This podcast is a supplement to in-class instruction, a place to analyze the poems that will be read in class at the start of the following week.
Photo from scop.io (Id: fdf682a8-7932-42e1-b8bc-962a6ab91f2b)Artist: Gabriela DukovaPosted Date: 5/9/2020
Photo from scop.io (Id: 05b54fc7-47f7-40d1-b56f-38045dd4fc06)Artist: Timothy GardingPosted Date: 1/20/19
Photo from scop.io (Id: 7ddfe8b5-fddb-462d-bf07-5bcae64eef23)Artist: Ravindra KumarPosted Date: 01/9/22
Photo from scop.io (Id: 12b9bcbf-4ffb-4296-8af5-11957d58401c)Artist: Olga KapustinaPosted Date: 01/20/22
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Photo from PxHere (#946822)Posted Date: 03/03/2017
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Photo from Zuzanna Chromiec @ scop.ioPosted Date: May 21, 2020 5:48AM
Read by Rayann HijaziPhoto from pxhere.com
Read by Wayne WalshPhoto from scopio artist Juan Pablo Bezaury
Read by LydonPhoto from scopio artist chandan Mohapatra
Read by LydonPhoto from Dall-e
Read by Traci TolbertPhoto from scop.ioSudha Surendran
Read by Angela SouthPhotos from scop.ioAndrii ShablovskyiScopio ID: 7380317110449
Read by John NightengalePhotos from scop.ioOksana SoronovychScopio ID: 6261676114097Cory WhitfieldScopio ID: 3938999435287Joel WoodsScopio ID: 3950833696791Rye JessenScopio ID: 6749953327281
Read by MePhoto from Vaibhav Kumar @ scop.ioScopio ID: 6262409822385
Read by Terry DeBargerPhoto from scop.ioScopio ID: 6262379217073
Read by Lupita Roasario CarmonaPhoto from scop.ioScopio ID: 6202780844209
Read by LydonPoem translated by Clare CavanaghPhoto by Zuzanna Chromiec on Scop.io
Read by LydonPhoto by Zuzanna Chromiec on Scop.io
Read by Zoe Malia LuzPhoto by unknown on PxHere
Read by Steven PottsPhoto by Rifqi 'Adil on Scopio
How to Triumph Like a Girl By Ada Limón I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass. I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up! But mainly, let's be honest, I like that they're ladies. As if this big dangerous animal is also a part of me, that somewhere inside the delicate skin of my body, there pumps an 8-pound female horse heart, giant with power, heavy with blood. Don't you want to believe it? Don't you want to lift my shirt and see the huge beating genius machine that thinks, no, it knows, it's going to come in first.
Allowables By: Nikki Giovanni I killed a spider Not a murderous brown recluse Nor even a black widow And if the truth were told this Was only a small Sort of papery spider Who should have run When I picked up the book But she didn't And she scared me And I smashed her I don't think I'm allowed To kill something Because I am Frightened
You Get Proud by Practicing by Laura Hershey If you are not proud for who you are, for what you say, for how you look; if every time you stop to think of yourself, you do not see yourself glowing with golden light; do not, therefore, give up on yourself. You can get proud. You do not need a better body, a purer spirit, or a Ph.D. to be proud. You do not need a lot of money, a handsome boyfriend, or a nice car. You do not need to be able to walk, or see, or hear, or use big, complicated words, or do any of those things that you just can't do to be proud. A caseworker cannot make you proud, or a doctor. You only need more practice. You get proud by practicing. There are many many ways to get proud. You can try riding a horse, or skiing on one leg, or playing guitar, and do well or not so well, and be glad you tried either way. You can show something you've made to someone you respect and be happy with it no matter what they say. You can say what you think, though you know other people do not think the same way, and you can keep saying it, even if they tell you you are crazy. You can add your voice all night to the voices of a hundred and fifty others in a circle around a jailhouse where your brothers and sisters are being held for blocking buses with no lifts, or you can be one of the ones inside the jailhouse, knowing of the circle outside. You can speak your love to a friend without fear. You can find someone who will listen to you without judging you or doubting you or being afraid of you and let you hear yourself perhaps for the very first time. These are all ways of getting proud. None of them are easy, but all of them are possible. You can do all of these things, or just one of them again and again. You get proud by practicing. Power makes you proud, and power comes in many fine forms supple and rich as butterfly wings. It is music when you practice opening your mouth and liking what you hear because it is the sound of your own true voice. It is sunlight when you practice seeing strength and beauty in everyone, including yourself. It is dance when you practice knowing that what you do and the way you do it is the right way for you and cannot be called wrong. All these hold more power than weapons or money or lies. All these practices bring power, and power makes you proud. You get proud by practicing. Remember, you weren't the one who made you ashamed, but you are the one who can make you proud. Just practice, practice until you get proud, and once you are proud, keep practicing so you won't forget. You get proud by practicing.
