August 25, 2025 • 21 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.
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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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 seven Maurice Manning I
sat in on Maurice Manning's poetry workshop before our interview.
It didn't take long to notice that he is one
(00:37):
of those teachers who keeps trying to rope his students
back from distraction from their phones and laptops, with no
guarantee of their attention. He did so repeatedly, kindly, often humorously,
walking around to peer over their shoulders while they read
their work or simply inviting them by name to offer
something to the conversation. It struck me while I was
(01:00):
sitting there that this is what Maurice Manning does in
his poetry, too. He kindly, often humorously ropes his readers
back from life's distractions, whatever they might be. Before we
begin the interview, he gifts me with a recent publication
of his poetry by Larkspur Press. I thank him and
note the small volumes loveliness, its paper binding and print quality.
(01:23):
He says the man who runs Larkspur Press is named
Gray Zeitz. When he was a young man, this is
what he wanted to do, and he's been doing it
for about 50 years. He operates a letterpress where all
the letters are set by hand. He's got a big
old machine that weighs a ton. He's so highly regarded
that there are book collectors who will buy a copy
(01:43):
of every book that he makes. I can see why.
I say, then, turning it over in my hands, I
read his author's note aloud. I began writing this during
lent of 2015, and during that season, I determined that
I no longer wished to think of any human being
as my enemy. I look at him. He smiles. Your
(02:06):
resolve must have been tested awful fierce during the last
few years of societal and political upheaval, I say. Well,
I'll tell you. We live near the site of the
largest Civil War battle in Kentucky, the Battle of Perryville.
A friend of mine told me a gory tale of
when he was a boy in the early 1950s, while
his parents were renovating a really old house. An old
(02:28):
man came by and said he lived in that house
during the Battle of Perryville, and one day some soldiers
came by with a wounded man on their horse. The
soldiers asked if they could leave him with the family,
and his family obliged. The man had lost an arm
and leg in the battle. They put the soldier up
in the loft where he bled to death. That was
the state of things. Nothing to do for the wounded,
(02:48):
but drop them hither and yon while you're running for
your life. In the summer of 2015, I found part
of a cannonball in my backyard. Finding the cannonball confirmed
those local stories. So, you know, I started thinking about that.
Of course, at that point in our country's history, we
were marching toward 21st century division. I had a realization.
(03:08):
I wouldn't call it an epiphany. I would just call
it a moment of clarity. I thought, why do we
do this? Why do we divide ourselves? Does any good
come of it? And I couldn't think of anything a
bit like the old time family feuds that you write about.
But on a larger scale, I say. Yes, he replies,
(03:28):
much larger and much more is at stake. I think
when we war among ourselves, when we divide ourselves, everyone
loses eventually. There might be a victor and a loser
for a while, but we can't stay in that state.
I find that very compelling. Maybe you could unpack that
a little more. I say I'm thinking of your farm,
for example. A place you love and want to tend. Well,
(03:51):
you are encroached upon by wild animals or invasive species
of plants. You want to create a space that is
healthy and protected. How do you see that as different
from unhealthy division. Difference does not have to mean division.
You know, he says, in our woods we have an
American hornbeam tree growing next to a sugar maple. They're different,
(04:12):
but they're growing out of the same soil. On the
other hand, I didn't fence off my garden last year.
As a consequence, the deer ate it all. This year
I'm going to put up a fence. I'm sure you will,
I say. The deer will have plenty of other things
to eat. He pauses. I'm not trying to evade the question,
but I think we impose artificial divisions. I don't know
(04:33):
if those divisions actually legitimately elevate one characteristic, one difference
over another. You're recognizing difference, I say, but you're pulling
back from a need for a hostile response to those differences.
Is that it? Yes, exactly. If division is based on hostility,
then it doesn't serve anyone. There are differences between you
(04:56):
and your students, I say you strike me as a
teacher who walks alongside his students, tries to fight for them,
and wards off the assault of their distractions. Do you
see yourself in that position? I would say that it's
something I've had to adapt to. I've been teaching for
24 years. When I first started teaching, I thought the
content was inherently valuable and I wouldn't have to prove
(05:17):
its value to anyone. In more recent years, however, I've
realised that what I must do is much bigger. In
some ways, I'm in a position to help my students
make connections and feel connected, to help them feel rooted
in a society that is rootless. I can't fault them
for their rootlessness, but I can pass along the value
of connection and of accepting differences without flying off the handle. Actually,
(05:42):
I add, being able to talk about those differences in
a healthy discourse is becoming a rare thing these days indeed.
