July 30, 2025 • 31 mins
In our fiftieth episode, Nicole Sealey chooses poems that speak to the lasting power of big ideas offered generously to one’s community. She shares Toi Derricotte forecasting the spirit of Cave Canem (“I say hello, oracle, kind mother...”), Cornelius Eady responding to racism with defiant love (“Gratitude”), and Patricia Smith reminding us that poetry is a life-affirming art (“Building Nicole’s Mama”). Sealey closes with her piece “The First Person Who Will Live to Be One Hundred and Fifty Years Old Has Already Been Born,” a poem that measures time in the span of open arms.
Find the full recordings of Derricotte, Eady, and Smith reading for the Poetry Center on Voca:
Toi Derricotte (February 19, 1992)
Cornelius Eady (November 6, 1991)
Patricia Smith (November 10, 2004)
You can also enjoy a recording of Sealey reading at the Poetry Center in 2023 and participating in a virtual reading in 2021.
Participate in the 2025 #SealeyChallenge, a community challenge to read one book of poetry a day for the month of August. There's no official sign-up to participate and everyone is welcome to join in! Find reading ideas and other information here and use/find the hashtag #SealeyChallenge on your social channels to follow along and learn more.
Full transcripts of every episode are available on Buzzsprout. Look for the transcript tab under each episode.
Voca is now fully captioned, with interactive transcripts and captions available for all readings! Read more about the project here, or try out this new feature by visiting Voca.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE SWARSTAD (00:02):
You're listening to Poetry Centered,
the show that brings youarchival recordings of poets
reading from their work,selected and introduced for you
by a contemporary poet.
This podcast comes to you fromthe University of Arizona Poetry
Center and from Voca, ouronline audiovisual archive.
I'm Julie Swarstad Johnson,the Poetry Center's archivist.
(00:26):
It is a delight to welcomeyou back to the show,
especially because thisis our 50th episode.
Our first episodecame out in July 2020,
and we had no ideathat we would still
be making this podcast 5years and 50 episodes later.
We're still making this showbecause of you, dear listeners.
(00:48):
We've had more than29,000 downloads,
and you've listened from everycontinent except Antarctica.
We never stop being gratefulthat you're out there.
Thank you so much forgoing on this adventure
into the Voca archive with us.
For this 50th episode, we arepleased to welcome poet Nicole
(01:08):
Sealey as our host.
Her most recent collection ofpoetry is The Ferguson Report--
An Erasure, andwith John Murillo,
she edited the recentanthology, Dear Yusef--
Essays, Letters, and Poems Forand About One Mr. Komunyakaa.
Her work has beenwidely recognized
with honors and fellowships,and she's a former Executive
(01:31):
Director of CaveCanem, which she'll
allude to in this episode.
Nicole is also the founderof the Sealey Challenge,
a community challenge toread one book of poetry a day
for the month of August.
There's no officialsignup to participate,
and everyone iswelcome to join in.
Nicole has entrusted the SealeyChallenge to the Poetry Center
(01:53):
since 2023, and you can findmore information, including
book ideas to getyou started, and ways
to engage withother participants
online by visiting thelink in the show notes.
We hope you'll join in andimmerse yourself in poetry
this August.
In today's episode,Nicole follows
(02:13):
seeds of inspiration,encouragement, and generosity
to Toi Derricotte, CorneliusEady, and Patricia Smith.
One of Nicole's selectionshas an unintended connection
to her very firstepisode, hosted by Alison
Hawthorne Deming.
Both Alison and Nicole chooseCornelius Eady's "Gratitude,"
(02:33):
a poem that affirms love asthe answer to discrimination
and invites all voicesinto poetry's realm.
It's a perfect callbackfor our episode today.
Nicole, welcome.
We're grateful to haveyou here as our guide.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
NICOLE SEALEY (02:53):
Good afternoon.
This is Nicole Sealey,and I'm recording
this in Provincetown,Massachusetts,
at the Fine Arts Work Center.
I've been thinking a lotlately about beginnings,
how a single idea can lead toart, initiatives, institutions.
(03:14):
The Fine Arts Work Centeris almost 60 years old.
The Poetry Center, which hascared for the Sealey Challenge,
a community readingactivity I started in 2017,
will be 65 in November.
Its poetry podcast,Poetry Centered, too,
(03:37):
was once just an idea.
This episode is its 50th.
In celebration of bigideas, I'm excited to talk
about three incrediblepoems by three
of the most generous poets,Toi Derricotte, Cornelius
Eady, and Patricia Smith.
(04:01):
The first recording I wouldlike to share is Toi Derricotte
reading, "I say hello, oracle,kind mother," on February 19,
1992.
To my knowledge, this poem doesnot appear in any of her six
poetry collections, includingher New and Selected "I,"
(04:22):
published in 2019.
In her introductionto the poem, Toi
notes that she wrote itthe day before her reading.
How cruel of her to say.
I joke, but she's caughtlightning in a bottle
with this poem.
Reading a new poem to eventhe friendliest of audiences
(04:45):
is an exercise in vulnerabilityas the poem itself is
raw and therefore vulnerable.
With new poems,especially, us poets
must have an intimateunderstanding
of our own creativeintuition, deciding
whether a poem hasfully expressed itself
(05:07):
or is holding back.
"I say hello, oracle, kindmother," despite its youth,
does not hold back, and tomy ear, sounds fully formed.
Derricotte prefacesthe poem with another,
the title poem from her1978 debut collection,
(05:29):
"The empress ofthe death house."
In this poem, the speakerfiguratively nurses
from her grandmother's breasts.
"I say hello,oracle, kind mother"
similarly captures this kindof maternal care as it reflects
on a statue of a nativestoryteller with its mouth open,
(05:51):
as if imparting wisdom, holdingbabies also with open mouths,
symbolizing the transmissionof oral traditions across
generations.
