[ Applause ]
>> Shari Werb: Hello.
I'm delighted to welcome you to
Tracy K. Smith's closing event
as our 22nd poet laureate
consultant in poetry.
Tracy was the first
laureate appointed
by our current Librarian
of Congress, Carla Hayden,
and in September of 2017, the
Librarian stood on this stage
and welcomed her
to the position.
My introduction to Tracy
came last fall, when I began
as director of the
Library's new Center
for Learning Literacy
and Engagement.
Just a few weeks into the
job, I found myself traveling
to the Black Hills of
South Dakota to join one
of our laureate's seven American
Conversation Project trips
around the country,
along with Rob Casper,
director of the Poetry
Center, and Guy Lamolinara,
with our Center for the Book.
We visited the Belle
Fourche Community Center,
the Matthews Opera House
and Art Center in Spearfish,
and the Sturgis Public Library.
In each place, Tracy read
poems for her anthology,
"American Journal, 50
Poems for our Time,"
and asked a simple question
-- what did you notice?
Through that unassuming,
yet powerful question,
and with humility,
warmth, and an openness
to whatever responses
she received,
Tracy helped audiences connect
to one another through poetry.
American Conversations,
as well as the Slow Down,
Tracy's additional laureate
project of weekday podcasts
and broadcasts, have proven
that poetry can help us,
whoever we are, in
our day-to-day lives.
By sharing in the safe
space that Tracy, her poems,
and laureate projects create,
we are encouraged to reflect,
discuss, and empathize,
to deepen our connection
to our community, and even
be part of a new community.
This does more than prove
the power of the art.
It helps strengthen
civic society.
Tracy has shown me the
transformative power
of this work, and has given
me a sense of what the Library
of Congress should aim for.
Just as I am thankful she
brought me to South Dakota,
I am thankful she has chosen
to share the stage tonight
with poets laureate representing
Hawaii, Indiana, Clark County,
Nevada, Brooklyn, New
York, and Oklahoma,
all of whom have done
their own amazing work.
Tracy will begin the
event with an address,
then welcome her fellow
poets laureate on stage.
Joining them will be
Jennifer Benka, president
and executive director of the
Academy of American Poets,
who will lead a moderated
discussion.
I want to note that in just
nine days, for the first time,
the Academy of American
Poets will award
over one million dollars to 10
to 20 poets serving as laureates
of states, cities,
counties, U.S. territories,
or tribal nations, to
recognize literary excellence
and fuel civic projects.
Please join me in congratulating
Jennifer and the Academy.
[ Applause ]
Before I turn the
microphone over to Tracy,
I want to take a moment
to acknowledge our dear
poet laureate as one
of our country's
national treasures.
At many American Conversation
events, Tracy began by reading
from her most recent
collect, "Wade in the Water."
The found poem sequence, "I Will
Tell You The Truth About This,
I Will Tell You All About
It," featuring letters
from African-American soldiers
petitioning the government
for their pensions,
often elicited audible
responses from the audience.
Tracy culled the excerpts
from two books, "Families
and Freedom, A Documentary
History
of African-American Kinship
in the Civil War Era,"
drawn from the Freedmen and
Southern Society Project
at the University of Maryland.
And "Voices of Emancipation,
Understanding Slavery,
the Civil War, and
Reconstruction
Through the U.S.
Pension Bureau Files."
I can think of no better example
of promoting civic literacy,
and giving voice to
a past often ignored
or forgotten while showcasing
the importance of research
and primary source documents.
In "I Will Tell You The Truth
About This, I Will Tell You All
About It," Tracy models how
such documents can inspire each
of us -- how we, too, can engage
with the Library, reach in,
and explore its wealth
of collections,
and find our connection
to the past.
In the title poem from
"Wade in the Water,"
Tracy connects the past
to her own history.
The poem begins, "One
of the women greeted me.
'I love you,' she said.
She didn't know me,
but I believed her,
and a terrible new ache rolled
over my chest like a room
where the drapes have
been swept back."
There is so much to unpack
in these opening lines
that shows us poetry's power
to situate us in the world,
as well as within our
fears and desires,
to capture the complexity
of an overwhelming moment
through simile, and to plainly
and powerfully act
with love and grace.
When Tracy read this poem
during her American Conversation
events, she would also describe
the process of writing it.
The poem is dedicated to the
Geechee Gullah Ring Shouters,
and she returned to
that greeting as a kind
of rumination, while
describing their performance
and layering it in image
after image with history.
When she could no longer
describe, Tracy's mind
and imagination leapt, as
only those of poets can,
and she arrived at
these last lines.
"Oh, woods, oh, dogs, oh,
tree, oh, gun, oh, girl, run.
Oh, miraculous many gone.
Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord.
Is this the trouble
you promised?"
This is the kind
of poem we need --
a poem that gives shape to
what we cannot otherwise say,
in ways we can all feel.
If we are to get
past our differences
and share our most
profound, most painful,
and beautiful moments of
living, poems such as "Wade
in the Water" show us a way.
On behalf of the
Library of Congress,
I would like to say
thank you, Tracy,
for serving as the nation's
poet laureate, and thank you
for the opportunity you
have given me, the Library,
and everyone you've met these
last few years to connect
with you through poetry.
Please join me in
welcoming Tracy K. Smith.
[ Applause ]
>> Tracy K. Smith: Thank you.
[ Applause and Cheers ]
Thank you.
And thank you, Shari,
for that wonderful
and moving introduction.
I'd like to begin these
remarks with thanks
for Dr. Carla Hayden, who
changed my relationship both
to poetry and to America.
The profound honor of being
named poet laureate has urged me
to think deeply and ongoingly
about why poetry matters,
and to enter into life-changing
encounters with other Americans,
from Alaska to Louisiana,
via poetry.
I'd also like to thank
the staff of the Poetry
and Literature Center,
Anya Crateney,
Anne Holmes [assumed spellings],
and Rob Casper, for mobilizing
so quickly and so magnificently
to facilitate my poet laureate
project, American Conversation,
Celebrating Poetry
in Rural Communities.
Can we clap for them?
[ Applause ]
I had an idea of what I'd hoped
to do, but I had no idea how
such a thing might happen.
And they, together
with Guy Lamolinara
from the National Center for
the Book, shepherded my wish
into exhilarating reality.
I feel indescribably
lucky to have benefitted
from their vision, their
know-how, their wisdom,
and enthusiasm, and
if you know Rob,
you know what I mean
by enthusiasm.
[ Applause ]
I also owe a tremendous
thanks to Jeff Shotz
and Fiona McCrae [assumed
spellings] at Gray Wolf Press,
and I owe much more than thanks
to my wonderful husband,
Raphael Allison --
[ Applause ]
-- who kept our home and
our children both afloat
and anchored during these
two years of nonstop travel.
Thank you.
My hope for the American
Conversations Project
was two-fold.
On one hand, as a poet
who typically reads
in university communities,
and encounters audiences
at literary festivals, I was
eager to venture beyond campuses
and urban centers
in my engagement
with poetry and poetry
audiences.
I wanted to travel to places
that aren't typically targets
for a great deal of
literary programming.
But on the other hand, I
was also very determined
to push back against the
pervasive narrative of America
as a divided nation -- the
narrative that says people
in the rural heartland
have nothing in common,
not even a shared language, with
those of us in urban centers.