Speaking of being rooted, I continue your poetry is very
rooted in Kentucky. Is that a conscious choice, or is
it the consequence of being generationally rooted in Kentucky? I
just don't think I could do it any other way.
(06:02):
I mean, I won't write about riding a subway because
I don't ride on a subway. It's not part of
my daily experience. One of the things that I have
felt very lucky about is that for me, Kentucky is
multiple things at once. By using Kentucky as a lens,
I can look at aspects of human experience that go
far beyond these geographical borders. Basically, you're telling me that
(06:24):
I'm asking an apple tree why it chose to bear
apples rather than pears? That's well put. He says, laughing.
It's still a useful question. I mean, someone was asked
once whether he was a regional writer and he said, well,
isn't everyone? I mean, this is what you've got. This
is what you've been given to write about. I continue.
William Faulkner once said, I discovered that my own little
(06:46):
postage stamp of native soil was worth writing about, and
that I would never live long enough to exhaust it,
and that by sublimating the actual into the apocryphal, I
would have complete liberty to use whatever talent I might
have to its absolute top. He seems to share your leanings.
Do you feel similarly? I do indeed. I'm reading Faulkner
(07:07):
right now. You know, I would never compare myself to Faulkner,
but he's certainly someone I've learned from. Some of my
books are full of personal experience in the here and
now reality, but I've always been very interested in going
beyond the material elements and moving toward a kind of mythology.
Often my poems have one foot in reality and one
foot in the beyond. Part literal and part metaphorical. Let's
(07:30):
talk about the mythology, the apocryphal nature of your poetry.
One of my favorite attributes of your work is a
kind of old time Daniel Boone, Paul Bunyan mythologizing of
people who are really quite ordinary. Are those poems your
attempt to honor some transcendent essence that goes unnoticed? Something
like what Gerard Manley Hopkins called an object's inscape. I
(07:51):
think I'm interested in the potential value of revisiting an
experience that we thought about in one way, he says.
And then later with the passage of time, we thought
about it with greater significance. With the passage of time
comes a dawning of a moment's significance. Is it fair
to say that you're a gardener of memory? I ask
(08:13):
that you love to tend memory and see what blooms
out of that soil. Yes, he says, that's a wonderful
way of looking at it. You've shared that poetry wasn't
part of your childhood. When did poetry woo you? I mean,
if someone from the future had visited ten year old
Maurice Manning and told them that he would one day
be writer in residence at Transylvania University, the kid would
(08:34):
have probably scoffed. We laughed together and Manning says, well,
listen now you are correct. But let me tell you
about this ink pen that I use. He removes the
pen from his shirt pocket. This belonged to my great grandmother,
who was the only person in any part of the
family who read books. She wrote letters and postcards very dutifully.
(08:55):
I often stayed with her. I remember she had this
junk drawer and a pen in that junk drawer with
no ink. But I would take that pen, and I
would take paper and make the action of writing even
without ink, because I associated writing with being serious and kind,
because it was connected to my great grandmother, who was
serious and kind. Many years later, I was at a
(09:17):
writing event. I was taking notes with a drugstore pen,
and a fellow author, Claudia Emerson, leaned over and she said,
don't you think you deserve to write with a more
serious writing instrument? We laugh. I thought to myself, okay,
I'll have to take that under advisement. Her admonishments brought
back the memory of this pen, and I told her
(09:38):
about my grandmother's pen. Well, a couple of weeks later,
I received a package from Claudia. And inside was a
ballpoint version of this exact pen. She had no idea,
of course. And so I called my mother to see
if we had any of great grandmother's things. And sure enough,
among her belongings was this pen. So I bought some
ink and filled it. And I've been using it ever since.
(10:00):
Has the pen. The fact that it belonged to your
great grandmother changed your interaction with your poetry while you write. Yes.
It's made me value the privilege of writing much more.
I have my great grandfather's carpentry pencil. I say it's
just a stub. It was a stub when it was
given to me. But what a strange feeling to realize
(10:20):
that I'm deeply honored to have this thing that isn't special,
apart from the fact that it belonged to my great grandfather.
