September 1, 2025 • 22 mins
In this collection of conversations, Ben Palpant, author of Letters From The Mountain, has compiled his intimate, one-on-one interviews with seventeen powerful poets of the 21st century. These conversations cover an entire range of life experience, including grief, hope, culture, the writing craft, family life, and the imagination. Each poet speaks with remarkable candor and joy. Taken together, these interviews are a powerful reminder that poetry remains an essential expression of what it means to be human.
Franz Kafka famously said that "a book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us." And the words and thoughts contained here aim to wake up much that has become silent in each of us. They contain wisdom that may inspire, instruct, and strengthen, confronting us with the reality that words matter, that poetry matters, and that we matter.
You can purchase a copy of An Axe for the Frozen Sea in the Rabbit Room Store.
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S1 (00:00):
The following is brought to you in partnership with Oasis Audio.
Welcome to Rabbit Room Press Presents, a podcast series of
great audiobooks, one chapter at a time.
S2 (00:16):
An axe for the Frozen Sea by Ben Pallant. Read
for you by the author. Chapter 11 Tanya Runyan. Tanya
Runyan is one of those rare gems whose laughter and
energy are contagious. Her prolific pen and thousand activities are
(00:37):
due as much to her dogged determination as to her
many loves. Of course, a family will keep one busy too.
That's why I decided to rope them into my opening
foray of questions. How would your kids and husband describe
Tanya Runyan, I ask? I'm so glad you sent your
questions beforehand so I could ask my family, she says. Otherwise,
(00:57):
I would have no idea. Is that cheating? Yes. I laugh.
What did they say? They were very sweet about it.
Here's their list. They said I was loving, generous, wise, fun, caring, determined,
hard working, comforting, funny, courageous and patient. Sheesh. I say,
(01:19):
pretty much the perfect human being. You should give them
a raise in their allowance. I really should. Did they
elaborate on their answers? No, of course not. You said
that you're an introvert with people skills, that you love people,
but that you need to reboot in solitude? Yes. I
guess I'm fairly decent at starting conversations, building community in
(01:40):
a classroom, drawing out the best in people and making
people feel loved. But I know that I'm an introvert
because all of that peopling comes at a cost. If
I don't provide myself with large swaths of solitary time
to balance out interactions, I become drained and even a
bit depressed. This is why I have never been able
to sustain teaching for very long. I adore students and
(02:03):
make good connections with them, but my energy cannot keep
up with my heart. I am at my best when
I work and write alone, interspersed with opportunities to speak,
teach and connect before burrowing back into my cave under
my pile of dogs. I'm glad to spend some time
with a fellow introvert and dog lover. I say this
might be an overgeneralization, but it seems to me that
(02:25):
many poets are introverts. What makes introverts uniquely equipped to
write poetry? It's the solitude, really, she says. I don't
think it's about being shy or more thoughtful or anything
like that. Because we love solitude and need solitude. We
have the opportunity to write. It's hard to write when
there are a lot of people around. It's not even
about the quiet so much as the opportunity to be alone.
(02:48):
I can't get enough solitude. I need it a lot.
But I also love people a lot, so it's tough.
I'm torn. I wonder if solitude predisposes the heart to
reflection in a way that crowds simply cannot. I say,
I don't know, she replies. I can be in the
presence of people and still reflect and think about things.
(03:08):
A huge factor is whether I'm stressed by the company
and whether I'm responsible for them or not. That puts
a strain on me. Have you been this way since
you were a kid, I ask? Yes, actually. I was
a latchkey kid. My older sister is 14 years older
than me. I was raised like an only child. I
had so much time to myself that I had to
find ways to entertain myself. One of those ways was reading,
(03:32):
believe it or not. I loved reading encyclopedias, atlases, peanuts, cartoons,
and comic books. I read novels, too, but that wasn't
my main diet back then. I became very comfortable with solitude,
but it was still a language rich childhood. Someone once
said that solitude is the home of the strong, and
silence is their prayer. I say. Do you resonate with that?
(03:56):
I would have to think about it, she replies. I
suppose to some degree it does, but I'm not a
very quiet person. For instance, I'm always listening to music.
You know, some people hear the word solitude, and they,
I don't know, they imagine a monastic life. I ask, yes.
And that's nothing like the life I live, she replies.
(04:16):
I just like being alone. You can pick your own music,
for goodness sake, I say. We laugh. Yes, exactly, she says.
I continue. There are some poets I read whose poetry
feels like it was born out of silence. Other poets
don't give me that sense. I don't know how to
explain it. Can you give me an example? She asks. Well,
(04:39):
I feel that way when I read the poetry of
Li-young Lee. He's amazing, she says. Do you get the
same sense? I ask. I think I know what you're
talking about, but you're right. It's hard to explain. I
don't feel that way about your poetry, I say, that's
not an insult. It's just an uncanny sense. your poetry
feels different somehow more vigorous in some respects. Some people
(05:04):
have said that my poetry is raw and gritty, she says.
