The poetry of our daily life is meaningful labor: a conversation with Andrea Deeken and Darla Himeles episode artwork

EPISODE · Oct 17, 2024 · 1H 1M

The poetry of our daily life is meaningful labor: a conversation with Andrea Deeken and Darla Himeles

from Poetry Medicine for the Soul · host Andrea Deeken, Darla Himeles, John Gillespie

Poetry Medicine for the Soul is a podcast inviting poets to share and examine their work, produced and moderated by John Gillespie. Season 5 Episode 1 features Andrea Deeken reading “Poem for my Daughter" from her chapbook Mother Kingdom, and Darla Himeles reading "Ferning" from their book Cleave. Poem for My Daughter on the Day They Announced the End of the World   By Andrea Deeken   The radio said there had been a mistake. The oceans, in fact, are sixty percent warmer than we thought. I am cutting broccoli to put in a pot to boil. Quickly, because I have to leave to pick you up from school to take you to the dentist where they will examine your tiny teeth, smooth white chiclets, small as my pinky nail and later there won’t be time. There is never enough time— the laundry remains unfolded days after it comes out of the dryer. Weeds grow through the bark chips, dandelion seeds you wildly blow— no matter how I try, I can never get to the root. You can count to sixty in two languages. This morning at breakfast, Dieciséis, diecisiete, dieciocho. Mama, are you listening? Now the pot nearly boils over, catching the thin skin of my wrist. Bloom of pain petal, sink pollen, the crust of the oatmeal bowl. It seems the earth is more sensitive to climate than we realized. I know it’s time to go. Five minutes ’til the last bell. You’ll be left too long, and I can’t bear the thought of you waiting.   Ferning   By Darla Himeles Two white wooly worms stretch and pinch the length of the deck. Pretend wings happen; pretend there are no mothballs left. Pretend the doe hunter did not scout last night in fatigues on the abandoned property to the west.   Yesterday, four goldfinches, two dull, two light,   pecked at drying-out golden rod ten happy minutes. For forty-one days, do not eat from the cow's teat,   or the goat's or the sheep's; let lie the hen's unfertilized dreams; leave the bubbled eggs of fish, turn from pork bone marrow and all slaughtered flesh.   Here in the four o'clock sun, lift her up. I breath into my uterus, internal cavern of inter-clasped palms poised for whistling (if only it were that easy): puckered lips,   airflow, song. Lift up dull birds and their mates,   does, moths -- all who breathe, let's. For eighty-two days, eat of succulent coconuts, acorn squash, Ida reds.   The harvest moon lights the knife that peels and cores   for applesauce, red, Granma Ida, like your hair I never touched, the pink of palms in sunlight,   the uterus if she were cut, the doe shot, the deck's rust.   Lift her up is my song, expanding in moonlight,   the unfurling of one million fiddlehead fern fronds.  Andrea Deeken (she/they) is the author of the chapbook, Mother Kingdom, winner of the 2021 Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Competition and 2022 International Book Awards finalist. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in a variety of journals including Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Beyond Queer Words, The Blue Mountain Review, erbacce Journal UK, Ran Off With the Star Bassoon, and Spoon River Poetry Review, among others. A former book editor, she has worked for Multnomah County Library for nearly two decades. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her family. Read more at andreadeeken.com. Darla Himeles (they/she) is a Philadelphia-based poet and an assistant teaching professor at Widener University. They are the author of the chapbook Flesh Enough and the full-length poetry collection Cleave, both published by Get Fresh Books. Her poems and essays have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and can be read in recent and forthcoming issues of  Beloit Poetry Journal, The Gay & Lesbian Review, The Massachusetts Review, The Night Heron Barks, Honey Literary, and American Poetry Review. They hold an AB in English from Bryn Mawr College, an MFA in poetry and poetry in translation from Drew University, and a PhD in American literature from Temple University. Find Darla on Instagram @darlahimelespoetry, and read more at darlahimelespoetry.com. This podcast is hosted and produced by John Gillespie. Check out our website or Simplecast podcast feed for more episodes. Listen and subscribe to Poetry Medicine for the Soul in Apple podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Learn more and get in touch: poetrymedicineforthesoul.com

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Poetry Medicine for the Soul is a podcast inviting poets to share and examine their work, produced and moderated by John Gillespie. Season 5 Episode 1 features Andrea Deeken reading “Poem for my Daughter" from her chapbook Mother Kingdom, and Darla Himeles reading "Ferning" from their book Cleave. Poem for My Daughter on the Day They Announced the End of the World By Andrea Deeken The radio said there had been a mistake. The oceans, in fact, are sixty percent warmer than we thought. I am cutting broccoli to put in a pot to boil. Quickly, because I have to leave to pick you up from school to take you to the dentist where they will examine your tiny teeth, smooth white chiclets, small as my pinky nail and later there won’t be time. There is never enough time— the laundry remains unfolded days after it comes out of the dryer. Weeds grow through the bark chips, dandelion seeds you wildly blow— no matter how I try, I can never get to the root. You can count to sixty in two languages. This morning at breakfast, Dieciséis, diecisiete, dieciocho. Mama, are you listening? Now the pot nearly boils over, catching the thin skin of my wrist. Bloom of pain petal, sink pollen, the crust of the oatmeal bowl. It seems the earth is more sensitive to climate than we realized. I know it’s time to go. Five minutes ’til the last bell. You’ll be left too long, and I can’t bear the thought of you waiting. Ferning By Darla Himeles Two white wooly worms stretch and pinch the length of the deck. Pretend wings happen; pretend there are no mothballs left. Pretend the doe hunter did not scout last night in fatigues on the abandoned property to the west. Yesterday, four goldfinches, two dull, two light, pecked at drying-out golden rod ten happy minutes. For forty-one days, do not eat from the cow's teat, or the goat's or the sheep's; let lie the hen's unfertilized dreams; leave the bubbled eggs of fish, turn from pork bone marrow and all slaughtered flesh. Here in the four o'clock sun, lift her up. I breath into my uterus, internal cavern of inter-clasped palms poised for whistling (if only it were that easy): puckered lips, airflow, song. Lift up dull birds and their mates, does, moths -- all who breathe, let's. For eighty-two days, eat of succulent coconuts, acorn squash, Ida reds. The harvest moon lights the knife that peels and cores for applesauce, red, Granma Ida, like your hair I never touched, the pink of palms in sunlight, the uterus if she were cut, the doe shot, the deck's rust. Lift her up is my song, expanding in moonlight, the unfurling of one million fiddlehead fern fronds.

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The poetry of our daily life is meaningful labor: a conversation with Andrea Deeken and Darla Himeles

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