I harbored the hope that if
anything could defy this notion
of an uncrossable
national divide,
it would surely be
poetry, which jostles us
out of a rote engagement
with the world, and opens us
up with humility and curiosity
to other perspectives
on experience.
I believed that poetry fosters
a deepening relationship
with reality, a more conscious
and deliberate engagement
with the lives of others,
and with the inner life
that each of us houses.
I believed that reading
poetry builds in us a reserve
of perspectives and
strategies for living.
I believed that reading poetry
reminds us to think of life
as dynamic, rather than
static -- mysterious and rich,
rather than flat, or pat.
And that poems open our minds to
the realness, and the usefulness
of others' experiences, that
they instill in us a sense
of participation in a
long and ongoing history
of human joy, struggle,
and hope.
That was my theory, and what
I found in practice on each
of our journeys was
incredibly heartening.
Together with my crew
from the Library,
we'd land in a new
place, gather our bearings
in a local restaurant,
gape in awe at the power
and the particular
beauty of the landscape
on what might be a two
or three-hour drive.
And then end up in a public
library, or community center,
or some other venue full of
strangers miraculously willing
to read poems with me
and enter into candid,
unguarded conversation.
Conditioned by media exposure
to expect a sense of difference
or division, I felt and
feel indescribably lucky
to have found my way
to a counter-narrative
of thoughtful listening
and mutual respect,
as fostered by poetry.
Reading poems with others,
and talking in ordinary,
rather than critical
or analytical language,
about what poems cause us
to notice, remember, wonder,
and feel has been a way of
getting to know one another,
and accessing vital feelings
in a space of safety.
Poems have been these amazing
tools for reminding us,
no matter who we are,
of the things we share,
and that's not all.
Poems also highlight the
differences between us,
advocating implicitly
for the validity
of differing perspectives.
I'm aware of what we were
able to impart on these trips.
Some people discovered the
ways that poems offer a means
of capturing and examining the
strange and remarkable features
of our lives, like a
nine-year-old girl in New Haven,
Kentucky who came by herself to
a Saturday morning conversation
at her local public library,
which was her home
away from home.
She sat by herself
in the front row,
and I could see her taking
everything in carefully.
When finally she raised
her hand, she asked,
"When did you realize
you had stories to tell?"
I told her I was just
about her age when I tried
to write my first poem.
"Do you feel like you
have stories to tell?"
I asked her, and she told
us one that surprised
and worried many of us.
"You can grow up to be a writer
if you want to," I told her,
and after I got home,
I sent a box of books
to that small branch, thinking
about what might make a
difference to a kid like her.
Others reclaimed a
long-neglected love of poetry.
After an event at Old Summerton
High School in South Carolina,
a group of women
who were members
of the first integrated
graduating class described how
they had written poetry back
when they were students,
and how our conversation
had inspired them
to return to the practice.
Others discovered a new sense
of freedom in being able to talk
about poems using the language
they live in every day.
A man in the audience at a
class I was invited to give
in Wyoming raised his hand
midway through a conversation
about a poem to say, "I get it.
When you read a poem, you're
just kind of pouring it
through your own filter to
see what gets caught there.
My filter is different
from your filter,
and different things will
get caught in your filter
at different times, depending
on who and where you are
when you read the poem."
Still others, like in a youth
juvenile detention center near
Juneau, Alaska, sought out
poems on themes deeply relevant
to their lives, but
difficult to broach
in everyday conversation
-- themes like suicide,
trauma, and addiction.
But I also want to
emphasize what the people
in these communities gave to --
that what the people in these
communities gave to us is
of equal importance to what
they might've taken away.
American Conversations was
not about city folk going
in to educate rural folk.
It was about the ways that
poetry changes everyone's view
of the world, and how it
changes our view of ourselves.
Returning to cities
for readings and events
over these last two years,
I've become increasingly aware
of the kinds of unwitting
urban bias present in many
of the questions that I heard
-- well-meaning questions,
like "So what is the
rural experience like?"
Or, "What is rural
America's reaction to poetry?"
Or, "Did you encounter
any resistance
or hostility on these trips?"
Questions which sought
affirmation
that the many different
rural communities
in this nation are alike,
characterized by one,
easily-summarizable
trait, and uniformly wary
or suspicious of outsiders.
In fact, I was shocked
early into my first term
to be asked point-blank,
"Were you surprised
by the intelligence of people's
responses in rural communities?"
If there is indeed a
divide in this nation,
perhaps it is perpetuated
by unthinking assumptions
like these, assumptions rooted
in the wish to summarize
or characterize the unknown
other as something single,
unified, predictable,
measurable.
I like to believe these kinds
of other-defining
questions didn't come
up during the actual American
Conversations tour because,
in every setting,
participants were engaging
in a new configuration
of momentary community.
I was there with staff
members from D.C. People
from neighboring
towns were present,
sometimes creating an unexpected
or unlikely cross-section
of community.
Sometimes audience members
drove from hours away,
out of an existing
love of poetry,
or because they thought it
was important for their kids
to see someone speaking in
an official capacity who,
as they often said,
looked like them.
One Kentucky mother said the
exact opposite, that she wanted
to expose her children to
the viewpoint of someone
who looked nothing like them.
The concept of "we" was
different from gathering
to gathering, which means there
wasn't enough of a certainty
about who "we" together were for
participants to seek certainty
about who "we" weren't,
or how "we" were different
from another specific
group or demographic.
I think that's important.
I think placing ourselves
in new configurations
of community is something we
ought to seek out more often,
because it helps to unsettle
the feelings of confidence
and authority that cause us to
forget how much we can learn
from others who are
not like ourselves.
I'll never forget the powerful
uncertainty I felt at a home
for veterans in Pioneers,
about an hour outside
of Anchorage, Alaska.
Apart from one or two
members of the audience,
nobody volunteered to speak.
I would read a poem, and ask the
question, "What do you notice?"
And it would be followed
by a longer-than-was-comfortable
period of silence.
Sometimes, as I was reading,
an audience member
would audibly moan.
It was a reaction I wasn't
used to, and it was difficult
at times to sit with the long
stretches of unfilled silence.
But afterward, staff
members were visibly excited.
It turned out that a sizeable
portion of the audience was made
up of nonverbal members of the
facility's Alzheimer's wing.
Those moans, and the
inaudible movements
that sometimes accompanied
them, were palpable indicators
of the ways poems had spoken to
or even woken up
audience members.
Without realizing it,
I'd been in the presence
of a remarkable response
to the power of poetry,
and it was an unforgettable
recalibration of my own sense
of what it means to
engage with poetry.
One thing that stays with me
from that evening is the fact
that it wasn't about
me performing well,
or hitting it off with people
in these different places.
Rather, American Conversations
was about giving people space
to engage with poems
in their own ways,
and in the terms most
meaningful for them.
If there's anything
the experience
of this project has made me want
to change about how I engage
with poetry and the other
spaces I move through --
spaces like cities,
and literary festivals,
and college campuses
-- it's this.
I wish we could be more
consistently willing to let go
of our own need for
certainty, and for the desire
to demonstrate our
claims to authority.