I'm not purposefully trying to be raw or gritty. It's
just my way of looking the subject in the eye.
But to your point, I'm not contemplative or silent in
my bearing. I'm active. I like to do things. Library
Journal called you acerbic, I say. She laughs. Well, that
(05:26):
one makes a lot of sense to me. I mean,
sarcasm is one of my love languages. Teasing is proof
of relational love. It's proof that I feel comfortable around you.
When did you start experimenting with writing, I ask? A
babysitter got me into writing when I was around seven,
challenging me to make a story about one of her
animal posters. I created a cast of funny talking animals
(05:48):
who lived in an apartment together. I think Three's Company.
I will never forget the sensation of reading something that
I created. I didn't want to stop, but I wasn't
the traditional literary kid who read The Secret Garden, A
Wrinkle in Time and so forth, because I watched a
lot of TV. I was very tuned to the rhythms
of dialogue and would write scripts playing different parts. I
(06:10):
would speak into my portable tape recorder. I dreamed of
becoming a screenwriter. Did you write novels? I didn't have
the attention span for that, but I did start collecting
pen pals. At one point I had over 50. This
was when I was 12 to 15. Oh my goodness.
I know I had some in other countries, but most
lived in different parts of the United States. They fascinated me.
(06:33):
I was very curious about their lives. I would get
1 or 2 letters a day. This was back in
the day when your mailbox was a mail flap in
the front door, so the mail just dropped onto your floor.
It was so rewarding. I would be by myself, and
then I would hear the mail flap and there would
be letters. I'd reply right away because I loved the
human connection made through language. I've loved that connection ever since.
(06:57):
So writing poetry came later in life. It wasn't until
my senior year of high school that a creative writing
teacher told me she thought I was really a poet
at heart. I finally accepted that a few years into
college and changed my emphasis from playwriting to poetry. Is
writing poetry a way for you to explore life and
untangle your thoughts, I ask? Absolutely. I never write to
(07:21):
teach anything or to express a truth. I write for myself.
I write to figure things out. Even when I wrote
second Sky about the Apostle Paul and his writings, or
what will soon take place about the Book of Revelation,
I was trying to grapple with those things, not to
teach people about what I've learned. When you say that
it's a way to figure things out, you're not talking
(07:42):
about solving things or writing tidy poetry that puts a
bow on your thoughts. I suggest at least I don't
think you are, because your poetry is very open ended. Good.
I'm glad to hear that, she says. How do you
reconcile open mindedness and figuring things out? I guess when
I say that, I'm figuring things out, she replies. I'm
(08:05):
not saying that I'm finding an answer. I'm sitting with it.
Engaging the subject honestly and allowing a sense of mystery
to remain. That doesn't mean that I forsake the craft
of writing poetry. I don't believe in emoting on the
page or brain dumping in hopes that my readers will
discover something transcendent in my chaos. But at the same time,
(08:26):
I'm not looking for a tidy bow to put on
my experience. In the book Hard Times by Dickens, I
say there's a girl named Sissy Jupe who has grown
up around horses because her father is a horse trainer,
but she can't give an adequate definition of a horse. Mr.
Gradgrind rebukes her and calls on one of the boys
in the class to help her. The boy's definition is correct,
(08:47):
but only technically. The cruel irony is that sissy is
the only one in the room who really knows what
a horse actually is. She has a more experiential. Poetic knowledge.
Bookish knowledge and poetic knowledge are valuable, but one is
two dimensional and the other is three dimensional. Poetic knowledge
is richer, born out of intimacy with horses. I couldn't
(09:10):
say it better than that, she says. Yes, that's exactly it.
I'm writing as an act of exploring, in the hopes
of gaining intimate, poetic knowledge of what I'm exploring, whether
it's characters in the Bible, everyday events or people. I
had a young person ask me once, what is poetry for?
How would you answer that, I ask? My goodness, that's
(09:31):
a difficult question. How did you answer her? I grin
and shake my head. I thought I was the one
asking the questions here, I reply, you are, she says.
I'm just curious. Okay. The honest answer is that I
didn't have a ready response, so I asked her what
the Psalms are for. It probably wasn't playing fair, but
(09:52):
it got us started. What did she say? Well, the
question made her pause, which bought me time to think,
and it made her realize that there isn't a quick
answer to the question. I say the Psalms are too
complex and too beautiful. They're so meaningful they resist reduction.