I should mention that "I sayhello, oracle, kind mother"
is actually untitled, butfor reference purposes,
(06:11):
its opening line or lines, asI'm not sure how it was written
on the page, functionsas its title.
The poem continues,you who have opened
your mouth, who have allowedher babies to open their mouths.
I interpret this as acommentary on the responsibility
(06:33):
and influence ofpoets, as a gesture
of gratitude for those who haveadvocated for or encouraged
others, perhaps younger orunderrepresented writers.
It's fascinating to considerhow "I say hello, oracle,
kind mother" may haveforeshadowed the birth of Cave
(06:54):
Canem, as its themes mirrorthe organization's mission,
fostering Black poets andcultivating a space for Black
voices to thrive.
Toi wrote this poem four yearsbefore Cave Canem's founding
in 1996, suggesting that itscreative insights possibly
(07:16):
laid the groundwork for thegroundbreaking initiative,
proving that poems cansometimes serve as forecasts
for what is to come.
Let's listen to Toi Derricotteread "I say hello, oracle,
kind mother."[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
TOI (07:37):
I read that in conjunction with a poem I wrote yesterday.
I went to a little shop aroundhere that sells some local art,
and the woman told me the storyof the storyteller, the Doll,
or the-- do youknow this statue?
(07:58):
It's part of anIndian tradition.
I'm sure you know loadsmore about this than I do.
But anyway, one of thethings I've been doing
is collecting womenportraits and statues
to put around my desk.
It started with a Crucian womanwho was the-- someone sent me
(08:23):
a picture in the mail ofa Crucian woman, a very
strong, dignified woman,probably about 70.
And she's communicatingher strength to me.
Then somebody sent me GertrudeStein at 26 years old,
and I put Gertrude upthere looking at me.
She's a ratherforbidding presence.
(08:45):
And I found this storyteller.
And if you see, shealways has her mouth open
and there are babiesshe's holding,
and the babies allhave their mouths open.
And she's sitting veryflat and the babies
are hanging on to her.
(09:07):
And I thought abouthow in my childhood,
from a lot of places Iwas hearing, don't say it.
Don't tell it.
Be quiet.
Don't say the truth.
(09:29):
And I was thinkingof sometimes how hard
it is to peel backthe layers and say
what it is you need to say.
Sometimes you have togo against the people
you love, even, sometimesto say what you need to say.
And so storyteller,I bought storyteller.
(09:51):
I left the store and I said,I'll come back tomorrow,
but then I came backand I got storyteller.
And this is what Iwrote last night.
I say, hello,oracle, kind mother,
you who have openedyour mouth, who
have allowed all of yourbabies to open their mouths.
(10:13):
Storyteller of theburied, storyteller
of the gods and goddesses,storyteller of the living
Earth-grounded, butfixed flat to Earth.
From Earth, the voicesrise through your anus.
You feel your legs vibrate.
Your spine the rodof the universe
(10:33):
that all the fruit must clingto, each arm a branch of stars.
You look at us intensely.
We are your mirror.
Your words repeat whatyou hear in our hearts.
The secrets under sleeping lids.
Your children clingas to a roaring train,
(10:54):
though you are still calm.
They sense your movement.
You will never beat this place again.
The Earth falls naked,stripped to dirt mountains.
Now we can listen towhat we cannot yet hear.
[END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NI (11:21):
The second recording I would like to share is Cornelius Eady
reading "Gratitude" from hissecond poetry collection,
The Gathering of My Name,on November 6, 1991.
In the poem, thespeaker reflects
on coming into consciousnessas a Black writer,
and his responsibilitiesas such.
(11:42):
His perspective highlightsart as both a personal journey
and a social service.
The poem's speaker, a36-year-old Black male American
poet, meditates on thecomplexities of his success
in relation tosocietal expectations.
In the face of those who havedoubted or diminished him
(12:05):
and his successes, the speakeremphasizes the importance
of living honestlyand with gratitude.
The poem reads, andto the famous poet
who thinks literature holdsno small musics, love.
And to the publishers whobelieve in their marrow,
there's no profit onthe fringes, love.
(12:30):
The answer for thespeaker is always love.
The answer for the authorhas always been love.
Emphasizing thatlove and grace are
some of the most powerful andenduring responses to anything.
The poem continues,and to the bullies
(12:53):
who need the musty air of theclubhouse all to themselves,
I am a brick in a house that isbeing built around your house.
Visually, the poem's lines arestacked one on top of the other,
creating the appearance of astructure under construction.
The house being built around thehouse is, I believe, Cave Canem.
(13:19):
Like Toi's poem,Cornelius's "Gratitude"
reads as a poetic precursorto the organization.
The poem's closetemporal proximity
to the organization'sbeginnings suggests
that it could haveinspired or reflected
the cultural and artisticmomentum that led to Cave Canem.
(13:41):
Additionally, "Gratitude" takesup the tradition of affirmation
poetry, exemplified byClifton's, "Won't you celebrate
with me," andKomunyakaa's "Thanks,"
both of which embracegratitude as a powerful act
of self-affirmation.
Here is Cornelius Eadyreading "Gratitude."
(14:03):
[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
CORNELIUS EADY (14:07):
This is from The Gathering of My Name,
and these poemsare, again, dealing
with the idea of becomingmore conscious of yourself
as a Black writer, butalso as the idea of--
I think, maybe moreto the point might
be the idea of the questionbetween your responsibility
as a poet to yourcommunity, or maybe even
(14:30):
to-- another wayof putting it is
the idea of the responsibilityof the social poet, which
we don't seem to havethat much of anymore.