I wish we could turn down
the volume on our egos,
and get past our own impulse
to judge, rate, and assess --
an impulse fueled, I suspect,
by the many consumer-based
interfaces we've gotten used
to engaging with --
forums that assure us
that our instantaneous,
unfiltered, deeply-biased,
and often unfounded reactions
are of enormous value.
I wish that we could more often
let go of the need to be seen
as exceptional and
authoritative in our reactions,
the need to garner responses
that demonstrate our exceptional
and authoritative
status, and simply submit
to experiencing powerful
and difficult-to-summarize
feelings together with others.
I wish that, together
in whatever versions
of community we represent,
we'd more often allow ourselves
to wander a while through the
wilderness of new feelings,
and the wilderness of old
feelings in new forms,
without needing to
know and declare
where we are and
how we got there.
In other words, I wish we
could muster a willingness
to get lost together, which
is essentially the state poems
offer their readers and
the poets who write them.
Poems invite us to move
unpremeditatedly from a question
or a state of upheaval
through a series
of spontaneous observations
and responses --
some of which are conscious,
others unconscious, to something
that feels like revelation.
Poems draw us deliberately
past our certainties
and our assumptions, and
into something startling,
and consoling, or
chastening and enlarging.
In order to most
emphatically experience poems,
we have to surrender
authority, pay close attention,
and let the poem itself
lead us to a place
where a new kind
of sense prevails.
I've long believed this was good
for the individual
mind and spirit.
Now, more than ever, I believe
it's good for the collective,
the community, even something
resembling the nation.
During my travels,
I've encountered many
regional poets laureate working
with energy and generosity to
strengthen their communities
with the things poetry offers.
And so, it's my great honor
to gather tonight with them
for a conversation about the
ongoing work of poets laureate,
and the larger ongoing
work of poetry.
So I'd like to welcome the
poets to the stage now.
[ Applause ]
Okay, so hopefully
we can pick this up,
and we'll get some
other perspectives
on what it has meant, and
what it means to be sharing,
and engaging with
others via poetry.
Starting from the right
side of the stage,
Vogue Robinson is poet laureate
of Clark County, Nevada.
[ Applause ]
She is a dynamic
community-builder,
a galvanizing force in the
Las Vegas literary community.
When I visited, she
was very clear
to tell me it's not The Strip.
That's not Vegas.
Vegas is people.
Vegas is writers.
Vegas is neighbors.
Vegas is people who are
building something together.
So she's a booster
for the city's
and county's cultural riches.
She hosts workshops,
writers' gatherings,
and serves the community
with poetry programs
like the workshops she
conducts for people
who are living with Alzheimer's.
And next to her is Tina
Chang, who is poet laureate
of Brooklyn, New York.
[ Applause ]
Tina and I grew up together.
We were classmates
as graduate students,
back when we were just dreaming
of maybe making a life
together as poets.
And so, it's really so
beautiful to be here together,
and to be able to
celebrate the work
that she's been doing
in her capacity.
One of the major
emphases of her time --
and she's been poet
laureate of Brooklyn
for 10 years -- has
been children.
She's created a program to bring
authors into public schools,
and she's also led
workshops with all age groups,
from elementary school kids to
adults, and retirement centers,
and memory facilities.
Her laureateship is -- well,
it's been going on for 10 years,
as I said, and throughout that
time, she's found powerful ways
to celebrate and promote
poetry as a life-saving tool.
[ Applause ]
Next to her is Kealoha, who
is poet laureate of Hawaii.
[ Applause ]
I have mind envy.
Kealoha holds a degree in
nuclear engineering from MIT,
and one of the things that
he's used his laureateship
to do is expand the vocabulary
and even the methodology
that we associate with poetry.
He has epic performance
poems that --
like "The Story of
Everything," right --
that explore the universe from
the Big Bang to the present,
or native culture, and
different debates about what
that means, or feminism.
And he uses discourse from
science, storytelling,
and social justice to create
these really dynamic pieces.
[ Applause ]
And next to Kealoha is
Jeanetta Calhoun Mish,
who is poet laureate
of Oklahoma.
[ Applause ]
Her work in this role celebrates
Oklahoma history, literature,
and culture, and has
led her to communities
and schools throughout
the state.
She spent a lot of time in
rural communities as well,
so I'll be excited to hear
how our experiences match
up with one another.
She's also taken it as her
mission to encourage Oklahomans
to write their state's history,
and explore their own
stories via poetry.
[ Applause ]
And Adrian Matejka is
poet laureate of Indiana.
[ Applause ]
In this role, he has tirelessly
traveled back and forth
across his state, hosting
workshops and readings
with visiting writers, and
I -- I have traveled a lot.
But when -- I visited Indiana
twice, and when I catch wind
of what Adrian's doing,
it's really tirelessly.
Like, I'm deeply humbled by
the generosity and dedication.
He's also building an archive
of poets with ties to the State
of Indiana, which
is far-reaching,
and we visited a small
library in Franklin, Indiana,
and a school in Shelbyville.
And there's a really
beautiful sense of stewardship
that he brings to the
role, so welcome Adrian.
[ Applause ]
And we will be led in
conversation by Jennifer Benka,
who is president and executive
director of the Academy
of American Poets, and --
[ Applause ]
-- and as you heard, she's a
powerful advocate for poets,
poetry, and poetry
organizations nationwide.
[ Applause ]
>> Jennifer Benka: Well, I
want to start by first, Tracy,
thanking you again on behalf of
all of us for your brilliant,
brilliant work serving our
nation as poet laureate.
[ Applause ]
I know very clearly that
you have touched the lives
of so many people
on your visits.
I also want you to know that
you have influenced the work
of poetry organizations
across the country.
One of the things that I'm lucky
enough to be able to do is work
in partnership with 25 poetry
organizations across the U.S.
who are collaborating and have
formed an alliance called The
Poetry Coalition.
And because of you and
the work that you've done,
we have begun a conversation
about how we are
serving rural communities
in our poetry programming,
and that's not something
that we've talked about before.
So I want to thank you for that.
[ Applause ]
You have been a model, and been
such a reminder in your work
of how poetry can be a commons,
and it can also be
common ground.
Your work reminds
me of another poet
who championed poetry's social
possibilities, Muriel Rukeyser,
who writes in her very
influential collection
of essays, "The Life of Poetry,"
a number of relevant things,
but one about how civilizations,
in order to survive,
draw on all sources
of knowledge.
Any source of knowledge
that they can find --
history, inventions,
science, and yet, somehow,
throughout the ages, poetry
sometimes has not been used
as much as maybe
it could have been.
And yet, she says that
when communication seems
to break down, it's then
that we need to tap the roots
of communication, and
that's where poetry dwells.
Because it's in poetry
that one source is speaking
to another source, and
that's where and how personal
and maybe communal
transformation can be sparked.
And perhaps that's
why there are,
in addition to the national
poet laureate position,
a growing number of
states and cities
who have created poets
laureate positions.
The first state that had a poet
laureate was Colorado in 1919,
and over the decades, a number
of states have created
that position.
Now we have 45 states
across the country
that have poets laureate, and
interestingly, now we have many,
many cities that also do,
and also U.S. territories,
and tribal nations.
And that's something that my
organization has been following,
and watching, and tracking.
The first city, I believe,
that had a local laureate
position was Madison, Wisconsin,
1977, for the Badgers in
the audience [laughter].
There you go, Rob.
That was for you, Mr.
Casper [laughter].