The Psalmists give us words to articulate what we wouldn't
(10:12):
know how to articulate. They explore the full gamut of
human experience in beautiful language that reflects the surging in
the human heart. The Psalms give us language to talk
to ourselves and to God. We also find comfort and
encouragement in the Psalms, but those come from relating to
the psalmists, not necessarily from getting more information. That's really good,
(10:33):
she says. Well, it was a fun discussion, but it
was a long discussion because the question can't be answered concisely.
It struck me later that the question presupposes a practical end.
It starts by assuming everything has to be good for something.
That a piece of art can't just exist for the
sake of existing, or for the sake of adding something
(10:53):
beautiful to the world. Beauty doesn't bow to our pragmatism.
Music doesn't either. Neither does poetry. I think poetry helps
us drill down into what it means to be human,
she says. It gets to the heart of being a person.
I was just reading Braided Creek. I say an exchange
of short poems between Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison. It's
(11:16):
a wonderful collection. In the foreword, Naomi Shihab Nye comments
on how the poems startle her in new ways. Each
time she reads the book, she asks whether the poems
have changed somehow, in the time since her earlier reading,
or if she has changed. Do you have that experience? Yes, certainly.
With the best poems, I find that it's true with
(11:37):
poems by Li-young Lee and others. You know, the first
time I encountered his work was in college. My best
friend took me to Barnes and Noble. Or maybe it
was borders. I had never seen such a thing. So
many books. We found the poetry section. I was astounded
that there was such a thing as poetry section, because
I thought poetry only came from anthologies and textbooks without
(11:58):
much rhyme or reason. I bought three books Li-young Lee's Rose,
Mary Oliver, American Primitive and Gold Sell by Sharon Olds.
I remember the sheer wonder and charm of holding those
books and then reading such approachable poems in them. Those
poets write about everyday things, I say. Exactly. And I
(12:20):
didn't have to fight through the language to understand what
they were saying. In graduate school, when I was getting
my MFA, there were some poets that I just couldn't understand.
I had so much trouble getting through the language that
I felt, I don't know, a sense of imposter syndrome,
like I was a fraud who didn't belong in this
world of poetry. I would tell my professor, I don't
know what I'm reading. It didn't help that she told me, oh,
(12:42):
some people's brains just don't work that way. Not very comforting.
The abstractions were so alienating. But those three poets were
so concrete, so sensory. The who, what and where of
the poems were clear so I could enter the poem
and get my footing. When those things are clear, I
can take my time with the why. One poet I
(13:05):
talked to distinguished between ambiguity and mystery. I say, she
said the former was connected to confusion and the latter
was tied to not knowing. She said that some poets
relish confusion and ambiguity, confusing them for mystery. Exactly, she says,
those poets were concrete and clear, so I could be
(13:25):
enchanted by the why, as it dawned on me. And
they earned my trust by being clear, so I was
willing to follow them into mystery. The poets I encountered
in that store wrote about regular things parenting and pregnancy
and nature. Now, after living into my 50s, I have
more experience with those things. So the poem strike me
differently than they did when I was in my 20s.
(13:47):
At the time, they sounded beautiful in the mouth, but
now their meaning has deepened. The poems are the same,
but I have changed for all that. They haven't lost
their potency and charm. In some ways it has increased
with age. When I read your poems, I say I'm
struck by how hard you work to honor your subject.
(14:08):
None of your poems feel casual or flippant. I'm glad
to hear that. I know that sometimes people are a
little surprised when they meet me to find out that
I'm so goofy and that I laugh so much because
my poems are so serious and sometimes violent. I even
have a few curse words in them, but I never
swear in real life. I don't like violent movies. It's
(14:29):
kind of funny. I'm not a serious intellectual. I don't
sit there and candlelight while I write. I love colorful
clothing and flowers, and I love to laugh. Alfred, Lord
Tennyson was known for his laughter, I say. People loved
to be around him. The older he got, the more
he laughed. Even though his poems were increasingly about human depravity,
failure and loss. I wonder if the ability to look
(14:51):
the ugliness in the eye freed him. He writes with
such care and tenderness, so it's not a flippant laughter.
He just enjoyed life. When I wrote A Thousand Vessels,
she says, I tried to write about biblical women with
great care and love, so hopefully that comes through. They
were regular women, just like me, so I tried to
(15:12):
write about regular, everyday things. I don't have a choice.
I live in the suburbs. I drive a minivan. It's
the material you have to work with, I say. Yes,
she replies, I'm writing out of the reality of my life.
There's a poem in that collection called My Daughter's Hands.
I say in it you describe the communion tray passing
(15:35):
and the way your daughter tried to grab the cup.
The line that caught my attention was. Yet I know
the moment I say no, your world will begin to
go wrong. In our church, communion is a weekly thing,
and I love that. I love that my children and
I get to partake of the sacrament together. I think
it's an important. Yes, that they are invited to the
(15:56):
table with me. It's a yes that shapes them. Of course,
being a parent requires that I say no to them
often if I'm going to help them order their desires.