Or maybe if we do havethis, it doesn't seem
to be paid much attention to.
So this first poem I'm about toread is about a lot of stuff.
It's about the idea ofyour idea of identity.
(14:51):
It's also about the way of,when you get to a certain point,
being able to look back and seehow other people look at you,
but you weren't reallypaying attention
to, luckily, because theyweren't expecting much.
And also the idea ofsaying thanks because you
(15:11):
have to do that.
It's necessary.
This is called "Gratitude."I'm here to tell
you an old story.
This appears to be my work.
I live in the world, walk thestreets of New York, this dear
city, I want to tellyou, I'm 36 years old,
(15:33):
I have lived in andagainst my blood.
I want to tell you I amgrateful because after all, I
am a Black American poet.
I'm 36, and no one hasto tell me about luck.
I mean, after a reading,someone asked me once,
if you weren't doing this, what,if anything, would you be doing?
(15:55):
And I didn't say whatwe both understood,
I'm a Black American male.
I own this particular storyon this particular street
at this particular moment.
This appears to be my work.
I'm 36 years old,and all I have to do
is repeat what Inotice over and over,
all I have to do is remember.
(16:18):
And to the famous poetwho thinks literature
holds no small musics, love.
And to the publishers whobelieve in their marrow,
that there is no profiton the fringes, love.
And to those who needthe promise of wind,
the sound of branches stirringbeneath the line, here's
another environmentpoised to open.
(16:41):
Everyone reminds me what anamazing odyssey I'm undertaking,
as well they should.
After all, I'm aBlack American poet,
and my greatest weakness isan inability to sustain rage.
Who knows what will happen next?
This appears to beone for the books.
If you train yourears for what's unstated beneath
(17:01):
the congratulations,that silence is my story.
The pure celebrationand shock of my face
defying its gravity,so to speak.
I claim this tiny glee,not just for myself,
but for my parentswho shook their heads.
I'm older now than myfather was when he had me,
(17:22):
which is no bigdeal, except I have
personal knowledge of thewind that tilts the head back.
And I claim thisloose-seed-in-the-air glee
on behalf of the social studiesteacher I had in the 10th grade,
a real bastard who took me asideafter class the afternoon he
heard I was leaving for aprivate school just to let me
(17:44):
know he expected meto drown out there.
That I held the knowledgeof the drowned man,
the regret of ruinedflesh in my eyes.
Which was fair enough,except I believe
I've been teaching far longernow than he had that day,
and I know the blessingof a narrow escape.
And I claim thisrooster-pull-down-morning glee
(18:05):
on behalf of anyone who sawme coming and said, yes,
even when I was loud,cocky, insecure,
even when all they could haveseen was the promise of a germ,
even when it meantyielding ground.
I am a bit older than they werewhen I walked into that room
or class or party,and I understand
(18:28):
the value of the unstated push.
A lucky man getsto sing his name.
I have survived long enoughto tell a bit of an old story.
And to those who defend poetryagainst all foreign tongues,
love.
And to those whobelieve a dropped clause
signifies encroachment, love.
(18:51):
And to the bullies who need themusty air of the clubhouse all
to themselves, I am abrick in a house that is
being built around your house.
I am 36 years old, aBlack American poet.
Nearly all the things thatweren't supposed to occur
has happened anyway, andI have a natural inability
(19:12):
to sustain ragedespite the evidence.
I have proof and the jobthat comes as simple to me
as breathing.
[APPLAUSE][END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NIC (19:36):
The final recording I would like to share is Patricia Smith
reading "Building Nicole'sMama" on November 10, 2004.
This opening poem fromSmith's 2006 collection,
Teahouse of the Almighty,functions as an ars poetica,
considering poetry'spurpose in our daily lives,
(19:58):
questioning for whompoetry is intended,
and what impact it can have.
"Building Nicole's Mama" arguesthat poetry is for everyone,
while also emphasizing thepoet's responsibility to make
meaningful work that revealschallenges and/or consoles.
(20:18):
The poem underscoresthat poetry is essential,
and that it is an activeforce in our experience.
Patricia skillfullyemploys dialogue
in her poem to captureher students's voices,
demonstrating herdeep understanding and genuine
connection with them.
(20:38):
Her ability to see, hear,and know her students
ensures they are portrayed asreal individuals rather than
caricatures, adding to thepoem's emotional resonance
and authenticity.
Nicole asks the speaker,can you teach me
to write a poem about my mama?
(21:00):
With this request,the girl seeks a way
to preserve hermother's memory, showing
poetry's role as a vesselfor personal history.
The poem's title implies afocus on Nicole's mother,
but its deeper messageemphasizes the importance
of poetry as a vital,life-affirming art,
(21:23):
an instruction in how languagecan help process grief,
celebrate love, and keepmemories alive amidst loss.
Now that theNicole's of the world
know that poetsand poetry exist,
we must all do right by them.
(21:44):
Smith inscribed acopy of her collection
Close to Death to me withthe following message,
I hope the voices hereinspire you to raise your own.
"Building Nicole's Mama"offers that same advice,
that same big idea to readers,if not to raise our voices
for ourselves, at least, toraise them for little girls like
(22:07):
Nicole.
Ask anyone, Patricia Smith'sinfluence on emerging poets,
especially those fromtraditionally underrepresented
backgrounds, is profound.
Her presence and mentorshiphave inspired many,
including myself, to seethemselves as legitimate poets.
(22:32):
Here is Patricia Smith reading"Building Nicole's Mama."
[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
PATRICIA SM (22:40):
We'll do a mixture.
Thank you very much.
That was wonderful.
We'll do a mixture of someold stuff and some new stuff.
God, you guys are intimidating.
[LAUGHTER]I start all my readings
out with the same poem.
