Li-Young Lee, a conversation of poetry and consciousness
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- Опубліковано 29 лис 2012
- In this edition of HoCoPoLitSo's The Writing Life, poet and host Michael Collier speaks with Li-Young Lee in 1995 about poetry, prayerful attitudes and unconscious states. Lee reads his poem "Epistle" to start off the show, which Collier says acts as a sort of prologue to his first book of poetry, "Rose." Lee and Collier talk about poets being in a condition to know things, and how that knowing becomes forgetting. Poets spend everything they have to write the poem. Lee reads "Final Thing," about waking up and listening from outside the room to his wife read to their son. For Lee, everything is language, everything is discourse: the trees, mountains, clouds. From his memoir, "The Winged Seed," Lee reads a selection about riddles, and explains that he wrote the book to help him get beyond his personal story, to purify himself after his traumatic childhood. For more information about HoCoPoLitSo, to order copies of this show on DVD, or to discover the public programs HoCoPoLitSo (the Howard County Poetry and Literature Society) offers in Columbia, Maryland, visit www.hocopolitso.org.
His interview style has the same precision as his poetry - every word found with care as the right one. He is a magnificent poet and this quietly intense conversation moved and inspired me. Thank you for posting it.
Thanks for your comment -- we were absolutely charmed by Lee, and are publishing his work in an upcoming anthology to commemorate our 40th anniversary. If you're in the D.C./Baltimore area, check our web site, we have readings that are just as magnificent, intense and moving as this interview. All the best,
HoCoPoLitSo
Just found his poetry. Its very good
Lee, more I read you, I become sure about possibility of getting dark things and mysteries and fascination of life around and every single thing we could sometimes just feel but won't even try to catch and capture through words, written.
Every poem I read makes me feel something yet unexplored, something dark and deep, something we have to go to or are searching for.
Of all your poetry, this line fascinated me most: "And the world keeps beginning. "
Love what these two great poets say about the nature of poetry and how it forms.
Great conversation!
I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites.
It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self.
~~
Suibhne Gheilt
1
He has haunted me now for over a year
that madman Suibhne Gheilt
who in the middle of a battle
looked up and saw something
that made him leap up and fly
over swords and trees
- a poet gifted above all others -
11
How could a proud loud mouth
who yelled KILL KILL KILL
as he plowed done the enemy
- heads rolling off of his sword -
be so lifted up
( or fly up
as those below saw it
- wings beating)
be so suddenly gifted
with poetry
and nest so high
in Ireland’s tall trees?
Is there a point
where all paths cross?
And why am I so drawn to him
that all my questions
seem shot in his direction?
“And they ran into the woods
and threw their lances
and shot their arrows
up through the branches”
What parallels could I ever hope to find -
my refusal to fight
( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)?
my leaving my country behind?
my poetry?
“and my wife wept
on the path below. . .
Oh memory is sweet
but sweeter is the sorrel
in the pool in the path below”
I fly down every night
to eat
111
Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women.
But the point of it lies hidden
in a pool of milk
in a pile of shit
for you to see
when a milkmaid smiles
Sweeney like the rest of us flies down
and when she pours the milk
into the hole her heel made in the cowdung
Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks
and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it.
So before you have anything to do with women
remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland
lying on his back
in the middle of that path
in the moonlight.
1V
And on my way home
this morning
( my wife
waiting)
my shadow
racing up the path ahead of me
I saw something
( a black stone?)
thrown
at the back of its head
ducked
and spun around
so fast
I almost fell down
- it was a bird
flying up into a tree
V
No good could come out of this war
out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined
John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame -
the villagers streaming like tears
towards the forest
cover his helicopter’s blades
blow the leaves off and
and the flame towards. . .
as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president
( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit
mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s
sitting on the bubble having
a bubble movement) and first
lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of
their own bubbles, crawls in between -
“ Mah daddy has so many
troubles
turning the world into a bubble
and sick of crossfire -
the cries of the women and
children flying over his head -
he stumbled down to the
riverbank and found,
the wreckage twisted around the tree
behind, his skull. . .
Noises, there are noises,
noises that can of themselves drive
a man mad -NOISES!
But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four
sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling
and thought until all that was left was something the size
of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone
in the middle of an infinite space. . .
-Howard Dull
~~
ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level.
All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
Al
I felt very serene listening to this beautiful poet speak, I am new to his poetry and feel as if I have discovered gold. Thank you so much for posting this.
Michael Collier and Li-YOung Lee..thanks for this. I enjoyed the intimate poem Li-Young Lee read at first, The Epistle.
thanks for posting.
It's really nice to listen to li young lee reading his own poetry.
The conversation between the two poets is inspiring as well!
Outstanding!
Wonderful!
A living legend.
I'm glad you appreciated Mr. Li and hope you watch a few more of our videos of the world's finest writers.
Beautiful
Hi,
I'm glad you enjoyed his work -- I do love to hear poets read their own, and give the background for the writing. His piece about listening to his wife read to his son was touching. If you enjoyed this program, try watching our piece on Jane Hirshfield or David Mura, both poets interested in identity and consciousness.