But this is not one of those moments. I know
that I'm on debatable ground here, but it seems to
me that when we deny them access to the table,
we're saying something about their father in heaven. Absolutely, she says.
(16:18):
I also know that my kids imitate me, so I
want them to see me reaching for the cup of
blessing rather than, say, reaching for my cell phone. I
want them to see me communing with Christ, not communing
with social media as they navigate this life. I want
them to return to the foundation of the sacraments. Well,
she says, that little girl is now 21 years old,
(16:40):
so a lot of life has happened. When I wrote
those early poems, I had no idea what my kids
would face in the world. My daughter, like everyone in
her generation, has been shaped by things I never imagined possible.
Massive forces are working on this generation. Obviously, I can't
change the fact that there was a pandemic, and I
can't change the fact that social media is rewiring the
(17:01):
brain chemistry of a whole generation of humans. I wish
I could. And politics too. When we were kids, politics mattered,
but the political climate was not nearly what it is today.
It's heartbreaking what this generation has gone through. I agree.
They're growing up in a world that is so politically
charged that nearly everything in their life is colored by conflict,
(17:22):
she says. They are being wired. Were being wired to
think in terms of conflict first. You can't have a
normal conversation about a minor disagreement, I say, because it's
just too much. It's overwhelming. Yes, she says. Unless it's
about nothing at all, every conversation is supercharged, and we
(17:43):
become more silent or tiptoe through a field of landmines.
And the phones impact on their lives is massive. They
have to navigate so much that's right at their fingertips.
When we were young, I say kids had to go
looking for pornography. Now it comes to find them. That's
so true. She says it's a horrible, horrible situation. How
(18:04):
does poetry help, I ask? I think poetry helps us
be more human, less artificial. There's so much gamesmanship and
posturing on social media. There's so much fear. Reading and
writing poetry allows you to explore your own soul or
feelings without fear. Works of art can cut through all
of the meanness in the world, all of the artificiality,
(18:25):
and touch us deeply. We need to recover what it
means to be human. I think it was C.S. Lewis,
I say, who said that? We read to know that
we're not alone. That's also partly why people use social media.
But there must be a difference between social media affirmation
and poetry affirmation. Yes, she replies, poetry offers a deeper
(18:48):
affirmation of our shared humanity. I use social media. I
like using it. There's an instant gratification to it. The
response is almost immediate. Connection happens quickly. It's not a
far cry from my pen pals earlier in life. But
if I could go back and get rid of social media,
I would do it. I'm not sure where I read this,
(19:08):
but there was an article that covered some fascinating findings
from a survey of young people. When they were asked
if they would prefer a world with social media or
without social media. Their overwhelming response was that if everyone
dropped social media at the same time, they would be
fine with it. They would even be willing to pay
for that to happen. But if anyone still had it
(19:29):
and they didn't, they would want to keep social media.
Fear of missing out was that strong in them. Even
though they know it's taking their joy away, they still
fear being left out. That's an incredible finding, I say.
Our lives are shaped and run by social media, she continues.
But we don't really want it that way. Even kids
(19:51):
know that they are more human when they don't have
their phone and they have no access to social media.
It's a crushing realization that knowing the truth doesn't compel
us to do anything about it. Poetry slows us down,
I add. I find that social media speeds me up inside.
Poetry doesn't do that. I agree. I wonder how much
(20:12):
of that slowing down has to do with gratitude, I continue.
Social media doesn't help me be more grateful. It doesn't
always make me more envious, of course, but it doesn't
make me content. I wonder if reading poetry can help
us become more grateful. There are many poets whose roots
are in the soil of gratitude, and it is evident
in their poetry. Absolutely, she says. Li-young Lee and Mary
(20:35):
Oliver certainly belong to that group. I think it's an
important daily task to write down things I'm grateful for.
Maybe it's only coffee and birdsong, but I'm still taking
a moment to pause. Poetry gives me the chance to
live into my senses, to be more aware and therefore
more thankful, she says. The act of writing for me
(20:56):
is a way of staying connected to Christ. That alone
is a worthy purpose for picking up the pen. Here's
one of my favorite poems by Tania Runyan titled Mary
at the Nativity. The angel said there would be no
end to his kingdom. So for 300 days I carried
(21:16):
rivers and cedars and mountains. Stars spilled in my belly
when he turned. Now I can't stop touching his hands.
The pink pebbles of his knuckles. The soft wrinkle of
flesh between his forefinger and thumb. I rub his fingernails
as we drift in and out of sleep. They are
(21:38):
small and smooth, like almond petals. Forever I will need
nothing but these. But all night the visitors crowd around us.