I used to teach residency to agroup of sixth graders in Miami,
(23:02):
and when I first camebounding in saying,
well, I'm here toteach you poetry,
I realized thatthe area I was in
had a high incidence of druguse, so a lot of the kids
had lost parents orsiblings to AIDS.
And there was a little girl inthe class whose mother had just
died the week before, and shewas already back in school.
So I do this poembecause it reminds
me of how powerful poetryis, how it can take you
(23:25):
from one place in yourhead to a safer place,
and this little girlwho came up to me
and asked me to teach her towrite a poem about her mother
so that she hadsomething to remember.
So this is dedicated tothe sixth grade class
at Lillie C. Evans ElementarySchool, Dade County, Miami,
which they made me promise tosay every time I did the poem,
and they would know.
(23:46):
I am astonished at theirmouthful names, Lakinishia,
Chevellanie, Delayo, Fumilayo,their ragged rebellions
and lip-glossed pouts and allthose pants drooped as drapery.
I rejoice when they kiss myface, whisper wet and urgent
in my ear, makeme their obsession
because I havebrought them poetry.
(24:09):
They shout me raw, bruise mywrists with their pulling,
and brashly claim me asmama as they cradle my head
in their little laps,waiting for new words
to grow in my mouth.
You.
You.
You.
Angry, jubilant,weeping poets, we
(24:30):
are all saviors, reluctanthosannas in the limelight,
but you knew that, didn't you?
So let us bless the sixth gradeclass, 40 cracking voices,
40 nappy heads, and all of themraise their hands when I ask.
They have all seen the Reaper,grim and his heavy robe,
pushing the button forthe dead project elevator,
begging for a break atthe corner pawn shop,
(24:51):
cackling wildly in the backpew of the Baptist church.
I ask the death question, and40 fists punch the air, me, me.
And O'Neal, matchstickcrack child,
watched his mother'sbody become a claw.
And 9-year-old Tiko Jefferson,barely big enough to lift
the gun, fired a bullet into histhroat when mama bended his back
(25:13):
with a lead pipe.
Tamika cried into a sofapillow when daddy blasted mama
into the north wall of theircluttered one-room apartment.
Donya's cousin,gone in a drive-by.
Dark window, click,click, gone, says Donya,
her tiny finger a barrel,the thumb a hammer.
I am astonished attheir losses, and yet,
(25:34):
when I read a poem aboutmy own hard-eyed teenager,
Jeffrey asks, is he dead yet?
It cannot be comprehended,an 18-year-old still pushing
and pulling his own breath.
And 40 faces pity meknowing that I will soon be,
as they are, numb toour bloody histories,
favoring the Reaper withthe thumbs up and a wink,
(25:55):
hearing the questionand shouting,
me, me, Miss Smith,I know somebody dead.
Can poetry hurt us, theyask me, before crawling
into my words to sleep.
I love you, Nicole says.
Nicole, wearing my face,pimples peppering her nose,
and she is as Blackas angels are.
(26:17):
Nicole's braids kissed withmatch flame to seal them,
and can you teach me to write apoem about my mama, Miss Smith?
I mean, you write aboutyour daddy and he's dead.
Can you teach me toremember my mama?
A teacher tells me this is thefirst time Nicole has admitted
that her mother is gone,murdered by slim silver needles
and a stranger rifling throughher blood, the virus pushing
(26:40):
her skeleton throughfor Nicole to see.
And now this child with rustyknees and mismatched shoes
sees poetry as her screamand asks me for the words
to build her mother again.
Replacing the voice.
Stitching on the lost flesh.
So poets, as we takethe stage, as we
(27:01):
flirt and sin and rejoice behindmicrophones, remember Nicole.
She knows that we are herenow and she is an empty vessel
waiting to be filled.
And she is waiting.
And she is waiting.
(27:23):
And she waits.
[APPLAUSE][END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NICO (27:43):
Given all these references to maternal care,
to love, to mentorship, I thinkI'll read a poem for my mother.
It's called "The first personwho will live to be one hundred
and fifty years oldhas already been born."
Scientists say theaverage human life gets
(28:04):
three months longer every year.
By this math, death will beoptional, like a tie or dessert
or suffering.
My mother asks whetherI'd want to live forever.
I'd get bored, I tell her.
But she says, there'sso much to do.
Meaning she believes there'smuch she hasn't done.
(28:28):
30 years ago, shewas the age I am now,
but unlike me, too industriousto think about birds disappeared
by rain.
If only we had moretime or enough money
to be kept on ice untilsuch a time science
could bring us back.
(28:49):
Of late, my mother has begunto think life short-lived.
I'm too young toconvince her otherwise.
The one and only occasion I wasin the same room as the Mona
Lisa, it was encasedin glass behind what
I imagine were velvet ropes.
(29:10):
There's far less betweenourselves and oblivion.
Skin that often defeatsits very purpose.
Or maybe its purposeisn't protection at all,
but rather to provide a placesimilar to a doctor's waiting
room in which to sit untilour names are called.
(29:33):
Hold your questionsuntil the end.
Mother, measuremy wide open arms.
We still have thismuch time to kill.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE SWA (29:56):
You've been listening to Nicole Sealey,
and this is Poetry Centered.
Nicole, thank youso much for sharing
this encouraging vision ofpoets work in the world with us.
Listeners, thank you for theencouragement of your listening.
You are why we make this show.
This is the first in anew series of episodes,
(30:17):
and we hope you'll join usover the next few months
as new episodes arereleased every two weeks.
Look forward toupcoming episodes
hosted by Harmony Holiday,Samuel Ace, Leila Chatti,
and Dawn Lundy Martin.
Until then, enjoyour back catalog
of episodes, maybeeven in Antarctica,
and explore Voca on your own.
