Close Talking

Connor and Jack explore the poem "In Youngsville" by Tyree Daye. They discuss the way the poem creates a sense of place, its connections to the blues form, and even dive deep into how it plays with using stressed and unstressed syllables. You can buy Daye's latest book, Cardinal, here: https://www.coppercanyonpress.org/books/cardinal-by-tyree-daye/ You can find the poem, here: http://www.boaatpress.com/in-youngsville In Youngsville By: Tyree Daye I learned what a bullet does to a back, to a mother. After every funeral it rains, I was told that’s God crying in Youngsville. My uncle walked our holed streets until he died sun soaked, broken in, left me young boy and bitter in Youngsville. Hallelujahs knocked on screen doors, let the lord in. We stood on porches and watched the saved stitch wings in Youngsville. Black berries hung in my aunt's back yard where we cut the asshole off a trout, guts laid on a cutting board in Youngsville. We were told a storm was a sermon, lightning horse whips the sky,

Content Warning: Suicidality Connor and Jack think through Diana Khoi Nguyen's remarkable poem "Family Ties," part of her haunting debut collection Ghost Of. They discuss the complex emotional textures Nguyen evokes in the poem, the challenges of representations of suicide, and ideas of family, self, and metaphorical webs. More on Nguyen here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/diana-khoi-nguyen Family Ties By: Diana Khoi Nguyen Gradually a girl’s innocence itself becomes her major crime A doe and her two fawns bent low in the sumac along the bank of a highway, the pinched peach of their ears twitching in the heat Into the disordered evening my brother cut out only his face from every photograph in the hall, carefully slipping each frame back into position What good does it do? Decades of no faces other than our own chipping faces What good does it do, this resemblance to nothing we know of the dollhouse New parents watch their newborn resting in a sunny patch of an empty room, the new

Connor and Jack discuss a deceptively simple poem full of interwoven contradictions - Humberto Ak'abal's "The Altar." They discuss the multiple layers of linguistic conquest implicit in a poem that has moved from K'iche' to Spanish to English, the history of Guatemala and US involvement in the country's political affairs, and ponder the big questions posed by the poems little candles. More on Ak'abal, here: https://www.akabal.com/ Read the poem in K'iche', Spanish, and English, here: https://www.akabal.com/poems/thealtar.html The Altar By: Humberto Ak’abal The shadows light their candles. The night is the altar, the silence is the prayer. And just moments before dawn, with one little breath the wind puts them out. Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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Recorded before the attempted coup at the US Capitol, Jack and Connor discuss the poem "Fuck Your Lecture On Craft, My People Are Dying" by Noor Hindi. They discuss the history of the Israeli occupation of Palestine, the way the poem engages with the tensions of being both Palestinian and American, and how to do craft without talking about craft. Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying By: Noor Hindi Colonizers write about flowers. I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks seconds before becoming daisies. I want to be like those poets who care about the moon. Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons. It’s so beautiful, the moon. They’re so beautiful, the flowers. I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad. He watches Al Jazeera all day. I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan. I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies. Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound. When I die, I promise to haunt you f

The first ever Close Talking episode to drop on Christmas day is a fittingly wintery pick - Connor and Jack contemplate the many layers of meaning in the classic poem "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden. They cover everything from the five love languages, to the lifelong impact of Adverse Childhood Experiences, and the limits of the sonnet. More on Robert Hayden, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-hayden Those Winter Sundays By: Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? Find us at our websi

Connor and Jack get meta and lose both the forest and the trees while dancing with Robert Hass' poem, "The Problem of Describing Trees." They discuss the poem's use of self-reflexivity, scientific language, and tango with a Yeats allusion. More on Robert Hass here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-hass The Problem of Describing Trees By: Robert Hass The aspen glitters in the wind. And that delights us. The leaf flutters, turning, Because that motion in the heat of summer Protects its cells from drying out. Likewise the leaf Of the cottonwood. The gene pool threw up a wobbly stem And the tree danced. No. The tree capitalized. No. There are limits to saying, In language, what the tree did. It is good sometimes for poetry to disenchant us. Dance with me, dancer. Oh, I will. Aspens doing something in the wind. Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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Connor and Jack amble through the enchantingly twisting Richard Siken poem "Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors." They discuss the responsibility of artists, the ways that culture both creates and is created, and how the poem flows to the logical extremes of its subject. Get "War of the Foxes" here: https://bookshop.org/books/war-of-the-foxes/9781556594779 Landscape with a Blur of Conquerors By: Richard Siken To have a thought, there must be an object— the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick with sunshine. There must be an object so land a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly, the light on his skin and bouncing off his skin. He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him, vague and smeary in his ochers, in his umbers, burning in the open field. Forget about his insides, his plumbing and his furnaces, put a thing in his hand and be done with it. No one wants to know what’s in his head. It should be enough. To make somet