I press his palms to my lips in silence. They
look down in anticipation, as if they expect him to
suddenly spill coins from his hands, or raise a gold
(21:59):
scepter and turn swine into angels. Isn't this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me, and now he nuzzles
next to my heart, that he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on.
S1 (22:17):
An axe for the Frozen Sea is published by Rabbit
Room Press. The audiobook is published by Oasis Audio. Copyright
by Ben Pallant, 2024. By Chris Badeker.
The following is brought to you in partnership with Oasis Audio.
Welcome to Rabbit Room Press Presents, a podcast series of
great audiobooks, one chapter at a time.
S2 (00:16):
An axe for the Frozen Sea by Ben Pallant. Read
for you by the author. Chapter 11 Tanya Runyan. Tanya
Runyan is one of those rare gems whose laughter and
energy are contagious. Her prolific pen and thousand activities are
(00:37):
due as much to her dogged determination as to her
many loves. Of course, a family will keep one busy too.
That's why I decided to rope them into my opening
foray of questions. How would your kids and husband describe
Tanya Runyan, I ask? I'm so glad you sent your
questions beforehand so I could ask my family, she says. Otherwise,
(00:57):
I would have no idea. Is that cheating? Yes. I laugh.
What did they say? They were very sweet about it.
Here's their list. They said I was loving, generous, wise, fun, caring, determined,
hard working, comforting, funny, courageous and patient. Sheesh. I say,
(01:19):
pretty much the perfect human being. You should give them
a raise in their allowance. I really should. Did they
elaborate on their answers? No, of course not. You said
that you're an introvert with people skills, that you love people,
but that you need to reboot in solitude? Yes. I
guess I'm fairly decent at starting conversations, building community in
(01:40):
a classroom, drawing out the best in people and making
people feel loved. But I know that I'm an introvert
because all of that peopling comes at a cost. If
I don't provide myself with large swaths of solitary time
to balance out interactions, I become drained and even a
bit depressed. This is why I have never been able
to sustain teaching for very long. I adore students and
(02:03):
make good connections with them, but my energy cannot keep
up with my heart. I am at my best when
I work and write alone, interspersed with opportunities to speak,
teach and connect before burrowing back into my cave under
my pile of dogs. I'm glad to spend some time
with a fellow introvert and dog lover. I say this
might be an overgeneralization, but it seems to me that
(02:25):
many poets are introverts. What makes introverts uniquely equipped to
write poetry? It's the solitude, really, she says. I don't
think it's about being shy or more thoughtful or anything
like that. Because we love solitude and need solitude. We
have the opportunity to write. It's hard to write when
there are a lot of people around. It's not even
about the quiet so much as the opportunity to be alone.
(02:48):
I can't get enough solitude. I need it a lot.
But I also love people a lot, so it's tough.
I'm torn. I wonder if solitude predisposes the heart to
reflection in a way that crowds simply cannot. I say,
I don't know, she replies. I can be in the
presence of people and still reflect and think about things.
(03:08):
A huge factor is whether I'm stressed by the company
and whether I'm responsible for them or not. That puts
a strain on me. Have you been this way since
you were a kid, I ask? Yes, actually. I was
a latchkey kid. My older sister is 14 years older
than me. I was raised like an only child. I
had so much time to myself that I had to
find ways to entertain myself. One of those ways was reading,
(03:32):
believe it or not. I loved reading encyclopedias, atlases, peanuts, cartoons,
and comic books. I read novels, too, but that wasn't
my main diet back then. I became very comfortable with solitude,
but it was still a language rich childhood. Someone once
said that solitude is the home of the strong, and
silence is their prayer. I say. Do you resonate with that?
(03:56):
I would have to think about it, she replies. I
suppose to some degree it does, but I'm not a
very quiet person. For instance, I'm always listening to music.
You know, some people hear the word solitude, and they,
I don't know, they imagine a monastic life. I ask, yes.
And that's nothing like the life I live, she replies.
(04:16):
I just like being alone. You can pick your own music,
for goodness sake, I say. We laugh. Yes, exactly, she says.
I continue. There are some poets I read whose poetry
feels like it was born out of silence. Other poets
don't give me that sense. I don't know how to
explain it. Can you give me an example? She asks. Well,
(04:39):
I feel that way when I read the poetry of
Li-young Lee. He's amazing, she says. Do you get the
same sense? I ask. I think I know what you're
talking about, but you're right. It's hard to explain. I
don't feel that way about your poetry, I say, that's
not an insult. It's just an uncanny sense. your poetry
feels different somehow more vigorous in some respects. Some people
(05:04):
have said that my poetry is raw and gritty, she says.
I'm not purposefully trying to be raw or gritty. It's
just my way of looking the subject in the eye.