The (actual) very last episode of the year. Poet José Olivarez answers questions from my students
My Therapist Says Make Friends with Your Monsters José Olivarez we are gathered in truce because my therapist said it was time to stop running, & i pay my therapist too much to be wrong, so i am here. my monsters look almost human in the sterile office light. my monsters say they want to be friends. i remember when we first met, me & my monsters. i remember the moment i planted each one. each time i tried to shed a piece of myself, it grew into a monster. take this one with the collar of belly fat the monster called Chubby, Husky, Gordito. i climbed out of that skin as fast as i could, only to see some spirit give it legs. i ran & it never stopped chasing me. each new humiliation coming to life & following after me. after me, a long procession of sad monsters. each monster hungry to drag me back, to return me to the dirt i came from. ashes to ashes, fat boy to fat.my monsters crowd around me, my therapist says i can’t make the monsters disappear no matter how much i pay her. all she can do is bring them into the room, so i can get to know them, so i can learn their names, so i can see clearly their toothless mouths, their empty hands, their pleading eyes. Ars Poetica BY José Olivarez Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
My Therapist Says Make Friends with Your Monsters José Olivarez we are gathered in truce because my therapist said it was time to stop running, & i pay my therapist too much to be wrong, so i am here. my monsters look almost human in the sterile office light. my monsters say they want to be friends. i remember when we first met, me & my monsters. i remember the moment i planted each one. each time i tried to shed a piece of myself, it grew into a monster. take this one with the collar of belly fat the monster called Chubby, Husky, Gordito. i climbed out of that skin as fast as i could, only to see some spirit give it legs. i ran & it never stopped chasing me. each new humiliation coming to life & following after me. after me, a long procession of sad monsters. each monster hungry to drag me back, to return me to the dirt i came from. ashes to ashes, fat boy to fat.my monsters crowd around me, my therapist says i can’t make the monsters disappear no matter how much i pay her. all she can do is bring them into the room, so i can get to know them, so i can learn their names, so i can see clearly their toothless mouths, their empty hands, their pleading eyes. Ars Poetica BY José Olivarez Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
“The Facebook Sonnet” By Sherman Alexie Welcome to the endless high-school Reunion. Welcome to past friends And lovers, however kind or cruel. Let’s undervalue and unmend The present. Why can’t we pretend Every stage of life is the same? Let’s exhume, resume, and extend Childhood. Let’s all play the games That occupy the young. Let fame And shame intertwine. Let one’s search For God become public domain. Let church.com become our church. Let’s sign up, sign in, and confess Here at the altar of loneliness.
01:32 - Michael DuBon reads his poem, “In the Wash” 03:30 - Extended conversation with Michael on student analysis 17:28 - Michael answers student questions
“Instructions on Not Giving Up” Ada Limón More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.
Michael DuBon “In the Wash” Arms deep, filth-clad, toilet toil: working at The Ski Tahoe Resort. Scrubbing this mess of spiders, disposing the cast off suppositories, the tracks of geriatric indulgence. Work, where people don’t know how to talk to you. Where the other housekeepers won’t trade Spanish with you because you’re not Latino enough, too American. Where one day you hear a voice from behind exclaim, No clean! and you turn around to a white man waving his arms, pleading, No! No clean! We don’t need no clean. Where you can’t speak Spanish, can’t speak English, where all you can say is, Ok. Work: where you throw up on the carpet after two turkey sandwiches, so hungover you pass out again before vacuuming them up then see them again in the sink, the toilet too, you scrub up your mess alongside everyone else’s. Where your fingers fall endlessly but never pick out all the dirt. Your Guatemalan parents who got you this job scold you for your failings as it might mean their jobs, their names already sullied. The job helps pay your parents’ rent first, then your own. They made you work at so young an age, a childhood stained across carpets of empty suites. You blamed them for wasting wasteful time earmarked for young weekends. Proved them right. Smoked in the units. Eight years drain like hard water. My hands reappear from rubber gloves. I enter any room here and I’m already gone.
Anne Stevenson “The Victory” I thought you were my victory though you cut me like a knife when I brought you out of my body into your life. Tiny antagonist, gory, blue as a bruise. The stains of your cloud of glory bled from my veins. How can you dare, blind thing, blank insect eyes? You barb the air. You sting with bladed cries. Snail. Scary knot of desires. Hungry snarl. Small son. Why do I have to love you? How have you won?
Marilyn Nelson “Asparagus” He taught me how to slurp asparagus: You hold it in your fingers, eat the stem by inches to the tender terminus, then close your eyes and suck in the sweet gem. First, cook it in its own delicious steam, sauté breadcrumbs in butter separately, combine, eat slowly. As he ate, a gleam in his eyes twinkled with such jeu d'esprit, it made me drunk with longing. In my chair amid our laughing, slurping dinner guests, I felt as smug as a new billionaire, not jealous, not rejected, not depressed, as almost obscene, almost a debauché, he slurped asparagus, and winked at me.
I sound like a supervillain! Oh no!
Did I Miss Anything? Tom Wayman Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here we sat with our hands folded on our desks in silence, for the full two hours Everything. I gave an exam worth 40 percent of the grade for this term and assigned some reading due today on which I’m about to hand out a quiz worth 50 percent Nothing. None of the content of this course has value or meaning Take as many days off as you like: any activities we undertake as a class I assure you will not matter either to you or me and are without purpose Everything. A few minutes after we began last time a shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel or other heavenly being appeared and revealed to us what each woman or man must do to attain divine wisdom in this life and the hereafter This is the last time this class will meet Before we disperse to bring the good news to all people on earth Nothing. When you are not present how could something significant occur? Everything. Contained in this classroom is a microcosm of human experience assembled for you to query and examine and ponder This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered but it was one place And you weren’t here
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