Dear friends,
I am writing this from an airport, waiting for a slightly delayed flight. I’m at the gate, waiting (I am ridiculously early for flights; it relaxes me to not be rushed, don’t judge). I’m sitting at a wall-length table provided for people with computers. There are fixed stools (navy-blue pleather topped) at the long desk. There are two people in lively conversation next to me. There’s someone talking on a video call; and the tinny-but-loud sound of their conversation partner coming from the speaker on the phone. There are three children playing. There are announcements: We’re overbooked; are there ten passengers who’ll take a later flight? (The compensation offered has already doubled.) Somebody next to me has just phoned customer service for a gift card that’s not working. I’ve already changed my shoes for slippers; I’m a creature of habit. I’ve got tea in a mug, too; but that’s not habit, it’s just survival.
Thanks for your questions that you’ve added to the list of questions. I’ll integrate all of them and will sort out some responses — in messages, in videos — this year. I’ll make little categories and try to get to as many as I can.
(The compensation for taking a later flight has now gone higher. Ten people. Anyone? Anyone?)
This week, I am thinking of words for place, or location. “Can you share your location?” a friend asked recently when we were trying to meet up. I shared it; I unshared it later. An Irish word for place, “áit,” is a strange little word, because the same spelling but without the acute accent over the á — ait — can mean both “likeable” and “strange.” How strange. How likeable.
I found myself somewhere new this week. I’ve relocated to Brooklyn temporarily and am finding walks to take. It was a snowy day — thick wet flakes that melted instantly — and I made my way to Prospect Park. Trees and paths and small lakes and wooded areas and meadows and mudflats… or what looked like mudflats; I’d taken my glasses off because they were so fogged and snow-burdened. I didn’t quite know where I was, but that was okay because I had a vague idea, and wasn’t in a rush, and had a phone in my pocket that’d help if I got disoriented. I had a weighted rucksack on my back, in a nod towards some kind of exercise. There were sparrows (I think they were sparrows; small, brown, and cheeky-eyed) on the path in front of me.
Relationship with location is a necessity for me; definitely when I’m in a new place, and definitely also when I’m writing, or thinking, or processing. Who am I in the place where I am? What can I see? What does it say back? What is happening right in front of me? There’s a thrill in writing about place, but the thrill isn’t the purpose of this practice; rather, the purpose is locating, placing my sometimes-displaced mind in the tangibility of here. Situation. Location. Áit. Ait. Likeable. Strange. Yes. All.
Sometimes it’s not likeable, of course, and sometimes the place is the place I don’t want to be, rather than a place I’m taking in.
I am curious what place you are in this week, and whether any of the etymologies above provide an inroad for your commentary.
Conor Kerr, in his poem “Winter Songs,” provides an exploration of place: a place that isn’t, but should be, a memory of place that still is. And Francisco Aragón’s translation of Francisco X Alarcon’s poem “Asleep You Became a Continent” is an erotic poem looking at the place of a lover’s sleeping body. Place place. Likeable strange.
(They’re still looking for passengers to take a later flight. More than three times the offer now. I’m not tempted but I’m totally tempted. Work meetings, schmwork meetings.)
I’ll look forward to reading about the places you are this week, and what the experience of that place is like for you.
Pádraig
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Episodes 3 & 4
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Poetry in the World
When I was poet-in-residence for The Church of the Heavenly Rest in Manhattan, I wrote a book titled Being Here (pre-orders here; all proceeds go to support the American Friends of the Parents Circle). To mark the publication, there’s an online event, as well as an in-person event in NYC (which is also live-streamed). Both are free, details and registration below.
Being Here Book Launch: A Conversation with Pádraig Ó Tuama and Philip Metres | The Interwebs (Free)
Monday, January 22nd at 7:30pm ET, I’ll be in an online conversation with poet Philip Metres about poetry, prayer, and the overlap between literature, language, craft, and religious text. Registration here.
Being Here Book Launch, Reading, and Signing | New York City (Free)
Tuesday, February 6th at 6pm ET, join me for an in-person book launch at The Church of the Heavenly Rest (if you’re in or around NYC, they’re at 1085 5th Avenue). If you’re coming in person, you can RSVP here, and it’ll also be live-streamed here.
This word has “appeared” twice for me this week, from two separate sources:
Peregrinatio
“This is the place where one’s gifts and the needs of the community come together...and are able to serve fruitfully.”
I hope this is the place I find myself, wherever my feet take me.
My sisters and I were first to arrive at a luncheon following my uncle’s funeral mass yesterday. The catering hall was dark but appeared to be expecting a crowd with a room full of tables and chairs ready for our group. We turned on the lights and soon everyone had arrived and was chatting. Having just lost our own father 2 months ago, it felt like a welcome chance to really catch up with all the cousins that had been there for us that sad day in November. After 40 minutes of a mini family reunion, someone looked up and realized there was still no sign of a lunch or caterers. A few phone calls were made and we found out that the caterer had a second location a mile or so away and lunch was ready to eat there. Everyone piled back in there cars and drove to the right spot where the reunion continued. It felt to all of us like a final prank from our uncle. Strange to be at the 2nd funeral in so many months with this group, but likeable that we were too absorbed in conversation to notice we were all in the wrong place.