But to your point, I'm not contemplative or silent in
my bearing. I'm active. I like to do things. Library
Journal called you acerbic, I say. She laughs. Well, that
(05:26):
one makes a lot of sense to me. I mean,
sarcasm is one of my love languages. Teasing is proof
of relational love. It's proof that I feel comfortable around you.
When did you start experimenting with writing, I ask? A
babysitter got me into writing when I was around seven,
challenging me to make a story about one of her
animal posters. I created a cast of funny talking animals
(05:48):
who lived in an apartment together. I think Three's Company.
I will never forget the sensation of reading something that
I created. I didn't want to stop, but I wasn't
the traditional literary kid who read The Secret Garden, A
Wrinkle in Time and so forth, because I watched a
lot of TV. I was very tuned to the rhythms
of dialogue and would write scripts playing different parts. I
(06:10):
would speak into my portable tape recorder. I dreamed of
becoming a screenwriter. Did you write novels? I didn't have
the attention span for that, but I did start collecting
pen pals. At one point I had over 50. This
was when I was 12 to 15. Oh my goodness.
I know I had some in other countries, but most
lived in different parts of the United States. They fascinated me.
(06:33):
I was very curious about their lives. I would get
1 or 2 letters a day. This was back in
the day when your mailbox was a mail flap in
the front door, so the mail just dropped onto your floor.
It was so rewarding. I would be by myself, and
then I would hear the mail flap and there would
be letters. I'd reply right away because I loved the
human connection made through language. I've loved that connection ever since.
(06:57):
So writing poetry came later in life. It wasn't until
my senior year of high school that a creative writing
teacher told me she thought I was really a poet
at heart. I finally accepted that a few years into
college and changed my emphasis from playwriting to poetry. Is
writing poetry a way for you to explore life and
untangle your thoughts, I ask? Absolutely. I never write to
(07:21):
teach anything or to express a truth. I write for myself.
I write to figure things out. Even when I wrote
second Sky about the Apostle Paul and his writings, or
what will soon take place about the Book of Revelation,
I was trying to grapple with those things, not to
teach people about what I've learned. When you say that
it's a way to figure things out, you're not talking
(07:42):
about solving things or writing tidy poetry that puts a
bow on your thoughts. I suggest at least I don't
think you are, because your poetry is very open ended. Good.
I'm glad to hear that, she says. How do you
reconcile open mindedness and figuring things out? I guess when
I say that, I'm figuring things out, she replies. I'm
(08:05):
not saying that I'm finding an answer. I'm sitting with it.
Engaging the subject honestly and allowing a sense of mystery
to remain. That doesn't mean that I forsake the craft
of writing poetry. I don't believe in emoting on the
page or brain dumping in hopes that my readers will
discover something transcendent in my chaos. But at the same time,
(08:26):
I'm not looking for a tidy bow to put on
my experience. In the book Hard Times by Dickens, I
say there's a girl named Sissy Jupe who has grown
up around horses because her father is a horse trainer,
but she can't give an adequate definition of a horse. Mr.
Gradgrind rebukes her and calls on one of the boys
in the class to help her. The boy's definition is correct,
(08:47):
but only technically. The cruel irony is that sissy is
the only one in the room who really knows what
a horse actually is. She has a more experiential. Poetic knowledge.
Bookish knowledge and poetic knowledge are valuable, but one is
two dimensional and the other is three dimensional. Poetic knowledge
is richer, born out of intimacy with horses. I couldn't
(09:10):
say it better than that, she says. Yes, that's exactly it.
I'm writing as an act of exploring, in the hopes
of gaining intimate, poetic knowledge of what I'm exploring, whether
it's characters in the Bible, everyday events or people. I
had a young person ask me once, what is poetry for?
How would you answer that, I ask? My goodness, that's
(09:31):
a difficult question. How did you answer her? I grin
and shake my head. I thought I was the one
asking the questions here, I reply, you are, she says.
I'm just curious. Okay. The honest answer is that I
didn't have a ready response, so I asked her what
the Psalms are for. It probably wasn't playing fair, but
(09:52):
it got us started. What did she say? Well, the
question made her pause, which bought me time to think,
and it made her realize that there isn't a quick
answer to the question. I say the Psalms are too
complex and too beautiful. They're so meaningful they resist reduction.
The Psalmists give us words to articulate what we wouldn't
(10:12):
know how to articulate. They explore the full gamut of
human experience in beautiful language that reflects the surging in
the human heart. The Psalms give us language to talk
to ourselves and to God. We also find comfort and
encouragement in the Psalms, but those come from relating to
the psalmists, not necessarily from getting more information. That's really good,
(10:33):
she says. Well, it was a fun discussion, but it
was a long discussion because the question can't be answered concisely.
It struck me later that the question presupposes a practical end.
It starts by assuming everything has to be good for something.
