Episode 152: Say it Plain

We’re going deep today, Slushies. Kathy and Tobi school us on the origin of the word “podcast” with its roots in both early Apple technology and agricultural lingo (think broadcast of seeds). In this episode we’re broadcasting our appreciation for poems by Erin Evans. We admire Evans’ sound work and her ability to craft powerful lines with plain language. In the first poem, the poet’s confrontation of medical jargon reminds Marion of Whitman’s poem When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer. An encounter between patient and doctor in Evans’ poem underscores the difference between learning and knowing that recalls Leslie Jamison’s book of essays, The Empathy Exams.    The second poem’s Japanese title evokes the film Rashomon for Jason, who takes issue with the notion that our writerly imaginations are limited only to the words available in our own language. Schadenfreude, anyone? We’re digging the close focus on language in these poems. Marion appreciates that the poem elevates a term she initially passed off as one from pop culture wellness. Meanwhile we conflate our Wabi-sabi with our kintsugi and poet Ross Gay with the poet Ross White (who is the actual originator of the gas station sushi theory). But don’t let our mistakes keep you from experiencing Evans’ powerful endings.   Slushies, if you’re attending AWP in March, please stop by and see us at the book fair. We’ll be at table 1272. We’d love to see you in person. Thanks, as always, for listening!   At the table: Tobi Kassim, Jason Schneiderman, Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Lisa Zerkle, and Lillie Volpe (sound engineer)  Author Photo:    Author Bio: Erin Evans was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis when she was one year old. Her work is greatly influenced by her experience living with chronic illness. She has had poems published in Defunct, Revel, A Mouthful of Salt, and Nimrod-International Journal, which awarded her its Francine Ringold Award for New Writers. Her work was chosen by Kwame Dawes for his American Life in Poetry column. She lives in Vermont with her beautiful and brilliant kids. Exacerbation She says the word quickly looking down at my file   then back at the x-ray clipped against the glowing box.   My scarred and patchy lungs, and all their flaws  on display, almost make me blush.   Embarrassed that I couldn’t do any better, have been better. I focus instead    on the soft ribbons of my ribcage that fan like ghost hands   lit up for Halloween. Again, she says it,   looking at me now  as she sits on the round rolling chair   and reaches for her stethoscope. Exacerbation, which I finally looked up   after years and years of hearing it, simply means a worsening.   But she was taught not to state  the obvious, to disguise the truth   in the language of textbooks, and lectures, years of learning   how best to look right through someone. And I was taught to breathe in when I was told,   to push past that pain in my chest  that has no name, nor chapter in any book.   Komorebi Scott nudges my kayak away from the shore.   The yellow plastic scrapes the sand and seashell bottom  until it glides to the open water, over deep-green seaweed that waves its version of goodbye.    A soft pushing away  a departing of one world, only to enter another,  so vast there are no names for things:   When I die  let it be like this.   Some languages have words for words we never even thought to speak.   In Japanese, for instance, there is a word  for the sunlight filtering through the leaves of a tree.   Tell me, why isn’t there a name for this: The ocean’s soft  pull, the gentle begging it does,      like a child tugging  at the tail of your shirt,    reminding you it’s time to go.   Riches  As I cradle my morning tea I watch her from the window.   Crouched down in the yard, with her hand outstretched. Even   from here I see the arthritis knot and bend her fingers   from years of knitting intricate sweaters and working late-night shifts at the hospital.   The chickens come to her  hesitantly, to peck the scratch from her warm hand.   She told me once that even when  she has nothing to give them   they still peck softly at her wedding band.   They surround her now, their bobbing and dipping beaks   and as they take the seeds she offers,  she smooths the long yellow feathers   that in the right light turn golden.   If I could inherit a single thing from her it would be this patience,   this trust that life will come to you even when your body    is leaving this world slowly, one cell at a time.