(30:39):
We'll see you next time.
Poetry Centered is a project ofthe University of Arizona Poetry
Center, home to a world-classlibrary collection of more than
80,000 items related tocontemporary poetry in English
and English translation.
Located on the campus of theUniversity of Arizona in Tucson,
(31:01):
the Poetry Centerlibrary and buildings
are housed on the Indigenoushomelands of the Tohono O'odham
and Pascua Yaqui.
Poetry Centered is the workof Aria Pahari, that's me,
and Julie Swarstad Johnson.
Explore Voca, the PoetryCenter's audio visual archive
online at voca.arizona.edu.
(31:26):
[MUSIC PLAYING]
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE SWARSTAD (00:02):
You're listening to Poetry Centered,
the show that brings youarchival recordings of poets
reading from their work,selected and introduced for you
by a contemporary poet.
This podcast comes to you fromthe University of Arizona Poetry
Center and from Voca, ouronline audiovisual archive.
I'm Julie Swarstad Johnson,the Poetry Center's archivist.
(00:26):
It is a delight to welcomeyou back to the show,
especially because thisis our 50th episode.
Our first episodecame out in July 2020,
and we had no ideathat we would still
be making this podcast 5years and 50 episodes later.
We're still making this showbecause of you, dear listeners.
(00:48):
We've had more than29,000 downloads,
and you've listened from everycontinent except Antarctica.
We never stop being gratefulthat you're out there.
Thank you so much forgoing on this adventure
into the Voca archive with us.
For this 50th episode, we arepleased to welcome poet Nicole
(01:08):
Sealey as our host.
Her most recent collection ofpoetry is The Ferguson Report--
An Erasure, andwith John Murillo,
she edited the recentanthology, Dear Yusef--
Essays, Letters, and Poems Forand About One Mr. Komunyakaa.
Her work has beenwidely recognized
with honors and fellowships,and she's a former Executive
(01:31):
Director of CaveCanem, which she'll
allude to in this episode.
Nicole is also the founderof the Sealey Challenge,
a community challenge toread one book of poetry a day
for the month of August.
There's no officialsignup to participate,
and everyone iswelcome to join in.
Nicole has entrusted the SealeyChallenge to the Poetry Center
(01:53):
since 2023, and you can findmore information, including
book ideas to getyou started, and ways
to engage withother participants
online by visiting thelink in the show notes.
We hope you'll join in andimmerse yourself in poetry
this August.
In today's episode,Nicole follows
(02:13):
seeds of inspiration,encouragement, and generosity
to Toi Derricotte, CorneliusEady, and Patricia Smith.
One of Nicole's selectionshas an unintended connection
to her very firstepisode, hosted by Alison
Hawthorne Deming.
Both Alison and Nicole chooseCornelius Eady's "Gratitude,"
(02:33):
a poem that affirms love asthe answer to discrimination
and invites all voicesinto poetry's realm.
It's a perfect callbackfor our episode today.
Nicole, welcome.
We're grateful to haveyou here as our guide.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
NICOLE SEALEY (02:53):
Good afternoon.
This is Nicole Sealey,and I'm recording
this in Provincetown,Massachusetts,
at the Fine Arts Work Center.
I've been thinking a lotlately about beginnings,
how a single idea can lead toart, initiatives, institutions.
(03:14):
The Fine Arts Work Centeris almost 60 years old.
The Poetry Center, which hascared for the Sealey Challenge,
a community readingactivity I started in 2017,
will be 65 in November.
Its poetry podcast,Poetry Centered, too,
(03:37):
was once just an idea.
This episode is its 50th.
In celebration of bigideas, I'm excited to talk
about three incrediblepoems by three
of the most generous poets,Toi Derricotte, Cornelius
Eady, and Patricia Smith.
(04:01):
The first recording I wouldlike to share is Toi Derricotte
reading, "I say hello, oracle,kind mother," on February 19,
1992.
To my knowledge, this poem doesnot appear in any of her six
poetry collections, includingher New and Selected "I,"
(04:22):
published in 2019.
In her introductionto the poem, Toi
notes that she wrote itthe day before her reading.
How cruel of her to say.
I joke, but she's caughtlightning in a bottle
with this poem.
Reading a new poem to eventhe friendliest of audiences
(04:45):
is an exercise in vulnerabilityas the poem itself is
raw and therefore vulnerable.
With new poems,especially, us poets
must have an intimateunderstanding
of our own creativeintuition, deciding
whether a poem hasfully expressed itself
(05:07):
or is holding back.
"I say hello, oracle, kindmother," despite its youth,
does not hold back, and tomy ear, sounds fully formed.
Derricotte prefacesthe poem with another,
the title poem from her1978 debut collection,
(05:29):
"The empress ofthe death house."
In this poem, the speakerfiguratively nurses
from her grandmother's breasts.
"I say hello,oracle, kind mother"
similarly captures this kindof maternal care as it reflects
on a statue of a nativestoryteller with its mouth open,
(05:51):
as if imparting wisdom, holdingbabies also with open mouths,
symbolizing the transmissionof oral traditions across
generations.
I should mention that "I sayhello, oracle, kind mother"
is actually untitled, butfor reference purposes,
(06:11):
its opening line or lines, asI'm not sure how it was written
on the page, functionsas its title.
The poem continues,you who have opened
your mouth, who have allowedher babies to open their mouths.
I interpret this as acommentary on the responsibility
(06:33):
and influence ofpoets, as a gesture
of gratitude for those who haveadvocated for or encouraged
others, perhaps younger orunderrepresented writers.
It's fascinating to considerhow "I say hello, oracle,
kind mother" may haveforeshadowed the birth of Cave
(06:54):
Canem, as its themes mirrorthe organization's mission,
fostering Black poets andcultivating a space for Black
voices to thrive.