That a piece of art can't just exist for the
sake of existing, or for the sake of adding something
(10:53):
beautiful to the world. Beauty doesn't bow to our pragmatism.
Music doesn't either. Neither does poetry. I think poetry helps
us drill down into what it means to be human,
she says. It gets to the heart of being a person.
I was just reading Braided Creek. I say an exchange
of short poems between Ted Kooser and Jim Harrison. It's
(11:16):
a wonderful collection. In the foreword, Naomi Shihab Nye comments
on how the poems startle her in new ways. Each
time she reads the book, she asks whether the poems
have changed somehow, in the time since her earlier reading,
or if she has changed. Do you have that experience? Yes, certainly.
With the best poems, I find that it's true with
(11:37):
poems by Li-young Lee and others. You know, the first
time I encountered his work was in college. My best
friend took me to Barnes and Noble. Or maybe it
was borders. I had never seen such a thing. So
many books. We found the poetry section. I was astounded
that there was such a thing as poetry section, because
I thought poetry only came from anthologies and textbooks without
(11:58):
much rhyme or reason. I bought three books Li-young Lee's Rose,
Mary Oliver, American Primitive and Gold Sell by Sharon Olds.
I remember the sheer wonder and charm of holding those
books and then reading such approachable poems in them. Those
poets write about everyday things, I say. Exactly. And I
(12:20):
didn't have to fight through the language to understand what
they were saying. In graduate school, when I was getting
my MFA, there were some poets that I just couldn't understand.
I had so much trouble getting through the language that
I felt, I don't know, a sense of imposter syndrome,
like I was a fraud who didn't belong in this
world of poetry. I would tell my professor, I don't
know what I'm reading. It didn't help that she told me, oh,
(12:42):
some people's brains just don't work that way. Not very comforting.
The abstractions were so alienating. But those three poets were
so concrete, so sensory. The who, what and where of
the poems were clear so I could enter the poem
and get my footing. When those things are clear, I
can take my time with the why. One poet I
(13:05):
talked to distinguished between ambiguity and mystery. I say, she
said the former was connected to confusion and the latter
was tied to not knowing. She said that some poets
relish confusion and ambiguity, confusing them for mystery. Exactly, she says,
those poets were concrete and clear, so I could be
(13:25):
enchanted by the why, as it dawned on me. And
they earned my trust by being clear, so I was
willing to follow them into mystery. The poets I encountered
in that store wrote about regular things parenting and pregnancy
and nature. Now, after living into my 50s, I have
more experience with those things. So the poem strike me
differently than they did when I was in my 20s.
(13:47):
At the time, they sounded beautiful in the mouth, but
now their meaning has deepened. The poems are the same,
but I have changed for all that. They haven't lost
their potency and charm. In some ways it has increased
with age. When I read your poems, I say I'm
struck by how hard you work to honor your subject.
(14:08):
None of your poems feel casual or flippant. I'm glad
to hear that. I know that sometimes people are a
little surprised when they meet me to find out that
I'm so goofy and that I laugh so much because
my poems are so serious and sometimes violent. I even
have a few curse words in them, but I never
swear in real life. I don't like violent movies. It's
(14:29):
kind of funny. I'm not a serious intellectual. I don't
sit there and candlelight while I write. I love colorful
clothing and flowers, and I love to laugh. Alfred, Lord
Tennyson was known for his laughter, I say. People loved
to be around him. The older he got, the more
he laughed. Even though his poems were increasingly about human depravity,
failure and loss. I wonder if the ability to look
(14:51):
the ugliness in the eye freed him. He writes with
such care and tenderness, so it's not a flippant laughter.
He just enjoyed life. When I wrote A Thousand Vessels,
she says, I tried to write about biblical women with
great care and love, so hopefully that comes through. They
were regular women, just like me, so I tried to
(15:12):
write about regular, everyday things. I don't have a choice.
I live in the suburbs. I drive a minivan. It's
the material you have to work with, I say. Yes,
she replies, I'm writing out of the reality of my life.
There's a poem in that collection called My Daughter's Hands.
I say in it you describe the communion tray passing
(15:35):
and the way your daughter tried to grab the cup.
The line that caught my attention was. Yet I know
the moment I say no, your world will begin to
go wrong. In our church, communion is a weekly thing,
and I love that. I love that my children and
I get to partake of the sacrament together. I think
it's an important. Yes, that they are invited to the
(15:56):
table with me. It's a yes that shapes them. Of course,
being a parent requires that I say no to them
often if I'm going to help them order their desires.
But this is not one of those moments. I know
that I'm on debatable ground here, but it seems to
me that when we deny them access to the table,
we're saying something about their father in heaven. Absolutely, she says.