But most -- most of the
poets laureate positions
that have launched on
a city level have been
since 2000 and 2001.
Interesting, right?
There's a part of me that
wonders if there's a connection
between what happened on 9/11
and the need that cities had
to understand those tragic
events, and find important
and meaningful ways
to have conversations
that can help heal
and move forward.
So I'd like to start there --
the important civic
role of the laureate.
Why does it matter that states
have poets laureate positions,
and that cities do?
What is it in your role
that you're able to do,
in terms of sparking dialogue?
I'm looking at you,
Adrian, so --
>> Adrian Matejka:
Well, you know --
well, you know, the great State
of Indiana, the 19th state
of the Union, has a very long
history of poets laureate.
We've had 72 years
of poets laureate,
but I'm only the second
one who is not white.
So one of, I think --
and the case, at least,
in my laureateship -- one of
the civic duties is to do some
of the work that I
think that that woman
from Kentucky was
talking about, like,
getting a conversation
going that is not
from the same perspective
of those
who they've been speaking with.
This has nothing to do with the
really wonderful poets who've
been doing this work
before I got there.
They all cared deeply about the
State of Indiana, but the State
of Indiana is a very
diverse state.
It's a very problematic
state in a lot of ways --
racially, and economically.
And so, it's -- at least
in my experience of this,
has been giving me an
opportunity to expand
that conversation just a little
bit, to show them that, in fact,
there are a lot of different
stories that need to be told,
not just the ones that have been
going on for the last 72 years.
>> Jeanetta Calhoun Mish: I was
thinking about the question,
because you sent them to
us earlier, and for me,
poetry functions on the boundary
between the private
and the public.
It functions that for
me when I'm writing it,
because I'm engaging
with other things,
and I think it also
functions that way
for people when they hear it.
And I'm not sure -- some kinds
of ritual used to do that,
and we don't have a
lot of ritual left
in our communities anymore.
And I think that two-way street
between your internal self
and your civic self that
is activated in poetry is
where the magic happens.
And for me, I want -- I just --
I want to share that
with everyone.
Poetry saved my life
in many ways.
I want to take that, and
also, I want to make sure
that the rural areas where --
actually are more
diverse in Oklahoma.
The rural areas are more
diverse than most of the cities.
Native Americans,
African-Americans, Vietnamese,
all kinds of people, much more
than people think
-- we're diverse.
And I want to make
a way for them
to enter the civic
conversation through the poetry
that I help them
write in workshops.
>> Kealoha: In my
experience, and in my brain,
the way that I see all the
different things we do with all
of our outreach, and the way
that we approach our poetry,
and -- it's really
-- what it bubbles
down to is making
poetry accessible
and everyday for people.
And that's something that's
intangible, but something that,
like, you know, they
can just interface
with anytime they want.
And it's there for them,
and it's present, and we --
our job is to, like -- is to
bring not only our work out,
and share that, but also to
bring up other people with --
throughout our communities, and
make their work visible as well.
So I think when you combine
those things, then now we start
to have a dialogue
between different folks
from different communities
and pockets, and that way,
we can further move
along as a society.
>> Tina Chang: I have
so many thoughts based
on what everyone is saying.
Just to go back and -- I'm
the poet laureate of Brooklyn,
and Brooklyn is already so
rich in history and culture
that poetry is a
pretty easy sell
where I come from [laughter].
Because everybody who
wants to be a poet,
or who has a very rich
artistic life seems to kind
of find themselves there.
I oftentimes wonder
-- wonder why.
Of course, it's physically
beautiful, but also,
just to kind of go back to
something that Adrian was saying
about the history of poets
laureate in Brooklyn --
there were three poets
laureate before me,
and they were all male.
So I was the first woman, and
also the first person of color.
So with that comes great
responsibility, I think.
I often ask myself, because
Rob Casper and a few others
that were on that
poetry committee who --
I was really lucky enough
that they reached out to me
to apply for this position.
I often ask myself,
as I'm sure some
of the other poets laureate
have asked themselves too --
is why me?
And so, when I think back on
it, I think about the role
of how important it is to be a
person of color, and how I want
to address not only diversity --
and I think we could all speak
to this -- but also diversity's
so different from integration.
New York, specifically Brooklyn,
is known as a very
diverse place.
Often, that's the first
word that comes to mind
when people speak of Brooklyn,
and I think in the
various communities
that I've just been honored
to just be welcomed into --
I think that one of
the greater challenges
that I feel is how do we find,
within the United States
overall, true integration?
And does that truly exist?
And I think poetry is really
one of those very rare spaces --
and maybe it goes back
to some of the things
that Tracy was mentioning in
many of her beautiful stories.
It has so much to do
with vulnerability.
We are, each of us, so very
vulnerable at the core,
and I think that we -- many
of us walk around, you know,
trying to keep it together,
trying to have, you know,
an armor, because our
armor protects us,
and helps us to function.
So I think, in the civic
work that we all do,
it takes a great amount of
time and effort to be able
to break down those walls.
And I find that poetry has
the capacity to do that,
and I think that it -- a lot of
it has to do with the silences
that poetry just welcomes in.
I think, in the state
where we are right now
within the United
States, so much of it is
about how much noise we can
make, and how much we can sort
of show what it is that we know.
But I think poetry kind
of lays out this space
of how much we don't know,
and how much beauty there is,
and how much we want to answer
to all the curiosities
in the world.
And I think that
civic engagement
and that curiosity have so
much to do with each other.
>> Vogue Robinson: I think
the role of a poet laureate --
I'm the second one
to hold the position,
and it's not state,
and it's not city.
It's the entire county.
So it's a very weird
position to hold,
as far as what area do you --
are you, you know, in charge of,
if you will [laughter].
I think that it validates the
idea of following your passion.
When I go into classrooms, and
I go and speak with students,
the idea of being a
writer as a valid thing --
especially when teaching,
if it's a workshop
within the community
or in a classroom,
it's also about allowing
people the space
to express their
feelings, and let them know
that their story is valid.
And I think that Las
Vegas, as a city,
is also building its
identity, and so wants
to tell its own stories.
Lots of people come in,
will write a story based on,
you know, one or two
years of living there,
but you need the people who are
born and raised in the county,
and the city, and the area
to really tell you
how it's developed,
how this casino went up, and
came down, and got rebuilt,
how this street is still
under construction.
But, you know, the changes
now, where it's like, you know,
a lot of the legislation,
and the people that are
in power have shifted,
and there's a lot of women
in power right now
in Nevada [laughter].
And it's cool.
So I think the yearning
to tell your own story,
but then also the permission
to tell your city's story,
your county's story, your
state's story, and going forward
with that, and I think
that encouragement
that writing is still valid,
that people still read books.
Okay, it's books [laughter].
>> Jennifer Benka: So
poets make excellent role
models [laughter].
All of you are excellent
role models, and hopefully,
as we're all appreciating
more deeply, you know,
poetry has this incredible
capacity to spark conversation
that can help strengthen
communities.
Vogue, you were talking
about the importance
of storytelling,
preserving stories.
What's interesting
about the role
of poets laureate is it
sort of puts a poetic twist
on Shelley's notion that
poets are the unacknowledged
legislators of the world
by acknowledging
that fact [laughter].
Right?
>> Kealoha: By legislators
[laughter].
