Dear friends:
We have just finished season eight of Poetry Unbound, with two delicious poems: “flush” by Rita Wong, and “Refrigerator, 1957” by Thomas Lux.
We’ll be back in the autumn with another season of the podcast, and between now and then, we’ll release some Poetry Unbound extras too — interviews, snippets, and reflections. And, just to be clear: this Substack will continue every week. I’ll pick up on some of the questions you put to us toward the end of 2023, and sometimes bring public domain poems for discussion. And I’ll be on the road, so I’ll keep news about events here, and if you’re nearby, I’d be delighted to see you (thanks to everyone in Memphis and Chestertown for coming by this week).
I told a story at the opening of the final episode about the first time I heard this Thomas Lux poem. I was staying, in the country of California, with Ellen Bass for a few nights. She and her wife, Janet, had been learning the poem by heart for a few weeks and asked me if I’d heard of it. I hadn’t. And so, at a kitchen table, with birds chirping outside in springtime, they recited the poem — one line from one of them; some lines from the other; if any was stuck, the other remembered it; sometimes they said their favourite lines together. It’s such a beautiful poem, filled with that most complex of things: want.
“Want” seems like an easy verb: I want to be on time; I want to vote; I want to learn; I want to feel safe; I want to have another slice of cake; I want a coffee shop in America that knows how to make a decent cup of tea.
(You can take the Irishman out of Ireland, but you can’t take the tea snob out of the Irishman.)
Want: it’s an expression of desire, but it’s also an expression of lack. To want something is to be in want: of time, of freedom, opportunity, environment, pleasure, routine.
Thomas Lux’s exquisite poem is a coding for the intelligence of want in people of all ages: a boy looks at an unpromising fridge, and sees something — those cherries — that capture his yearning. Yearning for what? For knowledge of the life his parents may have had before him, or apart from him. Yearning for the future. Yearning for a life where pleasure could be a part of the everyday. Yearning for independence. Yearning, too, for more resources, and for a sense of knowing his place in the web of family. All within the tumbling lines that were recited to me — deliciously — by Ellen and Janet, grinning with the satisfaction of saying such gorgeous words together.
So: what did this for you when you were younger? What object held your want? How so?
For Thomas Lux, it was a mysterious and forbidden jar of lusty red cherries that captivated his yearning. For me, it was driving. The idea of it — of being old enough, of being able to afford a car, or even to afford to learn to drive — seemed so removed from a life on the outskirts of a small village in Cork that it seemed like I’d need to become someone different entirely before such a thing would be possible. I learnt the names of many cars and could recognise them by the shape of the vehicle, even in dusk light. A symbol of escape, perhaps. A symbol of maturity and movement and mobility too, yes. Also, the idea of being in control of a motor, of having the mysterious knowledge in my limbs to control speed.
Of all the cars I wanted, the one I wanted most a Saab 900. They stopped being manufactured in about 1993. I wanted it because it was cool, sure, but more than cool, I wanted it because it reminded me of the best youth worker in the world, Aldo Magliocco, about whom many stories can be told. This was the car he drove, and he’d often pick me up to bring me to youth events. All glory to that Saab 900. It wasn’t just want, then, that the car held, it was also connection. Something can be full and empty at the same time. I praise the car, and the kind man who drove it.
I’ll look forward to hearing about the object that held your want, friends,
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Episodes 15 & 16
You can also listen on Spotify, poetryunbound.org, or wherever podcasts are found.
Poetry in the World
March 5, 7, 14 at 7pm Eastern Australia time, online
I’m giving three talks about poetry and spirituality as part of the Australian Joint Spirituality Development series. Learn more and register here. Sadly, I won’t be in Australia for these; I’ll be zooming from Ireland.
March 7 at 6pm ET, online
I’m leading a Zoom seminar called “Time in Conflict; Time in Poetry” about conflict in time and poetry. Register for it here.
March 14 at 7pm, London, England
I’m giving a talk for the paperback release of Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World. Registration here.
April 19–21, Round Top, Texas, US
I’m delighted to be one of the featured poets at the Round Top Poetry festival. Information and tickets here.
May 17 at 2–4pm, Camden, Maine, US
I’ll be talking about the word “you” in poetry at the Camden Public Library. You can attend either in person or over Zoom.
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.
As a child the silent somewhat bulky presence of a piano always captured my attention. There was a piano in our family house, in the livingroom, holding its own, no matter what went on in our family life. Amazing to me, now, to recall that piano and how much space it occupied. It was truly a grand piano, stretching out its full body.
As a child I did not appreciate piano lessons and practice time; I’d rather be outside tossing a ball to a friend. However, when my mother sat at the piano, playing and singing, doing both so well, joy seemed to enter our house. She truly “played her heart out”, gave it full reign, and she sparkled with delight. I enjoyed stepping up to the piano’s side and singing along with her. This also happened at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s father would sit at his piano and suddenly he sparkled and came fully alive. This was the only time I saw my grandfather full of joyful energy. So, was it the piano I “wanted” or the aura of happiness and playful energy that took hold of these two people?
These days there is no piano in my living space. There are many flutes. On the rare occasion that I meet a piano somewhere out in the world I still feel the magic that took over my mother and grandfather. I will reverently sit on the piano bench, touch a few keys, and I am transported to a special inner sanctum of joy and delight. I never learned to read music. Each moment with any musical instrument, especially a piano, is improvised, fresh, and delightful. In that moment I join hands with my mother and grandfather, our hearts meet in a secret place, and we celebrate our delight in living. 🏮
What I always wanted most was to be who I am and not have to pretend to be what others expected or wanted me to be. This wasn't easy as a gay boy in Southeast Georgia in the early 1950s and 60s. Interestingly, this 'wanting' is a gift no one can or will ever give you; it must be fully claimed for oneself from some sturdy inner belief. There came a point in my young life when I realized that to be an artist, one must embrace truth as if it were my most cherished lover. I've never sorted out which came first: being gay or being an artist. And it doesn't matter. What matters is realizing that truth is our beginning and ending blueprint.