Maybe that's an appreciation gained with age. Manning nods. Think
of all the work he did with that pencil, he says.
And I think of his spirit that chose to pick
up the pencil and use it to build something. I
add it's not just about the pencil, it's about what
(10:41):
the pencil represents. I want the same persistent spirit in
my work. Indeed. You came to fatherhood late in life,
which is its own joy and terror, I continue. Yes,
yes it is. He laughs and looks out the window.
How has that experience shaped you as a poet? What
has that little lady done to you? Lots. I feel
(11:04):
time more acutely, you know. She'll be relatively young when
I die. I won't be there to guide her or
comfort her, or be an actual companion to her. The
books have the potential to be a companion to her,
I suppose. It's very likely that my little girl will
know me more through my writing than through actual interaction
with me. That thought is almost too overwhelming to consider
(11:26):
for very long. She's a gift. Does it add urgency
to you writing poetry, I ask? No. I don't feel
any rush. Probably the worst thing you can do as
a poet is rush. It usually doesn't go well. Your
little girl is going to grow up in a politically
charged climate. How do you see poetry serving her and
(11:46):
others who might feel awash in conflict, anxiety, the unknown?
Most people have the opportunity, at least at some point
in their lives, to learn that living with frenzy is
not something we have to do. He says there are
plenty of experiences in our world that are the antidote
to that. We can actually develop practices that strengthen those antidotes.
(12:07):
I often suggest to students that they learn to identify
25 species of trees by their leaf, bark and branch system,
then learn to do the same thing with songbirds and wildflowers.
Learn their local names. I'm not suggesting that everyone become
naturalists in a scientific way, in a bookish sense, but
in a human way. I would like them to relate
to the world around them relationally. When my wife and
(12:31):
I bought a piece of land a few years ago,
I found myself feeling a little bereft, I say. I
realized that I didn't know the plants or the flowers
or the birds. I longed to have a name for
these new companions. It's one thing to enjoy the quiet
and being present in nature, but being able to name
the plants and animals around me changes the relationship just
as it does with people. I may notice that you
(12:53):
are present with me in this room, but knowing your
name changes our relationship. When you suggest learning the names
of plants and animals, You're drawing our attention to another
layer of relationship. Yes, he says, you know, for too
many people, nature is the backdrop for humanity, but we
are integrated with it. We are totally dependent on nature,
(13:13):
even if we don't think we are. You would think
we would take better care of it. And go back
to a previous point in this discussion. We are totally
dependent upon each other as human beings. We are kidding
ourselves if we think otherwise. We need each other even
if we don't like each other. There's no doubt about it.
You grew up reading the Bible, I say. How does
(13:33):
your faith inform or interact with your poetry writing? They
definitely interact. I guess I'm hesitant to say, you know
that writing a poem is the same as praying. Writing
a poem might be preliminary to praying. Passing through a
poetic mood might be necessary for me to enter a
time of prayer. Is that because the attention required to
(13:54):
write a poem is required in prayer? That's some of it,
he replies. You know, writing a poem requires language. Words
for me. Prayer is an effort to go beyond words.
Something like when Scripture says that the Holy Spirit hears
our groaning. That the Holy Spirit translates our wordless ache.
I ask. Exactly. A poem is too anchored in human reality.
(14:18):
The spiritual effort is to reach a spiritual reality that
transcends the human, and in some ways is inexplicable to
the human mind. Would you say that the Christian faith
of your youth runs parallel to your poetry? I'm not
simply referring to Christian doctrine. It's more than that. What's
their relationship? Well, I was raised a Christian. I attend
(14:40):
a Christian church. In my experience, my poetry and the
Christian religion definitely run parallel in poetry. Though I can
ask questions about the religious, I can voice hesitation or skepticism.
The poem can ask the question, but it can't provide
the answer. Religion might be able to answer the question,
but not always. You know, daily experience invites us to
(15:02):
profound encounters that we may not actually understand. The poem
can only point that out. It can't resolve anything. Poetry
can highlight our dilemma, but it can't resolve what religion resolves.
In your book of poems, One Man's Dark, you have
these job like moments when you ask God really frank questions.
(15:22):
These are honest inner locutions, but they don't resolve the ambiguity.
