Once when I visited R and K in Carmel, they had tickets for us to hear a poet the next night—would that be OK? They were uncertain. I stammered out a response to make sure I got it. “We have tickets for David W-H-Y-T-E Whyte? For tomorrow? I have two books on my iPad right now, Walden and poems by David Whyte.”
I was delirious for 24 hours. We sat in the great hall at Asilomar, some fellows played Irish music, and then the poet strode to the front, clad in black with some rocking leather boots. He turned to us, paused, and began to recite a poem. Just a few lines in, something was off. This wasn’t one of his poems. Right when I realized what he was doing, I could feel that room get completely still. He was reciting Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese. She had just died that week, and he was giving us all a breathtaking gift.
What is it about a poet? We fall in love with their lines because they capture essence. Of life, being human, the world, anything. Then we end up falling in love with the poet too a little. Someone who has us feel, who takes a little breath away.
We’ve lost two more poets recently, and I’ve been captured yet again. One a humble Kentucky farmer who’d show up for classes and hikes in his work clothes; people wouldn’t know who he was. The other a Tennesseean who’d show up like a flashy street-walker with a big smile and down-home humble heart. You can’t get much different and much the same as Wendall and Dolly. In the meantime, our hearts are being pulled all month long by their lines.
I started playing Dolly in Yoga class this summer inside a streak of Wildflowers covers ‘cause you know, summer. Then I discovered more covers, like After the Gold Rush with Emmylou and Linda. Go ahead, take my breath. On Sunday I read Wendall’s poem The Wild Geese. It’s a trend.
All my celebrity crushes are musicians, who are really poets. If I ever met one, I’d be a puddle wishing I had something clever to say. I don’t listen to hip hop or the Roots, but I love listening to Questlove ramble on in his stories about artists and music I’ve never heard of. Kind of like a drum riff? And when The Tonight Show turns on his mic just so we can hear him chuckle, I’m delirious again. Lenny Kravitz and the conductor Esa Pekka Salonen? Puddle me up, wouldn’t even try for words.
Poets. Their art lies in words, rhythm, and a glimmer of truth. Their artistry is in their presence. Somehow, that also represents truth. We crave it. We’re truth-starved. I remember when Cinna came on in The Hunger Games, and I thought, Who is That? I was stilled by his quiet, calm presence. It was Lenny Kravitz in between dreadlocks playing this courageous artist/designer, a persona he already inhabited. The poets, the musicians, are somehow living embodiments of their art, their truth-telling. Even if it’s inside a whole persona like Dolly created. We still felt like she was being true to something.
Just listen to some songs today. Feel them. Or read or listen to some poems. Feel those too. It’s something already in you—the lines just little truth gifts to help us along, teach us about presence, to be more like ourselves.
Yoga — truthfulness – satya, as it is, authentic personal resonance
The Wild Geese by Wendell Berry
Linda Ronstadt, Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, After the Gold Rush