Toi wrote this poem four yearsbefore Cave Canem's founding
in 1996, suggesting that itscreative insights possibly
(07:16):
laid the groundwork for thegroundbreaking initiative,
proving that poems cansometimes serve as forecasts
for what is to come.
Let's listen to Toi Derricotteread "I say hello, oracle,
kind mother."[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
TOI (07:37):
I read that in conjunction with a poem I wrote yesterday.
I went to a little shop aroundhere that sells some local art,
and the woman told me the storyof the storyteller, the Doll,
or the-- do youknow this statue?
(07:58):
It's part of anIndian tradition.
I'm sure you know loadsmore about this than I do.
But anyway, one of thethings I've been doing
is collecting womenportraits and statues
to put around my desk.
It started with a Crucian womanwho was the-- someone sent me
(08:23):
a picture in the mail ofa Crucian woman, a very
strong, dignified woman,probably about 70.
And she's communicatingher strength to me.
Then somebody sent me GertrudeStein at 26 years old,
and I put Gertrude upthere looking at me.
She's a ratherforbidding presence.
(08:45):
And I found this storyteller.
And if you see, shealways has her mouth open
and there are babiesshe's holding,
and the babies allhave their mouths open.
And she's sitting veryflat and the babies
are hanging on to her.
(09:07):
And I thought abouthow in my childhood,
from a lot of places Iwas hearing, don't say it.
Don't tell it.
Be quiet.
Don't say the truth.
(09:29):
And I was thinkingof sometimes how hard
it is to peel backthe layers and say
what it is you need to say.
Sometimes you have togo against the people
you love, even, sometimesto say what you need to say.
And so storyteller,I bought storyteller.
(09:51):
I left the store and I said,I'll come back tomorrow,
but then I came backand I got storyteller.
And this is what Iwrote last night.
I say, hello,oracle, kind mother,
you who have openedyour mouth, who
have allowed all of yourbabies to open their mouths.
(10:13):
Storyteller of theburied, storyteller
of the gods and goddesses,storyteller of the living
Earth-grounded, butfixed flat to Earth.
From Earth, the voicesrise through your anus.
You feel your legs vibrate.
Your spine the rodof the universe
(10:33):
that all the fruit must clingto, each arm a branch of stars.
You look at us intensely.
We are your mirror.
Your words repeat whatyou hear in our hearts.
The secrets under sleeping lids.
Your children clingas to a roaring train,
(10:54):
though you are still calm.
They sense your movement.
You will never beat this place again.
The Earth falls naked,stripped to dirt mountains.
Now we can listen towhat we cannot yet hear.
[END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NI (11:21):
The second recording I would like to share is Cornelius Eady
reading "Gratitude" from hissecond poetry collection,
The Gathering of My Name,on November 6, 1991.
In the poem, thespeaker reflects
on coming into consciousnessas a Black writer,
and his responsibilitiesas such.
(11:42):
His perspective highlightsart as both a personal journey
and a social service.
The poem's speaker, a36-year-old Black male American
poet, meditates on thecomplexities of his success
in relation tosocietal expectations.
In the face of those who havedoubted or diminished him
(12:05):
and his successes, the speakeremphasizes the importance
of living honestlyand with gratitude.
The poem reads, andto the famous poet
who thinks literature holdsno small musics, love.
And to the publishers whobelieve in their marrow,
there's no profit onthe fringes, love.
(12:30):
The answer for thespeaker is always love.
The answer for the authorhas always been love.
Emphasizing thatlove and grace are
some of the most powerful andenduring responses to anything.
The poem continues,and to the bullies
(12:53):
who need the musty air of theclubhouse all to themselves,
I am a brick in a house that isbeing built around your house.
Visually, the poem's lines arestacked one on top of the other,
creating the appearance of astructure under construction.
The house being built around thehouse is, I believe, Cave Canem.
(13:19):
Like Toi's poem,Cornelius's "Gratitude"
reads as a poetic precursorto the organization.
The poem's closetemporal proximity
to the organization'sbeginnings suggests
that it could haveinspired or reflected
the cultural and artisticmomentum that led to Cave Canem.
(13:41):
Additionally, "Gratitude" takesup the tradition of affirmation
poetry, exemplified byClifton's, "Won't you celebrate
with me," andKomunyakaa's "Thanks,"
both of which embracegratitude as a powerful act
of self-affirmation.
Here is Cornelius Eadyreading "Gratitude."
(14:03):
[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
CORNELIUS EADY (14:07):
This is from The Gathering of My Name,
and these poemsare, again, dealing
with the idea of becomingmore conscious of yourself
as a Black writer, butalso as the idea of--
I think, maybe moreto the point might
be the idea of the questionbetween your responsibility
as a poet to yourcommunity, or maybe even
(14:30):
to-- another wayof putting it is
the idea of the responsibilityof the social poet, which
we don't seem to havethat much of anymore.
Or maybe if we do havethis, it doesn't seem
to be paid much attention to.
So this first poem I'm about toread is about a lot of stuff.
It's about the idea ofyour idea of identity.
(14:51):
It's also about the way of,when you get to a certain point,
being able to look back and seehow other people look at you,
but you weren't reallypaying attention
to, luckily, because theyweren't expecting much.
And also the idea ofsaying thanks because you
(15:11):
have to do that.
It's necessary.
This is called "Gratitude."I'm here to tell
you an old story.
This appears to be my work.
I live in the world, walk thestreets of New York, this dear
city, I want to tellyou, I'm 36 years old,
(15:33):
I have lived in andagainst my blood.
I want to tell you I amgrateful because after all, I
am a Black American poet.
I'm 36, and no one hasto tell me about luck.