It's hard to live in ambiguity, but poetry requires that
a little bit. It does, he says. You know, my
students are pre-programmed to oppose ambiguity, but I tell them
that very often the subjects of poetry and even of
art are ambiguous. Maybe that's one reason why we need art.
(15:43):
It helps us encounter ambiguity in terms that deepen us.
Your poetry leans toward the quiet beauty of creation. Do
you feel a need to point our eyes toward those things?
I've never wanted my poetry to preach, he says. As
far as my experience goes, the quiet beauty of a
natural place is soothing. But not just that. It's way
(16:04):
more than that. It's the surest way to understand that
we belong to the natural order. When I walk in
the woods, I stop thinking of myself. I don't worry
about anything in my immediate circumstance. In some ways, my
so-called self ceases to matter in any way at all
because I am fully integrated in something bigger than myself.
I'm as integrated as the moss on the tree or
(16:26):
the wildflowers perking up in the leaf matter. I find
it a great comfort to sense that I belong here,
just as the violet belongs here. Okay, I say, we've
been very serious, but we should talk about your podcast.
How did that come into the world? Ha! All right,
let's see, he replies. It was during the pandemic in
(16:48):
2020 and I suddenly had more time on my hands.
I was aware that many people, including some of my friends,
needed some laughter. So I decided to write a bunch
of goofy poems and share those poems with my friends
who felt worried and threatened. In the Appalachian region, there's
a tradition of tall tales called Jack tales. The characters
are larger than life and the events are completely outrageous,
(17:09):
but they're presented as if they're totally normal. So I
wrote a bunch of these Jack tales. I found out
there was state Art Council funding available, and I applied
for it, though I had never heard a podcast before,
I told them I was going to make a podcast.
So my friend, a man who understands the technology involved
and I started the Grinnin Possum podcast. It's a bit
(17:30):
of a local idiom. The possum is a trickster in
Appalachian folklore. We did ten episodes, and eventually we started
traveling the state to record episodes at interesting locations with
live audiences. We recorded one of those episodes in an
old church called the Old Mud Meetinghouse. It's a church
built in the 1800s. The acoustics are the most interesting
(17:50):
I've ever heard. We added a fiddle player and a
mandolin player. Each episode has a goofy poem or two.
A couple of old time songs and a little bit
of the local history. Honestly, it doesn't feel like we're performing.
It feels like we're enjoying something together as a community.
Humor pervades your work. I say it's often subtle in
your poetry, but in this podcast it's overt. Would you
(18:12):
say that humorous poetry is a cathartic release for you,
or is it the little boy inside who keeps coming out?
He laughs. It's more the latter. I know that the
present circumstances of the world are grim, but I can't
help but find humor. I love to laugh. I love
cutting up with other people. Sometimes it doesn't take other people.
I'll just do it on my own. He laughs again. Okay.
(18:36):
Final question. How would you conclude the following, dear poet?
Your answer can be quite open. You could address dead poets,
living poets, even poets not yet born. All right. I
guess I would say, dear poet, I hope you recognize
that what you do is a privilege. And I hope
(18:57):
you enjoy it. Enjoy the work, Whether it gets published
or not, I add. Correct. Appreciate what you do for
what it is. Here's one of my favorite poems by
Maurice Manning titled Morning and Evening. I shall Drink the Dew.
(19:20):
It's not an effort, but a fact that time stops
being time. And there's nothing left to realize. Because the
mind at last belongs to the landscape. Where it is
like the root of an ironwood tree plunging into the
spongy ground with moss and sorrel and nameless green above,
and warbling birdsong, singing before first light. There's nothing for
(19:43):
the mind to think, nothing to do, and no awareness
to piddle with. Now that's one of the biggest follies ever.
To stroll in the shade of folly. To be aware
to the point of being too aware, you have to
forget yourself and belong to a world you Old. You
grasp imperfectly and partly as a dream. That's not your
(20:04):
dream at all. It's where the loved ones all have gone.
Your father's horse. The storytellers and those in the story.
The singing voice you've always heard. The rivers, the woods,
the green. The birds. The beginning and end of you.
And time. And then. And then you make it rhyme.
S1 (20:33):
An axe for the Frozen Sea is published by Rabbit
Room Press. The audio book 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 seven Maurice Manning I
sat in on Maurice Manning's poetry workshop before our interview.