>> Jennifer Benka: Right.
Were there civic themes
that you were interested
in addressing during your
term, issues that you cared
about in addition to
diversity and representation?
Can you talk a little bit
about that, and how you went
about addressing those issues?
>> Adrian Matejka: Yeah.
I mean, one of the major
things I've been concerned
with is the ways in which
poetry is undervalued
as a teaching tool, and
as a historical document,
and as an opportunity
for expression
in the ways we've
been talking about.
So I came into it with the
agenda that I wanted to try
to get in front of as many
young people as I could,
in front of as many people
who couldn't afford a workshop
as I could, as many people who
never thought that poetry was
for them as I could,
to allow them to sort
of dictate what poetry could be.
Of course, in the great
State of Indiana --
I don't know if I'm
supposed to share this,
but whatever [laughter].
I had to sign a -- it's
a government position,
and so I had to sign a document
that said I wouldn't
criticize the state government.
And so, I'm not [laughter],
especially since
the governor went
to my high school [laughter].
But, you know -- but
there are some ways
in which it's actually been,
in all seriousness,
very useful to me.
The state organizations have
been a great help in trying
to get to some of
the communities
that I don't have the
wherewithal to get to.
So I don't know if that's
exactly what you were asking,
but that was what my plan was.
>> Jeanetta Calhoun Mish: I
meant to say a while ago --
Oklahoma's the fifth state
to have a poet laureate.
Violet McDougal was named
poet laureate in 1923.
So I need to recognize her.
Many of you may have seen
the huge coverage last year
of the schoolteacher strikes in
Oklahoma, and one of the things
that came out of that is that
their union sold them out.
And there's still
25-year-old textbooks.
I went to a school in Avant,
Oklahoma where you could look
down the floorboards, through
the crumbling foundation,
and see the dirt
beneath the school,
and that's where they were
trying to teach and work.
And that was not unusual --
ceilings falling down,
flooded classrooms.
The teachers had a good reason,
and they weren't just
striking for pay.
The teachers list --
pay was on there last,
even though we lost 30,000
teachers in the last five years
because they can't
make enough to eat on.
What they wanted was
textbooks, decent buildings,
some money spent
on the children.
So I do a lot of work
in schools, but when I'm
at the schools, I also --
if I can get time to have an
in-service with the teachers.
And even if there's not time
for an in-service, I leave them,
you know, handouts, or lists
of resources, like Teachers
and Writers Collaborative, in
order to do what little I can do
to help support them
in their great mission
of educating a populace whose
parents don't really want them
to be educated.
Or maybe the state doesn't
want them to be educated.
I didn't have to sign it.
[ Laughter ]
And just -- and so,
that's what I try to do,
when I work in the schools,
is actually leave --
leave more for the
-- for the teachers,
to help to bring poetry in.
>> Kealoha: I'm going to have
to choose -- because there's --
I mean, throughout poetry,
we address all kinds
of different issues, but the
two that I think have bubbled
up in recent -- the recent
years have been particularly our
science literacy and our ability
to address climate change.
So that -- like,
that's something
that I've been really focused
on in my work, is making --
like, laying out the issue,
defining it, and then laying
out the solutions, and how we
could probably move forward.
So I think that has been, like,
a serious, like, focal point,
but in addition to that, I've
also been focusing on going --
returning to source, going back
to the indigenous
stories of Hawaii.
And one in particular that
I just want to highlight --
there was this creation chant
that was composed in the 1800s,
so -- no, I'm sorry,
it was the 1700s.
And what it said was basically
at first was born darkness,
and then was born sea slime,
which is basically bacteria,
and then was born the coral --
starfish, as well as the plants.
And then was born
crustaceans and insects,
and then was born fish.
You know where this
is going, right?
The fish, the sharks,
the rays --
and then was born the reptiles,
and then was born mammals,
and then finally, humans.
So it was basically evolution
theory told in the 1700s
through native Hawaiian
chant oral traditions.
Just a note of history --
Darwin's "Origin of Species"
was published in the 1800s.
So we're talking about roughly
100 years before the western
world got a hold of it, right?
So -- but the cool
thing is that,
when I go into these schools,
into these auditoriums,
and I tell that story,
we begin to realize
that native cultures have very
significant stories to tell.
And they were very much on
point with science, and mental,
logical capacities, right?
And so, it's that celebration of
all different kinds of stories
that has allowed --
has been another focus,
I guess, in my work.
>> Tina Chang: So I became a
mother for the first time right
around the time I became a
poet laureate, and so I think
that those two roles really --
they had to speak to each other.
For example, the night
that I was inducted
as the poet laureate
of Brooklyn,
I was actually carrying
my baby in a Baby Bjorn.
So when I looked at -- I
soon had another child,
but when I looked
at my children,
I really wanted the role
that I was fulfilling
as the poet laureate to speak to
not just them, but all children.
Because when you're
raising a child,
you get to grow along with them.
You get to see the
joy of them forming,
and understanding words
for the first time.
What a joy that is.
And so, I started to think
about what is it that I could do
for -- for children in
many different communities,
and one of the things which
kind of goes back to something
that was -- which
was already stated,
is that I thought
about teachers.
And I thought about their
jobs, and how often,
and how much they gave
over their resources to try
to provide books, to try to
provide everything needed,
so that these children could
fortify their language,
fortify communication.
So I developed programs to
be able to bring authors
into schools, but not only that,
I developed also diversity funds
so that those teachers
don't have to spend money
out of their own pockets to
be able to get students books
that they felt that they needed,
that would diversify
what they were reading.
And those authors, too, I also
tried to diversify as well.
There's one -- one author
named Kelly Starling Lyons
who also is a member --
a founding member of
the Brown Bookshelf,
which really promotes the work
of African-American writers
and African-American stories.
And she had this wonderful
story which she shared
with the children that she --
when she was eight years old,
she read a book for the
first time called "Roll
of Thunder, Hear My Cry."
And she said for -- it was --
it was the first time that she
saw an African-American child
on the cover of a book, and
it convinced her that she,
too, could be an author.
So I think just hearing those
stories in many communities,
I think, helps to
really promote this idea
that these children can,
too, live this kind of life,
that it's not outside
of their reach.
So I think that, in the work
that I do, I'm also thinking
about the children,
and providing books
for them as well.
And a lot of that has to do,
as everyone knows here --
has to do with fundraising.
So much of the arts now,
as it always did, I think,
suffers from not
having enough funding.
So a large part of the work that
I do, and which I think actually
that you have addressed at
the Academy of American Poets,
is really trying to find
funding in all corners,
and talking to people.
And I think that we haven't
really gotten to that yet,
but that is also a
large part of our job,
is not being only a speaker
for and toward this community,
but also how are we going to
realistically envision a project
and then put it into
actual being,
and push it forth
into the world.
>> Vogue Robinson: To piggyback
off of that, a lot of my --
my internal missions
were finish Bruce's work,
which is the previous poet
laureate of Clark County.
It was like, finish
what Bruce started.
One of them was bringing
the California poets
in the schools program
to Nevada.
And it was, well, how are
we going to get the funding
for this, where we're making
it so that poets can live,
can have a sustainable
lifestyle in which they're going
into classrooms,
teaching poetry,
being paid for their
time and the lesson plans
that they're creating, and
also living their lives
and writing books as well?