Great conversation, I love how right after they conclude the interview Li-young jumps back into conversation with Michael, not for the sake of the show but because they're so into their conversation. Very inspiring conversation.
We're so glad you appreciated this program. Mr. Lee speaks so eloquently about his craft, about prayer, about purification and unconscious states. And Michael Collier, being a poet, is the perfect host. We like to think of this series as a quiet conversation between two writers. Thank you for your interest.
Always great to hear Li-Young Lee speak at length -- thank you for posting this!
We're so glad you appreciated this program -- he speaks so eloquently about his craft, about prayer, about purification and unconscious states. Perhaps you would be interested in show about the power of poetry, perhaps our interview with Martin Espada, or with Edward Hirsch. Thank you for your interest.
inspired. Thank you
+Batzul D Zuzu Thank you for watching. We found Lee to be as inspiring as you did. If you'd like more poetry, consider watching our programs with Donald Hall, Jane Hirshfield or Stanley Kunitz.
What a gem! A wonderful experience listening to these two poets!
"...one of the great source of your work is memory and it's not so much memory that is known but memory that needs to be discovered and explored.
But then also there's another aspect to the work and that is which is not necessarily dependent on memory but lives more in the present." - Collier on Lee 💙
Thank you for sharing this video.
Collier...corrected spelling. Sorry about that.
Dear Nosano Kikhi, thank you for that lovely comment, and the quote! And as an editor, I so appreciate that you took the time to come back and correct Michael Collier's name. Thank you for watching and try some of our other poetry videos -- we have amazing writers with wonderful readings.
En joyed very much your poems and unique cadence and word choices that had an emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout.
I, too, am a poet ( I write mostly Japanese format poems i.e. haiku , senryu, tanka/kyoka, haibun etc. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a haiku dedicated to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with added insightful commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor.
Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary:
Bashō’s frog
four hundred years
of ripples
At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather
daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum.
The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so
numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this
method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water
As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us
that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain.
~
All love from Miami Beach, Florida,
Al
Im scared and I don't believe in much but I believe in what this guy is pedaling
Brief Bio:
I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun.
Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all from the contemporary American format.
Senryu ( senryu is the humorous human side of haiku. Usually 3 lines but can be 2 or 1 line so long as it is 17 syllables or less). It is considered the humorous human side of haiku.
For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking dealing with the Holocaust):
cattle cars -
between the slats
human eyes
~
Stutthof -
the stench of burnt smoke
from the chimneys
(And here are some more examples):
thrift store purchase
inside the leather jacket
a tarnished half-heart
~
dentist chair
the hygienist removes
my Bluetooth
~
Internet argument
all his words in CAPS
hers in EMOTICONS
~
personal trainer
I grunt sweat strain
and HE gets paid
~
after the divorce
he spends more time
at the dollar store
~
damsel in distress
Clarke Kent still searching
for a phone booth
~
cauliflower ears
once a contender
now boxing vegetables
~
under
the influence -
moonshine
~
Audubon sale
all variety of seeds. . .
early birds welcome
~
Buddhist fortune cookie
the unfolded paper reads
“ better luck next birth!”
~
sudden downpour. . .
adults run
for shelter
~
sidewalk cafe
birds and people
tweeting
~
Crowded crosswalk
the “seeing eye” dog
leads the way
~
deserted train depot
a long line of tracks
leading nowhere
~~
return to my youth
lit by the tracks
of Lionel trains.
~
Tanka:
(Tanka is comprised of 5 lines of 31 syllables or less. Usually there are far less syllables)
Here are 3 examples:
returning home
from a Jackson pollock
exhibition
I smear my face with paint
and morph into art
~
crowded bus
a young lady offers me
her seat
it seems like only yesterday
I was offering mine
~
deserted train depot
a conductor shouting
“ All Aboard!”
now a long line of tracks
leading nowhere
~
Haibun: ( the haibun consists of a prose section with one or more haiku that must in some way relate to the prose. All Haibun have titles
Here are some examples:
The Mathematics of Retribution
“Karma is unfathomable,”
I inform her
It’s late and our conversation turns heavy
“ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds.
“If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.”
“ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin.
“What if you murdered me in this life
because I murdered you in a prior life
karmic debts and dues are now equalized.”
“But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?”
“As I said, karma is unfathomable.”
We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix
Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep
Stutthof -
the stench of burnt hair
from the chimneys
~~
Mama
There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home
Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness.
She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior.
nursing home
bumper wheelchair
her favorite pastime
Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes.
When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened.
thrift store
the dress mama donated
she wants to buy
On a cold December morn mama passed.
The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes.
autumn twilight -
oh mama tuck me under
hug me one more time
~
‘Round Midnight
It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way.
My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough.
But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night.
Harlem
The A-train replaced
by the Bullet
~
Atlantic City New Jersey
I had just graduated from high school
I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the
lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in...
first “french kiss”
under the boardwalk
“over the moon!”
~~
All love,
Al
. Poetry is feeling. I experienced your story. I wandered through your consciousness. We are host
breathing life into words-----The writing life-- is Life. Vincent J.Tomeo.
I just wanted to know how to pronounce his name for my speech LOL
His name is pronounced "Lee Young Lee." Hope that helps.
Good luck with your speech.