I mean, after a reading,someone asked me once,
if you weren't doing this, what,if anything, would you be doing?
(15:55):
And I didn't say whatwe both understood,
I'm a Black American male.
I own this particular storyon this particular street
at this particular moment.
This appears to be my work.
I'm 36 years old,and all I have to do
is repeat what Inotice over and over,
all I have to do is remember.
(16:18):
And to the famous poetwho thinks literature
holds no small musics, love.
And to the publishers whobelieve in their marrow,
that there is no profiton the fringes, love.
And to those who needthe promise of wind,
the sound of branches stirringbeneath the line, here's
another environmentpoised to open.
(16:41):
Everyone reminds me what anamazing odyssey I'm undertaking,
as well they should.
After all, I'm aBlack American poet,
and my greatest weakness isan inability to sustain rage.
Who knows what will happen next?
This appears to beone for the books.
If you train yourears for what's unstated beneath
(17:01):
the congratulations,that silence is my story.
The pure celebrationand shock of my face
defying its gravity,so to speak.
I claim this tiny glee,not just for myself,
but for my parentswho shook their heads.
I'm older now than myfather was when he had me,
(17:22):
which is no bigdeal, except I have
personal knowledge of thewind that tilts the head back.
And I claim thisloose-seed-in-the-air glee
on behalf of the social studiesteacher I had in the 10th grade,
a real bastard who took me asideafter class the afternoon he
heard I was leaving for aprivate school just to let me
(17:44):
know he expected meto drown out there.
That I held the knowledgeof the drowned man,
the regret of ruinedflesh in my eyes.
Which was fair enough,except I believe
I've been teaching far longernow than he had that day,
and I know the blessingof a narrow escape.
And I claim thisrooster-pull-down-morning glee
(18:05):
on behalf of anyone who sawme coming and said, yes,
even when I was loud,cocky, insecure,
even when all they could haveseen was the promise of a germ,
even when it meantyielding ground.
I am a bit older than they werewhen I walked into that room
or class or party,and I understand
(18:28):
the value of the unstated push.
A lucky man getsto sing his name.
I have survived long enoughto tell a bit of an old story.
And to those who defend poetryagainst all foreign tongues,
love.
And to those whobelieve a dropped clause
signifies encroachment, love.
(18:51):
And to the bullies who need themusty air of the clubhouse all
to themselves, I am abrick in a house that is
being built around your house.
I am 36 years old, aBlack American poet.
Nearly all the things thatweren't supposed to occur
has happened anyway, andI have a natural inability
(19:12):
to sustain ragedespite the evidence.
I have proof and the jobthat comes as simple to me
as breathing.
[APPLAUSE][END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NIC (19:36):
The final recording I would like to share is Patricia Smith
reading "Building Nicole'sMama" on November 10, 2004.
This opening poem fromSmith's 2006 collection,
Teahouse of the Almighty,functions as an ars poetica,
considering poetry'spurpose in our daily lives,
(19:58):
questioning for whompoetry is intended,
and what impact it can have.
"Building Nicole's Mama" arguesthat poetry is for everyone,
while also emphasizing thepoet's responsibility to make
meaningful work that revealschallenges and/or consoles.
(20:18):
The poem underscoresthat poetry is essential,
and that it is an activeforce in our experience.
Patricia skillfullyemploys dialogue
in her poem to captureher students's voices,
demonstrating herdeep understanding and genuine
connection with them.
(20:38):
Her ability to see, hear,and know her students
ensures they are portrayed asreal individuals rather than
caricatures, adding to thepoem's emotional resonance
and authenticity.
Nicole asks the speaker,can you teach me
to write a poem about my mama?
(21:00):
With this request,the girl seeks a way
to preserve hermother's memory, showing
poetry's role as a vesselfor personal history.
The poem's title implies afocus on Nicole's mother,
but its deeper messageemphasizes the importance
of poetry as a vital,life-affirming art,
(21:23):
an instruction in how languagecan help process grief,
celebrate love, and keepmemories alive amidst loss.
Now that theNicole's of the world
know that poetsand poetry exist,
we must all do right by them.
(21:44):
Smith inscribed acopy of her collection
Close to Death to me withthe following message,
I hope the voices hereinspire you to raise your own.
"Building Nicole's Mama"offers that same advice,
that same big idea to readers,if not to raise our voices
for ourselves, at least, toraise them for little girls like
(22:07):
Nicole.
Ask anyone, Patricia Smith'sinfluence on emerging poets,
especially those fromtraditionally underrepresented
backgrounds, is profound.
Her presence and mentorshiphave inspired many,
including myself, to seethemselves as legitimate poets.
(22:32):
Here is Patricia Smith reading"Building Nicole's Mama."
[MUSIC PLAYING][AUDIO PLAYBACK]
PATRICIA SM (22:40):
We'll do a mixture.
Thank you very much.
That was wonderful.
We'll do a mixture of someold stuff and some new stuff.
God, you guys are intimidating.
[LAUGHTER]I start all my readings
out with the same poem.
I used to teach residency to agroup of sixth graders in Miami,
(23:02):
and when I first camebounding in saying,
well, I'm here toteach you poetry,
I realized thatthe area I was in
had a high incidence of druguse, so a lot of the kids
had lost parents orsiblings to AIDS.
And there was a little girl inthe class whose mother had just
died the week before, and shewas already back in school.
So I do this poembecause it reminds
me of how powerful poetryis, how it can take you
(23:25):
from one place in yourhead to a safer place,
and this little girlwho came up to me
and asked me to teach her towrite a poem about her mother
so that she hadsomething to remember.
So this is dedicated tothe sixth grade class
at Lillie C. Evans ElementarySchool, Dade County, Miami,
which they made me promise tosay every time I did the poem,
and they would know.