And so, it was the one thing
that Bruce didn't
quite fully finish,
but all the proposals
were there.
And I was like, I'm
going to take it.
I'm going to figure out where I
can submit it, and get funding
for this particular program.
And I thought about, you know,
the proverb of just lifting
as I climbed, that I'm
able to go different places
as a result of the position.
This title -- either
people know what it is,
or people can't pronounce
the word.
It's one or the other
[laughter].
And so, the places where
they know what it is,
then more doors opened for me.
And so it was, okay,
cool, you let me in.
If you want me to speak at this,
I think we should
also bring this poet.
Can we bring another poet
in who's going to do this?
And this, it'll be this much --
and being unafraid to request
funds, and being unafraid
to say, "No, this is --
this person spent time prepping
before, during, and after.
We're having meetings
and discussing how these
lessons will play out."
And I thought about -- I
thought about my grandmother,
and my grandmother at the time
was living in California still.
And we could not convince her
to move, and I was like, well,
I need to get, you
know, my grandma fix.
So I'm going to take
poetry into nursing homes.
And I found a project
that was founded
by Gary Gleeson Glasner,
G-L-A-S-N-E-R.
So Gary already had a program
set into place that was funded
by the NEA, that brought
poetry into nursing homes,
into retirement homes,
and they --
they had all the research there
about nonverbal communication,
about how sometimes people
aren't able to speak,
but they're still
able to listen.
About how a person can hear a
poem that they had to memorize
when they were younger, and they
won't remember the street they
grew up on, or their
daughter's name.
But if you read a poem that they
used to know, it'll come back,
and that -- that moment, you
know, is a priceless moment.
And my poetry staff that's
really -- I don't know.
Like, the building of community
and creating this close-knit
community of poets who --
we're all cheering
for one another.
It -- I can name you 10
authors in the past two years
who have published books in my
community, that had the guts
to go forward and said, "Okay,
I'm going to put a book out."
But everyone was editing
everyone else's --
did you read Rodney's book?
Did you read Jennifer's book?
Did you see Angela's cover?
What? Everyone was cheering for
each other, and these poets came
into my home and read
poems to my grandma
when my grandma moved
into our home.
And she made one of my
friends read his poem again.
She was like, it was too short.
Read it again [laughter].
And it was after a really
rough day, and she came back.
She was back that day.
So that integration
of family, community,
and working artists
creating something more
for ourselves, and connecting.
>> Adrian Matejka:
Can I say something?
>> Jennifer Benka:
Yeah, go ahead.
>> Adrian Matejka:
Yeah, I just wanted --
I just wanted to follow up
with something that Vogue said.
I think that's -- it
was, first of all,
so great, what you were saying.
But I was thinking of this
idea of creating access, right?
Like, the way that one
of the opportunities --
the opportunities that we're
given is to open up some doors
for those around us, right?
I was talking about these
various organizations
who are kind enough to
support me, and they don't --
they don't know the
performance community
in Indianapolis necessarily,
but they do now.
They didn't know that there are
these different little community
groups who are doing writing
at the library on Tuesdays,
but they're starting to
learn about them now.
So maybe one of the things
that we're able to do,
as we get wired in this,
is to bring everybody
-- rising tides, right?
I'm so glad that
you mentioned that.
>> Jennifer Benka: I want to
underscore something Tina --
you said, but first, appreciate
what we're hearing about poets
in civic positions making
a difference in the lives
of teachers, making a difference
in the lives of seniors who are
in institutional settings,
making a difference in the lives
of people trying to understand
environmental devastation.
The work that laureates
are doing --
poets laureate are
doing on a state
and local level is
largely unfunded.
I'm just curious.
How many of you have a
stipend supporting the work
that you're doing?
And I'm guessing,
Tracy not included,
that it's around
five to $10,000.
No?
>> Adrian Matejka:
It's 250 a month.
>> Jennifer Benka: 250 a month?
>> Adrian Matejka: Yeah.
>> Vogue Robinson:
It's now 2500 --
2500 is, like, your
personal stipend,
and then 7500 is
for programming.
>> Jennifer Benka:
Most of the positions
across the U.S. don't have
an honorarium attached,
as you've seen, and if they
do, it's extremely modest.
Nonetheless, again,
as you're hearing,
folks are traveling the state.
They're doing outreach.
They're buying books.
They're supporting teachers.
Just a public service
announcement [laughter] --
these positions are run
through the governor's office,
the mayor's office, the
state humanities council.
I encourage you to reach out,
find out who's running the poets
laureate positions near you,
where your family
members might live,
get involved, support them.
They need it.
But now, to some good news.
I'm sure, and I hope,
that you may have heard
that poetry is booming
[laughter].
I think we have some friends
from the National Endowment
for the Arts in the house.
There they are.
[ Applause ]
I know in the work that I do
that, in the past five years,
the interest in poetry has
been growing year over year.
We run a website, poets.org,
and have a daily poetry series,
poem a day that Tracy is
curating this month for us --
double-digit growth year
after year, year after year.
And yet, we would still
see these bleak headlines
about poetry.
No one's -- no one cares.
Poetry's dead.
And we're thinking, not
from what we can see.
Well, thanks to the National
Endowment for the Arts,
no one has to believe
me [laughter].
We actually have a study --
an arts participation study
that was released in the fall,
that demonstrated in the past
five years poetry readership
in the United States
has doubled -- doubled.
[ Applause ]
And what's very exciting
about this is
that the largest growth
is with young people,
particularly young
people of color.
And I should note the growth in
readership is the same in urban
and rural communities, and
can I be fact-checked on that,
Jessica [assumed spelling]?
Yeah [laughter].
And so to Tracy's point, when
people are asking questions --
well, do people really
read poetry?
And people are reading
poetry everywhere.
I just wonder, in your roles,
if you are feeling that swell
of excitement, and if you feel
like your work has contributed
to this over the
past couple years.
>> Adrian Matejka: Yeah.
Well, you know, it's
funny about that question,
about if poetry is
still working,
or still alive or whatever.
They never ask poets
that, right [laughter]?
They're always like,
is this sort of --
sort of thrown out to somebody
else kind of thing, right?
One thing I absolutely
think that is true --
I know in Indiana, certainly --
I would've loved to take credit
for the work that was happening,
but it's already
happening when I get there.
There are already people who
are waiting to write poems.
There are already people who
are interested in reading poems,
and I just have been creating
spaces to help them do that.
It's just, you know -- you know
how quickly somebody will snatch
the mike when they have
something that they want to say.
You know this.
It's like the under-30
crowd or something.
They have -- they've found
poetry, and they've invested
in it in this really
beautiful way.
So, you know, I -- like I said,
I'll take all the
credit I can get,
but it was -- it
was sitting there.
It was in -- it was
in Franklin already.
It was in Bloomington already.
It was in Indianapolis already,
just waiting for an outlet.
>> Jeanetta Calhoun Mish:
I have to say the Oklahoma
poetry community has been strong
since about 1972, and that's
not just in the urban areas.
But there's always
been writers' groups.
There's five or six monthly
open mikes with featured readers
in Tulsa, Oklahoma
City, Shawnee,
Loughton, all around the state.
And we all know each other.
We're family.
Tracy just attended our
family reunion at --
creative writing
conference in Ada, Oklahoma.