(16:18):
I also know that my kids imitate me, so I
want them to see me reaching for the cup of
blessing rather than, say, reaching for my cell phone. I
want them to see me communing with Christ, not communing
with social media as they navigate this life. I want
them to return to the foundation of the sacraments. Well,
she says, that little girl is now 21 years old,
(16:40):
so a lot of life has happened. When I wrote
those early poems, I had no idea what my kids
would face in the world. My daughter, like everyone in
her generation, has been shaped by things I never imagined possible.
Massive forces are working on this generation. Obviously, I can't
change the fact that there was a pandemic, and I
can't change the fact that social media is rewiring the
(17:01):
brain chemistry of a whole generation of humans. I wish
I could. And politics too. When we were kids, politics mattered,
but the political climate was not nearly what it is today.
It's heartbreaking what this generation has gone through. I agree.
They're growing up in a world that is so politically
charged that nearly everything in their life is colored by conflict,
(17:22):
she says. They are being wired. Were being wired to
think in terms of conflict first. You can't have a
normal conversation about a minor disagreement, I say, because it's
just too much. It's overwhelming. Yes, she says. Unless it's
about nothing at all, every conversation is supercharged, and we
(17:43):
become more silent or tiptoe through a field of landmines.
And the phones impact on their lives is massive. They
have to navigate so much that's right at their fingertips.
When we were young, I say kids had to go
looking for pornography. Now it comes to find them. That's
so true. She says it's a horrible, horrible situation. How
(18:04):
does poetry help, I ask? I think poetry helps us
be more human, less artificial. There's so much gamesmanship and
posturing on social media. There's so much fear. Reading and
writing poetry allows you to explore your own soul or
feelings without fear. Works of art can cut through all
of the meanness in the world, all of the artificiality,
(18:25):
and touch us deeply. We need to recover what it
means to be human. I think it was C.S. Lewis,
I say, who said that? We read to know that
we're not alone. That's also partly why people use social media.
But there must be a difference between social media affirmation
and poetry affirmation. Yes, she replies, poetry offers a deeper
(18:48):
affirmation of our shared humanity. I use social media. I
like using it. There's an instant gratification to it. The
response is almost immediate. Connection happens quickly. It's not a
far cry from my pen pals earlier in life. But
if I could go back and get rid of social media,
I would do it. I'm not sure where I read this,
(19:08):
but there was an article that covered some fascinating findings
from a survey of young people. When they were asked
if they would prefer a world with social media or
without social media. Their overwhelming response was that if everyone
dropped social media at the same time, they would be
fine with it. They would even be willing to pay
for that to happen. But if anyone still had it
(19:29):
and they didn't, they would want to keep social media.
Fear of missing out was that strong in them. Even
though they know it's taking their joy away, they still
fear being left out. That's an incredible finding, I say.
Our lives are shaped and run by social media, she continues.
But we don't really want it that way. Even kids
(19:51):
know that they are more human when they don't have
their phone and they have no access to social media.
It's a crushing realization that knowing the truth doesn't compel
us to do anything about it. Poetry slows us down,
I add. I find that social media speeds me up inside.
Poetry doesn't do that. I agree. I wonder how much
(20:12):
of that slowing down has to do with gratitude, I continue.
Social media doesn't help me be more grateful. It doesn't
always make me more envious, of course, but it doesn't
make me content. I wonder if reading poetry can help
us become more grateful. There are many poets whose roots
are in the soil of gratitude, and it is evident
in their poetry. Absolutely, she says. Li-young Lee and Mary
(20:35):
Oliver certainly belong to that group. I think it's an
important daily task to write down things I'm grateful for.
Maybe it's only coffee and birdsong, but I'm still taking
a moment to pause. Poetry gives me the chance to
live into my senses, to be more aware and therefore
more thankful, she says. The act of writing for me
(20:56):
is a way of staying connected to Christ. That alone
is a worthy purpose for picking up the pen. Here's
one of my favorite poems by Tania Runyan titled Mary
at the Nativity. The angel said there would be no
end to his kingdom. So for 300 days I carried
(21:16):
rivers and cedars and mountains. Stars spilled in my belly
when he turned. Now I can't stop touching his hands.
The pink pebbles of his knuckles. The soft wrinkle of
flesh between his forefinger and thumb. I rub his fingernails
as we drift in and out of sleep. They are
(21:38):
small and smooth, like almond petals. Forever I will need
nothing but these. But all night the visitors crowd around us.
I press his palms to my lips in silence. They
look down in anticipation, as if they expect him to
suddenly spill coins from his hands, or raise a gold
(21:59):
scepter and turn swine into angels. Isn't this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me, and now he nuzzles
next to my heart, that he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on.
S1 (22:17):
An axe for the Frozen Sea is published by Rabbit
Room Press. The audiobook is published by Oasis Audio. Copyright
by Ben Pallant, 2024. By Chris Badeker.
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