(23:46):
I am astonished at theirmouthful names, Lakinishia,
Chevellanie, Delayo, Fumilayo,their ragged rebellions
and lip-glossed pouts and allthose pants drooped as drapery.
I rejoice when they kiss myface, whisper wet and urgent
in my ear, makeme their obsession
because I havebrought them poetry.
(24:09):
They shout me raw, bruise mywrists with their pulling,
and brashly claim me asmama as they cradle my head
in their little laps,waiting for new words
to grow in my mouth.
You.
You.
You.
Angry, jubilant,weeping poets, we
(24:30):
are all saviors, reluctanthosannas in the limelight,
but you knew that, didn't you?
So let us bless the sixth gradeclass, 40 cracking voices,
40 nappy heads, and all of themraise their hands when I ask.
They have all seen the Reaper,grim and his heavy robe,
pushing the button forthe dead project elevator,
begging for a break atthe corner pawn shop,
(24:51):
cackling wildly in the backpew of the Baptist church.
I ask the death question, and40 fists punch the air, me, me.
And O'Neal, matchstickcrack child,
watched his mother'sbody become a claw.
And 9-year-old Tiko Jefferson,barely big enough to lift
the gun, fired a bullet into histhroat when mama bended his back
(25:13):
with a lead pipe.
Tamika cried into a sofapillow when daddy blasted mama
into the north wall of theircluttered one-room apartment.
Donya's cousin,gone in a drive-by.
Dark window, click,click, gone, says Donya,
her tiny finger a barrel,the thumb a hammer.
I am astonished attheir losses, and yet,
(25:34):
when I read a poem aboutmy own hard-eyed teenager,
Jeffrey asks, is he dead yet?
It cannot be comprehended,an 18-year-old still pushing
and pulling his own breath.
And 40 faces pity meknowing that I will soon be,
as they are, numb toour bloody histories,
favoring the Reaper withthe thumbs up and a wink,
(25:55):
hearing the questionand shouting,
me, me, Miss Smith,I know somebody dead.
Can poetry hurt us, theyask me, before crawling
into my words to sleep.
I love you, Nicole says.
Nicole, wearing my face,pimples peppering her nose,
and she is as Blackas angels are.
(26:17):
Nicole's braids kissed withmatch flame to seal them,
and can you teach me to write apoem about my mama, Miss Smith?
I mean, you write aboutyour daddy and he's dead.
Can you teach me toremember my mama?
A teacher tells me this is thefirst time Nicole has admitted
that her mother is gone,murdered by slim silver needles
and a stranger rifling throughher blood, the virus pushing
(26:40):
her skeleton throughfor Nicole to see.
And now this child with rustyknees and mismatched shoes
sees poetry as her screamand asks me for the words
to build her mother again.
Replacing the voice.
Stitching on the lost flesh.
So poets, as we takethe stage, as we
(27:01):
flirt and sin and rejoice behindmicrophones, remember Nicole.
She knows that we are herenow and she is an empty vessel
waiting to be filled.
And she is waiting.
And she is waiting.
(27:23):
And she waits.
[APPLAUSE][END PLAYBACK][MUSIC PLAYING]
NICO (27:43):
Given all these references to maternal care,
to love, to mentorship, I thinkI'll read a poem for my mother.
It's called "The first personwho will live to be one hundred
and fifty years oldhas already been born."
Scientists say theaverage human life gets
(28:04):
three months longer every year.
By this math, death will beoptional, like a tie or dessert
or suffering.
My mother asks whetherI'd want to live forever.
I'd get bored, I tell her.
But she says, there'sso much to do.
Meaning she believes there'smuch she hasn't done.
(28:28):
30 years ago, shewas the age I am now,
but unlike me, too industriousto think about birds disappeared
by rain.
If only we had moretime or enough money
to be kept on ice untilsuch a time science
could bring us back.
(28:49):
Of late, my mother has begunto think life short-lived.
I'm too young toconvince her otherwise.
The one and only occasion I wasin the same room as the Mona
Lisa, it was encasedin glass behind what
I imagine were velvet ropes.
(29:10):
There's far less betweenourselves and oblivion.
Skin that often defeatsits very purpose.
Or maybe its purposeisn't protection at all,
but rather to provide a placesimilar to a doctor's waiting
room in which to sit untilour names are called.
(29:33):
Hold your questionsuntil the end.
Mother, measuremy wide open arms.
We still have thismuch time to kill.
[MUSIC PLAYING]
JULIE SWA (29:56):
You've been listening to Nicole Sealey,
and this is Poetry Centered.
Nicole, thank youso much for sharing
this encouraging vision ofpoets work in the world with us.
Listeners, thank you for theencouragement of your listening.
You are why we make this show.
This is the first in anew series of episodes,
(30:17):
and we hope you'll join usover the next few months
as new episodes arereleased every two weeks.
Look forward toupcoming episodes
hosted by Harmony Holiday,Samuel Ace, Leila Chatti,
and Dawn Lundy Martin.
Until then, enjoyour back catalog
of episodes, maybeeven in Antarctica,
and explore Voca on your own.
(30:39):
We'll see you next time.
Poetry Centered is a project ofthe University of Arizona Poetry
Center, home to a world-classlibrary collection of more than
80,000 items related tocontemporary poetry in English
and English translation.
Located on the campus of theUniversity of Arizona in Tucson,
(31:01):
the Poetry Centerlibrary and buildings
are housed on the Indigenoushomelands of the Tohono O'odham
and Pascua Yaqui.
Poetry Centered is the workof Aria Pahari, that's me,
and Julie Swarstad Johnson.
Explore Voca, the PoetryCenter's audio visual archive
online at voca.arizona.edu.
(31:26):
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