And so, I had that to build
from, but I have seen --
and something different
is I don't have to start
by convincing people
they don't have
to be afraid of poetry anymore.
It used to be the --
my -- the first --
the opening part of my thing.
Well, I can't write poetry.
You know, they'd show
up for some reason.
They're curious, but, you
know, my whole thing was,
you don't have to
be afraid of poetry.
You know, I -- so I think
it's being taught better,
but I'm also going
-- a huge, huge,
huge amount of props
to librarians.
I think a lot of the comeback
of poetry is from librarians,
and I -- I wouldn't even be
a poet if I hadn't fallen
in love with the library.
So -- but I see them --
they're putting it out there,
instead of -- not just
fiction books anymore.
They put them out front.
They put kids' poetry out front.
They hand them out.
So thank you, librarians,
all of you.
[ Applause ]
>> Kealoha: I absolutely
feel the same energy,
and it's for a number of --
you know, all these
different programs out there,
whether it's Poetry Out Loud,
whether it's the slam poetry
scene, whether it's poets
in the schools, artists
in the schools.
And teachers taking it into
their own hands when they know
that they're not --
like, there are standards
that they have to adhere to.
Did I miss any programs?
Any -- okay [laughter].
Teachers that take it
into their own hands
when poetry isn't really, like,
a standard that's highlighted
in what they have to teach.
They go ahead and, like,
take the opportunity to --
they really like to take it upon
themselves to teach the stuff.
And when we get brought
into those schools,
it's like an extra-special
thing for the kids,
because they've been already
immersed in it, and we can,
like, take them even deeper.
So, I mean, I've noticed just
that spirit of poetry is just --
it has been very much alive, and
we're very much a part of it.
And like you were
saying, though,
it's like we're just
riding the wave, right?
I mean, that energy's
already there, and, like,
that wave is already breaking.
Where do you want
to be on that wave?
Do you want to -- you know, do
you want to, like, carve it up?
Do you want to be in front?
Do you want to be in the
back, the barrel [laughter]?
What pose are you
making [laughter]?
And so for me, it's like -- I
do this poetry show every month.
It's a poetry slam, and,
like, I rarely perform at it.
Maybe, like -- maybe three times
out of the year, and they're,
like, always asking me, like,
how come you don't really
perform all that much at your --
I'm like, do you see
the sign-up sheet?
Like, there's no space for me.
Like, I want to, like -- I want
other people to get the chance
to be up on that mike,
because this -- it's not --
I mean, it's about them.
It's about the voices
of our community,
and highlighting that.
And so, that's, like --
that's how strong the
scene is of poetry.
And, yeah, don't
listen to those --
those other folks who
are saying poetry's dead,
you know [laughter].
We're alive.
>> Tina Chang: Yeah, I
mean, I completely agree.
I feel -- I feel --
if anybody hasn't been
to the Apollo Theater yet in
Harlem, you really have to go,
because I think the ways in
which I grew up with poetry --
I was, you know, like, a
typical sort of studious person,
you know, poring over my books,
writing it in a notebook.
And I think that when I
started becoming very active
in this role, I was invited
to so many different spaces.
So when I went to the Apollo
Theater, I saw poetry lifted
up in a way that I
haven't seen before.
Like, even in --
sometimes in the most sort
of established situations,
where established poets were
appearing, I would see maybe,
like, 50, 60, and we
would consider it packed.
When I went to the Apollo
Theater, there were hundreds
of people, and everybody
was dancing.
This is before the show started.
Everybody was dancing in the
aisles, and everybody was --
these choreographed dances, and
I had never seen that before.
And then, since that time,
I've seen more, and more,
and more of it working
with organizations
such as Urban Word NYC, and
the Community Word Project.
There are so many
organizations that --
when I go back to your
question was, you know,
how much of it really has to do
with the poet laureate,
and their role.
You know, so much of it, as
everybody seems to be saying --
it all kind of existed
before I was there.
I'm just really witnessing all
of it, and I'm absorbing it,
and hoping to take
that kind of energy,
and bringing it somewhere
else, or sharing their story.
But I go back to this -- I don't
know why this story has stuck
with me.
I went to visit China a while
back on a literary trip,
and to visit different
communities in China.
And we were talking
about the memorization,
and reciting poems, and one
person said, "Oh, every --
every Chinese person really has
a poem, like, in their head."
And I wouldn't say
that that was --
they said, "I wouldn't say
that that was the case
wherever I traveled, but in --
" she felt that in China,
that it was the case.
And I said, "Well,
why do you think --
why do you think
that is the case?"
They said, "Because in any place
where we experience hardship,
really one of the only
things that we really have
to keep us going is the
written word, is the word.
That's the thing even beyond
money, beyond resources.
We still have that one thing."
And so, I think about that now,
in terms of the question of,
like, why is there this surge.
I think we're -- especially
in the past few years,
we are experiencing a
particularly challenging time
in our history, and I witness,
and I work with so many young
people who feel no shame,
who no-holds-barred just want
to express themselves now.
They feel that it's the time,
and they feel really emboldened
to be able to push back,
and be able to open
up about what they're
feeling right now.
And I think it has everything
to do with the moment
that we're living in now.
>> Vogue Robinson:
There's also the magic
of social media [laughter].
So, you know, right now, if
you walk into a Barnes & Noble,
Rupi Kaur is on the end
cap -- on the end cap.
You can't walk past her.
You got to stop and look at her
books -- and Nayyirah Waheed.
So I had students who were like,
"Do you know who Rupi Kaur is?"
And I was like, what
are you talking about?
And this was a couple years ago.
And so, my students put
me onto these writers
who had major followings,
who were extremely secretive.
Like, I don't think I -- I
still haven't seen a picture
of Nayyirah Waheed.
I want to know what she
looks like [laughter].
I want her to have
a Wikipedia page
that has more information on it.
But, you know, she exists, and
so these little, small bites --
these micro-poems are
saying what people need
for the quick moment.
And the ability -- the
fact that these little --
these baby computers that
we walk around with all day
in our pockets, we just --
you know, you're
scrolling through it,
but at a certain moment, you
catch a line that speaks to you.
And I think actually it's
technically making people do
close reading, because if
you only have this line,
that's the only line
you can look at.
And you're like,
yeah, this is deep.
Okay, why is this -- [laughter]
I'm going to send this to my --
you show it to your friend.
But it's one line.
Like, the poem is probably
longer, but, you know,
you got that one line.
And so I think about
that, and that the world
of publishing has changed.
And so, self-publishing is
becoming a more respected thing.
The audio book -- you
know, I have friends
who are recording
books right now.
He's like, "Do you want
to read one of my poems?"
I'm like, yeah, I'll read one of
your poems for your audio book.
Cool. But that we can
do it with our phones,
or you can buy materials --
like, poetry's already been
a really accessible art form.
You -- pen and paper.
You know, it's not the same way
as painting or other things.
Like, I scribbled my poem
that I'm going to read tonight
on my paper, because
my phone was dying,
because that's poetry.
And it's always there,
and it's in the dialect,
and the conversations we
have, and the metaphors
that people use every day,
your grandma's language,
your great-grandma's language
in, you know, Oklahoma.
Like, even the simple phrases of
"long-tailed cat in a room full
of rocking chairs" -- like,
these are all images that live.