It didn't take long to notice that he is one
(00:37):
of those teachers who keeps trying to rope his students
back from distraction from their phones and laptops, with no
guarantee of their attention. He did so repeatedly, kindly, often humorously,
walking around to peer over their shoulders while they read
their work or simply inviting them by name to offer
something to the conversation. It struck me while I was
(01:00):
sitting there that this is what Maurice Manning does in
his poetry, too. He kindly, often humorously ropes his readers
back from life's distractions, whatever they might be. Before we
begin the interview, he gifts me with a recent publication
of his poetry by Larkspur Press. I thank him and
note the small volumes loveliness, its paper binding and print quality.
(01:23):
He says the man who runs Larkspur Press is named
Gray Zeitz. When he was a young man, this is
what he wanted to do, and he's been doing it
for about 50 years. He operates a letterpress where all
the letters are set by hand. He's got a big
old machine that weighs a ton. He's so highly regarded
that there are book collectors who will buy a copy
(01:43):
of every book that he makes. I can see why.
I say, then, turning it over in my hands, I
read his author's note aloud. I began writing this during
lent of 2015, and during that season, I determined that
I no longer wished to think of any human being
as my enemy. I look at him. He smiles. Your
(02:06):
resolve must have been tested awful fierce during the last
few years of societal and political upheaval, I say. Well,
I'll tell you. We live near the site of the
largest Civil War battle in Kentucky, the Battle of Perryville.
A friend of mine told me a gory tale of
when he was a boy in the early 1950s, while
his parents were renovating a really old house. An old
(02:28):
man came by and said he lived in that house
during the Battle of Perryville, and one day some soldiers
came by with a wounded man on their horse. The
soldiers asked if they could leave him with the family,
and his family obliged. The man had lost an arm
and leg in the battle. They put the soldier up
in the loft where he bled to death. That was
the state of things. Nothing to do for the wounded,
(02:48):
but drop them hither and yon while you're running for
your life. In the summer of 2015, I found part
of a cannonball in my backyard. Finding the cannonball confirmed
those local stories. So, you know, I started thinking about that.
Of course, at that point in our country's history, we
were marching toward 21st century division. I had a realization.
(03:08):
I wouldn't call it an epiphany. I would just call
it a moment of clarity. I thought, why do we
do this? Why do we divide ourselves? Does any good
come of it? And I couldn't think of anything a
bit like the old time family feuds that you write about.
But on a larger scale, I say. Yes, he replies,
(03:28):
much larger and much more is at stake. I think
when we war among ourselves, when we divide ourselves, everyone
loses eventually. There might be a victor and a loser
for a while, but we can't stay in that state.
I find that very compelling. Maybe you could unpack that
a little more. I say I'm thinking of your farm,
for example. A place you love and want to tend. Well,
(03:51):
you are encroached upon by wild animals or invasive species
of plants. You want to create a space that is
healthy and protected. How do you see that as different
from unhealthy division. Difference does not have to mean division.
You know, he says, in our woods we have an
American hornbeam tree growing next to a sugar maple. They're different,
(04:12):
but they're growing out of the same soil. On the
other hand, I didn't fence off my garden last year.
As a consequence, the deer ate it all. This year
I'm going to put up a fence. I'm sure you will,
I say. The deer will have plenty of other things
to eat. He pauses. I'm not trying to evade the question,
but I think we impose artificial divisions. I don't know
(04:33):
if those divisions actually legitimately elevate one characteristic, one difference
over another. You're recognizing difference, I say, but you're pulling
back from a need for a hostile response to those differences.
Is that it? Yes, exactly. If division is based on hostility,
then it doesn't serve anyone. There are differences between you
(04:56):
and your students, I say you strike me as a
teacher who walks alongside his students, tries to fight for them,
and wards off the assault of their distractions. Do you
see yourself in that position? I would say that it's
something I've had to adapt to. I've been teaching for
24 years. When I first started teaching, I thought the
content was inherently valuable and I wouldn't have to prove
(05:17):
its value to anyone. In more recent years, however, I've
realised that what I must do is much bigger. In
some ways, I'm in a position to help my students
make connections and feel connected, to help them feel rooted
in a society that is rootless. I can't fault them
for their rootlessness, but I can pass along the value
of connection and of accepting differences without flying off the handle. Actually,
(05:42):
I add, being able to talk about those differences in
a healthy discourse is becoming a rare thing these days indeed.
