Connor pops in to announce incredibly belatedly what has already been apparent for months: Close Talking is on a hiatus! We've had some big life and career changes that have unexpectedly cut into our capacity for the podcast, but it's not a permanent hiatus! Okay, a poem:
Tune
By: Kay Ryan
Imagine a sea
of ultramarine
suspending a
million jellyfish
as soft as moons.
Imagine the
interlocking uninsistent
tunes of drifting things.
This is the deep machine
that powers the lamps
of dreams and accounts
for their bluish tint.
How can something
so grand and serene
vanish again and again
without a hint?
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Connor pops in to announce incredibly belatedly what has already been apparent for months: Close Talking is on a hiatus! We've had some big life and career changes that have unexpectedly cut into our capacity for the podcast, but it's not a permanent hiatus! Okay, a poem:
Tune
By: Kay Ryan
Imagine a sea
of ultramarine
suspending a
million jellyfish
as soft as moons.
Imagine the
interlocking uninsistent
tunes of drifting things.
This is the deep machine
that powers the lamps
of dreams and accounts
for their bluish tint.
How can something
so grand and serene
vanish again and again
without a hint?
Episode #177 [Flicking off the light switch.] - Sherwin Bitsui
Close Talking: A Poetry Podcast
58 minutes 6 seconds
2 years ago
Episode #177 [Flicking off the light switch.] - Sherwin Bitsui
Connor and Jack bid farewell to the year they've taken to calling "Twenty Twenty Poo" and contemplate the complexities of language in a wide-ranging conversation about a spectacular untitled poem by Diné poet Sherwin Bitsui, from his 2009 collection Flood Song. They discuss movement, the natural world, an extremely informative dissertation and more.
Learn more about Bitsui, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sherwin-bitsui
[Flicking off the light switch.]
By: Sherwin Bitsui
Flicking off the light switch.
Lichen buds the curved creases of a mind
pondering the mesquite tree’s dull ache
as it gathers its leaves around clouds of spotted doves—
calling them in rows of twelve back from their winter sleep.
Doves’ eyes black as nightfall
shiver on the foam coast of an arctic dream
where whale ribs
clasp and fasten you to a language of shifting ice.
Seeing into those eyes
you uncoil their telephone wires,
gather their inaudible lions with plastic forks,
tongue their salty ribbons,
and untie their weedy stems from your prickly fingers.
You stop to wonder what like sounds like
when held under glacier water,
how Ná ho kos feels
under the weight of all that loss.
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Close Talking: A Poetry Podcast
Connor pops in to announce incredibly belatedly what has already been apparent for months: Close Talking is on a hiatus! We've had some big life and career changes that have unexpectedly cut into our capacity for the podcast, but it's not a permanent hiatus! Okay, a poem:
Tune
By: Kay Ryan
Imagine a sea
of ultramarine
suspending a
million jellyfish
as soft as moons.
Imagine the
interlocking uninsistent
tunes of drifting things.
This is the deep machine
that powers the lamps
of dreams and accounts
for their bluish tint.
How can something
so grand and serene
vanish again and again
without a hint?