And so I think, yeah, publishing
has changed, accessibility,
the magic of social media,
and poems are everywhere.
Everywhere [laughter].
So great.
>> Jennifer Benka: Before we
close out, we'd love for each
of you to share a
poem, if you would.
[ Applause ]
>> Adrian Matejka: All
right, so, start with me?
Okay. So I'm not going
to share one of my poems.
I want to share a poem
by an Indiana poet
named Etheridge Knight
that I think is really
important, you know?
And if you don't know Mr.
Knight, I brought his book --
one of his books so
you could get a prop.
It's called "Haiku," and
there are nine of them,
but I'm not going
to read the numbers.
"Haiku. Eastern guard
tower glints in sunset.
Convicts rest like
lizards on rocks.
The piano man is stingy at 3:00
a.m. His songs drop like plum.
Morning sun slants cell.
Drunk staggers like cripple
flies on jailhouse floor.
To write a blues song
is to regiment riots
and pluck gems from graves.
A bare pecan tree
slips a pencil shadow
down a moonlit snow slope.
The falling snowflakes
cannot blunt the hard aches,
nor match the steel stillness.
Under moon shadows, a
tall boy flashes knife,
and slice star bright ice.
In the August grass, struck
by the last rays of sun,
the cracked teacup screams.
Making jazz swing
in 17 syllables ain't no
square poet's job [laughter]."
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Jeanetta Calhoun Mish:
Well, I was actually asked
to write a civic poem upon my
appointment as poet laureate,
and that's what I
brought to read.
You may need to know
only one thing.
There's a word in here, Wewoka.
It's from the Muscogee
Creek language,
and it's the name
of my hometown.
It means "barking water."
There were rapids.
"Directive.
You birthed me, land
of arrow and hoe,
your red rock fossilized
deep in my bones.
Near a rural mailbox, a young
war widow recalls sweetheart's
kiss under mistletoe.
A tire swing spins in a shadowed
grove, searching horizon
for a child long gone.
Down a trail on the
prairie worn by buffalo,
glimpse of a gray fox at
the bottom of a slope.
Hunter sets his sights
on a whitetail doe.
Venison's better than
poverty's half-loaf.
Scissortail sings on a
branch of black willow.
Coyote yips in the
hills, a comical rogue.
Alone in sere pasture
under sky's blue bowl,
crow call a code that
catches in my throat.
Under a flat yellow
stone, up a dusty red road,
plant my ashes near
Wewoka on a dusty plateau."
[ Applause ]
>> Kealoha: So this was inspired
by the movement towards
planting foods in our gardens,
and also the sustainability
movement.
"We've been growing a
garden around our place.
We don't have much space,
but we've been working
the soil beneath our feet,
watching the green
sprout over the concrete,
watching the vines
rewrite the graffiti
on the walls, and we know.
This garden is a simple symbol
that there is so much more
to be done in this world, and
sometimes, it gets overwhelming.
But we're taking responsibility
for what we can control.
And so, we're starting by
planting seeds, and caretaking,
making the ecosystem thrive,
watching the Earth come alive,
reflecting on the way we're
living our daily lives.
See, we've been growing
a garden over time,
so when we step outside,
we can visualize what
green energy looks like,
to remind ourselves that we're
no different from the trees,
that all the energy we need can
come from the sun, the wind,
the sea, and the infinite
warmth of geothermal heat.
And we know that another
world is possible,
and no matter how hopeless
any one of us feels,
this movement is real, that our
convictions lead to legislation,
lead to conservation, that
technology must serve ecology.
And so, this garden is helping
redefine the boundary lines
between us and the
global community.
We have come to learn that
there is no separation,
that every nation on this blue
planet is symbiotically fused,
and that everything we do
affects some part of you.
So we've been inspired
to limit our impact,
leave our -- " sorry about that.
"Leave our surroundings
better off than we --
leave our surroundings better
off than when we arrived.
We have vowed to reverse the
destructive tide before we die.
See, we've been growing a
garden for our children,
leaving a better world
for them to live in.
Teaches them to care take
what they've been given.
Show them to take a
stand for sustainability,
how to find the balance between
progress and preservation,
guide the way to
a self-revolution.
See, this garden is
for our children.
This garden is our
pledge to them."
Cool.
[ Applause ]
>> Tina Chang: So
this poem is also
by another poet named Eileen
Myles, and I just wanted
to thank Jen ahead of time
for the work that she does.
And I found this poem
actually on the Academy
of American Poets site,
and ever since I found it,
it's been on my desktop.
And I read it every day.
"Notebook, 1981.
I was so willing to pull a
page out of my notebook, a day,
several bright days, and live
in them as if I was only alive,
thirsty, timeless, young enough
to do this one more time.
To dare to have nothing
so much to lose,
and to feel the potential
dying of the self in the light
as the only thing I thought
that was spiritual, possible.
And because I had no other
way to call that mind,
I called it poetry, but it was
flesh, and time, and bread,
and friends, frightened
and free enough to want
to have another day that way.
Tear another page."
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Vogue Robinson: Do your
evaluations [laughter].
That's how you get
funding [laughter].
This poem is called
"When the Poem is Done."
"When the poem is done, never.
When you say so.
When a stranger calls it kin.
When it is -- when its
inspiration lives behind its
eyelids, under its tongue.
When the poem is lifted
by a self-made breeze,
becomes aspiration in
a room of your peers,
when it illuminates
you mid-line.
When the poem is rooted
in itself, fruit-bearing,
apple blossom filling the
wind, beckoning hello,
and its leaves all
live as midday boons."
[ Applause ]
>> Tracy K. Smith: So
thinking about the notion
of how we might choose to get
lost together, and listening
to us, I realize maybe
I'll rephrase that.
We are lost.
We are lost, and I
think poetry is a way
of acknowledging that,
and working together.
So this is a poem, I think, that
comes out of that realization.
"An Old Story.
We were made to understand
it would be terrible.
Every small want, every
niggling urge, every hate,
swollen to a kind of epic wind.
Livid, the land, and
ravaged like a rageful dream.
The worst in us having
taken over,
and broken the rest
utterly down.
A long age passed,
when, at last,
we knew how little would survive
us, how little we had mended,
or built, that was not now lost.
Something large and old awoke,
and then our singing brought
on a different manner
of weather.
Then, animals long believed
gone crept down from trees.
We took new stock
of one another.
We wept to be reminded
of such color."
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Rob Casper: Well, thank you
to all of our poets laureate,
and of course, to Tracy,
and thank you to Jen Benka.
I'm Rob Casper.
I'm the head of the Poetry
and Literature Center,
and special thanks to Vogue
for doing my job for me.
You should fill out those forms
[laughter], those surveys.
They will help us out.
You can leave them
on your chairs.
You can leave them on
the tables in the back.
Speaking of the back, as
you walk out, to your left,
you can go to the
Whitnall Pavilion.
Our poets laureate
will be signing books.
So get some books,
have them sign them,
tell them how much you love
them and loved tonight.
We hope to see you
back here in September
when we have a 23rd poet
laureate consultant in poetry.
If you want to find out about
that event, and all the events
that we do to celebrate poetry
and literature year-round
at the Library, around
Washington, D.C.,
and around the country, visit
our website, www.loc.gov/poetry.
Thank you, and good night.
[ Applause ]