Speaking of being rooted, I continue your poetry is very
rooted in Kentucky. Is that a conscious choice, or is
it the consequence of being generationally rooted in Kentucky? I
just don't think I could do it any other way.
(06:02):
I mean, I won't write about riding a subway because
I don't ride on a subway. It's not part of
my daily experience. One of the things that I have
felt very lucky about is that for me, Kentucky is
multiple things at once. By using Kentucky as a lens,
I can look at aspects of human experience that go
far beyond these geographical borders. Basically, you're telling me that
(06:24):
I'm asking an apple tree why it chose to bear
apples rather than pears? That's well put. He says, laughing.
It's still a useful question. I mean, someone was asked
once whether he was a regional writer and he said, well,
isn't everyone? I mean, this is what you've got. This
is what you've been given to write about. I continue.
William Faulkner once said, I discovered that my own little
(06:46):
postage stamp of native soil was worth writing about, and
that I would never live long enough to exhaust it,
and that by sublimating the actual into the apocryphal, I
would have complete liberty to use whatever talent I might
have to its absolute top. He seems to share your leanings.
Do you feel similarly? I do indeed. I'm reading Faulkner
(07:07):
right now. You know, I would never compare myself to Faulkner,
but he's certainly someone I've learned from. Some of my
books are full of personal experience in the here and
now reality, but I've always been very interested in going
beyond the material elements and moving toward a kind of mythology.
Often my poems have one foot in reality and one
foot in the beyond. Part literal and part metaphorical. Let's
(07:30):
talk about the mythology, the apocryphal nature of your poetry.
One of my favorite attributes of your work is a
kind of old time Daniel Boone, Paul Bunyan mythologizing of
people who are really quite ordinary. Are those poems your
attempt to honor some transcendent essence that goes unnoticed? Something
like what Gerard Manley Hopkins called an object's inscape. I
(07:51):
think I'm interested in the potential value of revisiting an
experience that we thought about in one way, he says.
And then later with the passage of time, we thought
about it with greater significance. With the passage of time
comes a dawning of a moment's significance. Is it fair
to say that you're a gardener of memory? I ask
(08:13):
that you love to tend memory and see what blooms
out of that soil. Yes, he says, that's a wonderful
way of looking at it. You've shared that poetry wasn't
part of your childhood. When did poetry woo you? I mean,
if someone from the future had visited ten year old
Maurice Manning and told them that he would one day
be writer in residence at Transylvania University, the kid would
(08:34):
have probably scoffed. We laughed together and Manning says, well,
listen now you are correct. But let me tell you
about this ink pen that I use. He removes the
pen from his shirt pocket. This belonged to my great grandmother,
who was the only person in any part of the
family who read books. She wrote letters and postcards very dutifully.
(08:55):
I often stayed with her. I remember she had this
junk drawer and a pen in that junk drawer with
no ink. But I would take that pen, and I
would take paper and make the action of writing even
without ink, because I associated writing with being serious and kind,
because it was connected to my great grandmother, who was
serious and kind. Many years later, I was at a
(09:17):
writing event. I was taking notes with a drugstore pen,
and a fellow author, Claudia Emerson, leaned over and she said,
don't you think you deserve to write with a more
serious writing instrument? We laugh. I thought to myself, okay,
I'll have to take that under advisement. Her admonishments brought
back the memory of this pen, and I told her
(09:38):
about my grandmother's pen. Well, a couple of weeks later,
I received a package from Claudia. And inside was a
ballpoint version of this exact pen. She had no idea,
of course. And so I called my mother to see
if we had any of great grandmother's things. And sure enough,
among her belongings was this pen. So I bought some
ink and filled it. And I've been using it ever since.
(10:00):
Has the pen. The fact that it belonged to your
great grandmother changed your interaction with your poetry while you write. Yes.
It's made me value the privilege of writing much more.
I have my great grandfather's carpentry pencil. I say it's
just a stub. It was a stub when it was
given to me. But what a strange feeling to realize
(10:20):
that I'm deeply honored to have this thing that isn't special,
apart from the fact that it belonged to my great grandfather.