Connor and Jack go back to the roots of Close Talking for a literary reflection on a consequential election. The first episode of Close Talking, which came out just over four years ago, was a reckoning with the 2016 election. Now, with references to Adrienne Rich, James Baldwin, Shakira and more, Connor and Jack offer a significantly more uplifting look at American elections. Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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Connor and Jack revisit Louise Glück after she won the Nobel Prize in Literature, discussing Part 2 of the poem "October." They explore the poem's haunting and brilliant use of repetition, its idea of "balm after violence," and the poem's connection with the myth of Persephone, 9/11, and the current American moment. October By: Louise Glück 2. Summer after summer has ended, balm after violence: it does me no good to be good to me now; violence has changed me. Daybreak. The low hills shine ochre and fire, even the fields shine. I know what I see; sun that could be the August sun, returning everything that was taken away— You hear this voice? This is my mind’s voice; you can’t touch my body now. It has changed once, it has hardened, don’t ask it to respond again. A day like a day in summer. Exceptionally still. The long shadows of the maples nearly mauve on the gravel paths. And in the evening, warmth. Night like a night in summer. It does me no good; violence has changed me. My body has grown cold like t

Connor and Jack dive into the briny depths of one of Herman Melville's non-aquatic poetic works, "The Apparition." They talk about its contemporary applicability, their love of Brian Jacques' Redwall books, and share some thoughts on how many avenues there are into the poem. It's a spooky episode for the Halloween season! The Apparition (A Retrospect) By: Herman Melville Convulsions came; and, where the field Long slept in pastoral green, A goblin-mountain was upheaved (Sure the scared sense was all deceived), Marl-glen and slag-ravine. The unreserve of Ill was there, The clinkers in her last retreat; But, ere the eye could take it in, Or mind could comprehension win, It sunk!—and at our feet. So, then, Solidity’s a crust— The core of fire below; all may go well for many a year, But who can think without a fear Of horrors that happen so? Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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In this episode, Connor and Jack dive into the beautiful and challenging poem "Snake White, Owl White" by Tacey Atsitty. They discuss finding poem's powerful sound and rhythm, its complex and contradictory expression of self, and finding other anchors as readers in the absence of clear narrative. Snake White, Owl White By: Tacey M. Atsitty When I say that my cheek fell, I mean the bone, the gliding pell sunken. I mean how it hides in rain, in a sky-lit cell, swelling. This is me fallen together, separated from her, that mistelling of Female Warrior Who Split in Two, who pulled from her gut-well a lumpy snake, pale with a scaling tongue; word-slit. I’ve heaved her pang, her yell at the snap of his tail. They drop like words at the end, a quell to the flood-line of an uvula, a face, a cheek pouch—high like shell veins. Birds swim silver in the sky. An owl drops to dwell with me. Gapes. It’s death. I step back. I can’t tell how he rises and dives at me, then turns flight just before my head.

In the third part of a three-part series on poetic responses to the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, Connor and Jack look at the ways that 9/11 has continued to reverberate through political and cultural life in the United States and globally. Listen to Part 1 of the Poetry and 9/11 mini-series, here: https://soundcloud.com/close-talking/episode-107-poetry-and-911-part-1-responding-to-trauma Listen to Part 2 of the Poetry and 9/11 mini-series, here: https://soundcloud.com/close-talking/episode-108-poetry-and-911-part-2-international-perspectives-and-the-rush-to-war Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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In the second episode of a three-part series on poetic responses to the terrorist attacks of 9/11, Connor and Jack explore international perspectives on the attacks. They discuss how de-centering can be a powerful and important act when contemplating the impact of 9/11 and the wars started in its aftermath. Listen to Part 1 of the Poetry and 9/11 mini-series, here: https://soundcloud.com/close-talking/episode-107-poetry-and-911-part-1-responding-to-trauma Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
Find us on Twitter at: twitter.com/closetalking
 Find us on Instagram: @closetalkingpoetry You can always send us an e-mail with thoughts on this or any of our previous podcasts, as well as suggestions for future shows, at closetalkingpoetry@gmail.com.

In the first of a three-part series on poetic responses to the terrorist attacks of 9/11, Connor and Jack dig into how poetry responded to the trauma of the September 11 attacks. They also discuss how, after 19 years, the attacks are passing from memory into history. They also talk about how the United States' response to the attacks can be contextualized and how efforts at contextualizing 9/11 have been resisted in the past. Along the way, they bring up poems by David Lehman, Billy Collins, Claudia Rankine, and more. Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
Find us on Twitter at: twitter.com/closetalking
 Find us on Instagram: @closetalkingpoetry You can always send us an e-mail with thoughts on this or any of our previous podcasts, as well as suggestions for future shows, at closetalkingpoetry@gmail.com.

