkey vultures, eagles, starlings, thrushes, and a lonely buzzard circling and circling and circling the empty sky over a huge bridge.
Looking at these breathing beings brings Soledad Caballero’s poem “Someday I Will Visit Hawk Mountain” to mind:
… Creatures of myth, they hang in the sky like questions. They promise nothing, indifferent to everything but death …
For me — and, I know, for many — connection with other beasts is not a distraction from the political machinations and annihilations of our world; it’s engagement with the very world we call ours, and an expanding of the question of what we think should compose and sustain life. What is a poem? Something, I hope, that can point us to enough wonder that wonder begins to inform the way we point at each other.
What sustains such wonder for you? Your grandson, freshly new and folded in the skins of himself? Your garden? Your text message from a friend? Your favourite book? Your mayor? Your teacher?
Without wonder, without astonishment, without such gazes, we may listen only to our least generous selves. See you in the comments, friends.
Poetry in the World
A list of events: Online; in the US (Boone NC, Rhinebeck NY); in Greece; England; and on the Scottish island of Iona
May 24–26, Boone, North Carolina, US
I’m leading a a 48-hour Poetry Unbound retreat, where there will be poetry readings, responding to prompts, and sharing. Information and registration here.
June 27–July 7, Patmos, Greece
I’m one of the speakers at the 10-night “Journeying into Common Good” salon, together with Krista Tippett, Allison Russell, JT Nero, and Joe Henry. More details here.
August 7 at 6-7:30pm (Eastern Time, US), online
I’ll be exploring conflict and change through poetry at an online event in partnership with the International Center for Cooperation and Conflict Resolution at Columbia University. You can register for free here.
August 23–25, Northamptonshire, England
I’ll be at the Greenbelt Festival, and, among other events, I will be interviewing the brilliant Jenny Mitchell (whose poem “A Man in Love with Plants” we featured on a Season 7 episode of Poetry Unbound). You can go here to learn about the festival.
October 6–11, Rhinebeck, New York, US
I’m back for a week at Omega (just two hours north of NYC) for a week of reflection on poetry, poetry prompts, and group discussions. Expect lovely people, gorgeous surroundings and food, and conversations about how poetry opens your world. Learn more 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, so book whichever one works for you. Information is available here.
My three kids. Wonder embodied.
My students.
The garter snake that I disturbed yesterday.
The bedded dear I disturbed this morning.
The Foliage surrounding my domicile —Dogwood, Japanese maple, magnolia, rose of Sharron, lilac, apple, birch, maple, and oak leaf hydrangea.
Me, harbinger of death to the tiny spider I accidentally killed, which reminded me of perspective and scale and the unforeseen consequences of our actions.
The beaten path I ran early this morning by torchlight, a path created by humans but made of millennia of a changing nature that will out-exist me.
Me—consciousness that stretches backward and forward, held together by something I know not what.
There is so much wonder out my window this morning, as the hundred shades of green emerge to create the shades of summer, above the multitude of garden flowers in their various states of colored progression. Mostly though, I sit with coffee in front of an almost superfluous fire, although it is fifty degrees out here on the Maine coast, and watch the ospreys in the nest, guarding eggs for the next generation. It’s always a surprise to see them the first day back, knowing where they’ve been, kind of, and that they return to the same nest, maybe. Last year we had three chicks fledge,a surprise awaiting us for this season.
Thanks Padraig for a full week last week and for providing a soft landing on this almost summer Sunday morning.