Maybe that's an appreciation gained with age. Manning nods. Think
of all the work he did with that pencil, he says.
And I think of his spirit that chose to pick
up the pencil and use it to build something. I
add it's not just about the pencil, it's about what
(10:41):
the pencil represents. I want the same persistent spirit in
my work. Indeed. You came to fatherhood late in life,
which is its own joy and terror, I continue. Yes,
yes it is. He laughs and looks out the window.
How has that experience shaped you as a poet? What
has that little lady done to you? Lots. I feel
(11:04):
time more acutely, you know. She'll be relatively young when
I die. I won't be there to guide her or
comfort her, or be an actual companion to her. The
books have the potential to be a companion to her,
I suppose. It's very likely that my little girl will
know me more through my writing than through actual interaction
with me. That thought is almost too overwhelming to consider
(11:26):
for very long. She's a gift. Does it add urgency
to you writing poetry, I ask? No. I don't feel
any rush. Probably the worst thing you can do as
a poet is rush. It usually doesn't go well. Your
little girl is going to grow up in a politically
charged climate. How do you see poetry serving her and
(11:46):
others who might feel awash in conflict, anxiety, the unknown?
Most people have the opportunity, at least at some point
in their lives, to learn that living with frenzy is
not something we have to do. He says there are
plenty of experiences in our world that are the antidote
to that. We can actually develop practices that strengthen those antidotes.
(12:07):
I often suggest to students that they learn to identify
25 species of trees by their leaf, bark and branch system,
then learn to do the same thing with songbirds and wildflowers.
Learn their local names. I'm not suggesting that everyone become
naturalists in a scientific way, in a bookish sense, but
in a human way. I would like them to relate
to the world around them relationally. When my wife and
(12:31):
I bought a piece of land a few years ago,
I found myself feeling a little bereft, I say. I
realized that I didn't know the plants or the flowers
or the birds. I longed to have a name for
these new companions. It's one thing to enjoy the quiet
and being present in nature, but being able to name
the plants and animals around me changes the relationship just
as it does with people. I may notice that you
(12:53):
are present with me in this room, but knowing your
name changes our relationship. When you suggest learning the names
of plants and animals, You're drawing our attention to another
layer of relationship. Yes, he says, you know, for too
many people, nature is the backdrop for humanity, but we
are integrated with it. We are totally dependent on nature,
(13:13):
even if we don't think we are. You would think
we would take better care of it. And go back
to a previous point in this discussion. We are totally
dependent upon each other as human beings. We are kidding
ourselves if we think otherwise. We need each other even
if we don't like each other. There's no doubt about it.
You grew up reading the Bible, I say. How does
(13:33):
your faith inform or interact with your poetry writing? They
definitely interact. I guess I'm hesitant to say, you know
that writing a poem is the same as praying. Writing
a poem might be preliminary to praying. Passing through a
poetic mood might be necessary for me to enter a
time of prayer. Is that because the attention required to
(13:54):
write a poem is required in prayer? That's some of it,
he replies. You know, writing a poem requires language. Words
for me. Prayer is an effort to go beyond words.
Something like when Scripture says that the Holy Spirit hears
our groaning. That the Holy Spirit translates our wordless ache.
I ask. Exactly. A poem is too anchored in human reality.
(14:18):
The spiritual effort is to reach a spiritual reality that
transcends the human, and in some ways is inexplicable to
the human mind. Would you say that the Christian faith
of your youth runs parallel to your poetry? I'm not
simply referring to Christian doctrine. It's more than that. What's
their relationship? Well, I was raised a Christian. I attend
(14:40):
a Christian church. In my experience, my poetry and the
Christian religion definitely run parallel in poetry. Though I can
ask questions about the religious, I can voice hesitation or skepticism.
The poem can ask the question, but it can't provide
the answer. Religion might be able to answer the question,
but not always. You know, daily experience invites us to
(15:02):
profound encounters that we may not actually understand. The poem
can only point that out. It can't resolve anything. Poetry
can highlight our dilemma, but it can't resolve what religion resolves.
In your book of poems, One Man's Dark, you have
these job like moments when you ask God really frank questions.
(15:22):
These are honest inner locutions, but they don't resolve the ambiguity.