In this all-new episode, Connor and Jack explore the incredible poem "A Stranger" by Saeed Jones. They discuss the poem's grappling with the loss of a mother, the use of distance and restraint, and the many strangers populating this short lyric. A Stranger By: Saeed Jones I wonder if my dead mother still thinks of me. I know I don’t know her new name. I don’t know her, not now. I don’t know if “her” is the word burning in a stranger’s mind when he sees my dead mother walking down the street in her bright black dress. I wonder if he inhales the cigarette smoke that will eventually kill him and thinks “I wish I knew a woman who was both the light and every shadow the light pierces.” I wonder if a passing glance at my dead mother is enough to make a poet out of anyone. I wonder if I’m the song she hums as she waits for the light to change or if I’m just the traffic signal holding her up. Find us at our website: www.closetalking.com/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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In this episode Connor and Jack take on "Be Nobody's Darling" by Alice Walker. They discuss what it means to be an outsider, different types of outsider, and how Walker's history of activism as well as her uncomfortable affinity for antisemitic conspiracy theories influence their readings of the poem. Be Nobody’s Darling By: Alice Walker Be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Take the contradictions Of your life And wrap around You like a shawl, To parry stones To keep you warm. Watch the people succumb To madness With ample cheer; Let them look askance at you And you askance reply. Be an outcast; Be pleased to walk alone (Uncool) Or line the crowded River beds With other impetuous Fools. Make a merry gathering On the bank Where thousands perished For brave hurt words They said. But be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Qualified to live Among your dead. Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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In this special bonus episode, hear more of Connor and Jack's conversation with Dr. Hollis Robbins, Dean of the School of Arts and Humanities at Sonoma State University and author of "Forms of Contention: Influence and the African American Sonnet Tradition." They discuss how themes of bondage were handled metaphorically by white poets, while they represented a dangerous reality for Black poets, Dr. Robbins shares a story from her time teaching at John's Hopkins, and together they tackle the question of AI generated poetry. For their full discussion of "Freedom Rider: Washout" by James Emanuel, check out Episode 104: https://soundcloud.com/close-talking/episode-104-freedom-rider-washout-james-emanuel-wdr-hollis-robbins Go here to get your own copy of Forms of Contention: https://ugapress.org/book/9780820357645/forms-of-contention/ Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking 
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Connor and Jack are joined by Dr. Hollis Robbins, Dean of the School of Arts & Humanities at Sonoma State University and author of the newly published "Forms of Contention: Influence and the African American Sonnet Tradition from University of Georgia Press. They discuss the poem "Freedom Rider: Washout" by James Emanuel, touching on the memory of Rep. John Lewis, one of the original freedom riders, the reasons the sonnet has such a rich history of use by Black poets, and much more. Find out more about Forms of Contention, here: https://ugapress.org/book/9780820357645/forms-of-contention/ Freedom Rider: Washout By: James Emanuel The first blow hurt. (God is love, is love.) My blood spit into the dirt. (Sustain my love, oh, Lord above!) Curses circled one another. (They were angry with their brother.) I was too weak For this holy game. A single freckled fist Knocked out the memory of His name. Bloody, I heard a long, black moan, Like waves from slave ships long ago. With Gabriel Prosser’s dogged knuck

In this episode, Connor and Jack explore an excerpt from Claudia Rankine's book Don't Let Me Be Lonely. They discuss how the poem conveys the toll of anti-Blackness on the psyche of Black Americans, "hope" and electoral politics, the brilliant use of "flat prose," and listen to the voices and sounds of The Staples, Cornel West, George W. Bush, and Kanye West. More on Rankine here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/claudia-rankine Read the poem here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57804/dont-let-me-be-lonely-cornel-west-makes-the-point from Don't Let Me Be Lonely By: Claudia Rankine Cornel West makes the point that hope is different from American optimism. After the initial presidential election results come in, I stop watching the news. I want to continue watching, charting, and discussing the counts, the recounts, the hand counts, but I can­not. I lose hope. However Bush came to have won, he would still be winning ten days later and we would still be in the throes of our American optimism.

In this episode Connor and Jack discuss the powerful anti-lynching poem "The Lynching" by Claude McKay. They discuss the history of anti-lynching literature, the ways that white terror was enacted for decades, the horror of lynchings as public acts, how lynchings have continued to the present day, and much more. More on Claude McKay, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/claude-mckay Find the poem, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56983/the-lynching The Lynching By: Claude McKay His spirit is smoke ascended to high heaven. His father, by the cruelest way of pain, Had bidden him to his bosom once again; The awful sin remained still unforgiven. All night a bright and solitary star (Perchance the one that ever guided him, Yet gave him up at last to Fate's wild whim) Hung pitifully o'er the swinging char. Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view The ghastly body swaying in the sun: The women thronged to look, but never a one Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; And little lad