It's hard to live in ambiguity, but poetry requires that
a little bit. It does, he says. You know, my
students are pre-programmed to oppose ambiguity, but I tell them
that very often the subjects of poetry and even of
art are ambiguous. Maybe that's one reason why we need art.
(15:43):
It helps us encounter ambiguity in terms that deepen us.
Your poetry leans toward the quiet beauty of creation. Do
you feel a need to point our eyes toward those things?
I've never wanted my poetry to preach, he says. As
far as my experience goes, the quiet beauty of a
natural place is soothing. But not just that. It's way
(16:04):
more than that. It's the surest way to understand that
we belong to the natural order. When I walk in
the woods, I stop thinking of myself. I don't worry
about anything in my immediate circumstance. In some ways, my
so-called self ceases to matter in any way at all
because I am fully integrated in something bigger than myself.
I'm as integrated as the moss on the tree or
(16:26):
the wildflowers perking up in the leaf matter. I find
it a great comfort to sense that I belong here,
just as the violet belongs here. Okay, I say, we've
been very serious, but we should talk about your podcast.
How did that come into the world? Ha! All right,
let's see, he replies. It was during the pandemic in
(16:48):
2020 and I suddenly had more time on my hands.
I was aware that many people, including some of my friends,
needed some laughter. So I decided to write a bunch
of goofy poems and share those poems with my friends
who felt worried and threatened. In the Appalachian region, there's
a tradition of tall tales called Jack tales. The characters
are larger than life and the events are completely outrageous,
(17:09):
but they're presented as if they're totally normal. So I
wrote a bunch of these Jack tales. I found out
there was state Art Council funding available, and I applied
for it, though I had never heard a podcast before,
I told them I was going to make a podcast.
So my friend, a man who understands the technology involved
and I started the Grinnin Possum podcast. It's a bit
(17:30):
of a local idiom. The possum is a trickster in
Appalachian folklore. We did ten episodes, and eventually we started
traveling the state to record episodes at interesting locations with
live audiences. We recorded one of those episodes in an
old church called the Old Mud Meetinghouse. It's a church
built in the 1800s. The acoustics are the most interesting
(17:50):
I've ever heard. We added a fiddle player and a
mandolin player. Each episode has a goofy poem or two.
A couple of old time songs and a little bit
of the local history. Honestly, it doesn't feel like we're performing.
It feels like we're enjoying something together as a community.
Humor pervades your work. I say it's often subtle in
your poetry, but in this podcast it's overt. Would you
(18:12):
say that humorous poetry is a cathartic release for you,
or is it the little boy inside who keeps coming out?
He laughs. It's more the latter. I know that the
present circumstances of the world are grim, but I can't
help but find humor. I love to laugh. I love
cutting up with other people. Sometimes it doesn't take other people.
I'll just do it on my own. He laughs again. Okay.
(18:36):
Final question. How would you conclude the following, dear poet?
Your answer can be quite open. You could address dead poets,
living poets, even poets not yet born. All right. I
guess I would say, dear poet, I hope you recognize
that what you do is a privilege. And I hope
(18:57):
you enjoy it. Enjoy the work, Whether it gets published
or not, I add. Correct. Appreciate what you do for
what it is. Here's one of my favorite poems by
Maurice Manning titled Morning and Evening. I shall Drink the Dew.
(19:20):
It's not an effort, but a fact that time stops
being time. And there's nothing left to realize. Because the
mind at last belongs to the landscape. Where it is
like the root of an ironwood tree plunging into the
spongy ground with moss and sorrel and nameless green above,
and warbling birdsong, singing before first light. There's nothing for
(19:43):
the mind to think, nothing to do, and no awareness
to piddle with. Now that's one of the biggest follies ever.
To stroll in the shade of folly. To be aware
to the point of being too aware, you have to
forget yourself and belong to a world you Old. You
grasp imperfectly and partly as a dream. That's not your
(20:04):
dream at all. It's where the loved ones all have gone.
Your father's horse. The storytellers and those in the story.
The singing voice you've always heard. The rivers, the woods,
the green. The birds. The beginning and end of you.
And time. And then. And then you make it rhyme.
S1 (20:33):
An axe for the Frozen Sea is published by Rabbit
Room Press. The audio book is published by Oasis Audio.
Copyright by Ben Pallant. 2024 by Chris Badeker.
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