Padre Gautulma (0:00)

Friends. I am delighted to let you know that I've got two books that are out now. 44 poems on being with each Other is a collection of 44 essays accompanying other people's poems. It's a Poetry Unbound collection. There's poems from Jericho Brown and Mary Oliver and Lucille Clifton in there, and a collection of my own poems, Kitchen Hymns, is also out. You can get them wherever books are sold, and you can find out more information@poetryunbound.org thanks very much. My name is Padre Gautulma and some of the best stories I've ever heard are ones where it's not entirely clear how it ends. Where you're left on the edge going, what's going to happen? That's the way that the story then continues. It gets into you and you find yourself going back and looking for clues and looking for ideas and arguing with your friends about what happened and what it meant. I think that's one of the ways that stories really work in us, and I love it when a poem can do that. How It Will End By Denise Stuhamel we're walking on the boardwalk but stop when we see a lifeguard and his girlfriend fighting. We can't hear what they're saying, but it is as good as a movie. We sit on a bench to find out how it will end. I can tell by her body language he's done something really bad. She stands at the bottom of the ramp that leads to his hut. He tries to walk halfway down to meet her, but she keeps signaling, don't come closer. My husband says, boy, he's sure in for it, and I say he deserves whatever's coming to him. My husband thinks the lifeguards cheated, but I think she's sick of him only working part time, or maybe he forgot to put the rent in the mail. The lifeguard tries to reach out and she holds her hand like Diana Ross when she performed Stop in the Name of Love. The red flag that slaps against his station means strong currents. She has to just get it out of her system. My husband laughs, but I'm not laughing. I start to coach the girl to leave her no good lifeguard, but my husband predicts she'll never leave. I'm angry at him for seeing Glee in their situation and say, that's your problem. You think every fight is funny. You never take her seriously, and he says you never even give the guy a chance and you're always nagging, so how can he tell the real issues from the nitpicking? And I say she doesn't nitpick. And he says, oh, really? Maybe he should start recording her tirades. And I say maybe he should help out more. And he says, maybe she should be more supportive. And I say, do you mean supportive or do you mean support him? My husband says that he's doing the best he can, that he's a lifeguard, for Christ's sake. And I say that her job is much harder, that she's a waitress who works nights carrying heavy trays and is hit on all the time by creepy tourists. And he just sits there most days, napping and listening to Power 96. And then, ooh, he gets to be the big hero, blowing his whistle and running into the water to save beach bunnies who flatter him. And my husband, it's not as though she's Miss Innocence. And what about the way she flirts, giving free refills when her boss isn't looking or cutting extra large pieces of pie to get bigger tips? Oh, no, she wouldn't do that because she's a saint and he's the devil. And I say, I don't know why you can't just admit he's a jerk. And my husband says, I don't know why you can't admit she's a killjoy. And then out of the blue, the couple is making up. The red flag flutters, then hangs limp. She has her arms around his neck and is crying into his shoulder. He whisks her up into his hut. We look around, but no one is watching us. I love this poem by Denise Duhamel. The first time I read it, I laughed out loud. It is so entertaining and does so many things at the same time. There's a stage and a stage. The first stage is the boardwalk, and the characters come in twos. You know, the lifeguard and his girlfriend, and then the speaker and the husband. And the poem is absolutely clear that the observing couple can't hear what's going on. But the body language, to them anyway, seems so striking that they're able to fill in the gaps. Although obviously one of the layers of this poem is how different the gaps are filled in by this couple who are married to each other. They each take different sides and they each observe what's going on. I love the throwaway line about the lifeguard tries to reach out and she holds her hand like Diana Ross when she performed Stop in the Neighborhood. And so suddenly, this stage isn't just the stage about what's happening, it's also the stage about what else is being Referenced pop stars and drama and obviously then enormous projection from their own life into the silent drama as it's occurring in front of them. Silent movies are a thing of the past, perhaps, but there are silent movies happening all around us. When you see people talking, when you're passing them by, if you're driving or in a bus or sitting, waiting and seeing something happen where you can't discern being said. But the silent movie of life as it unfolds in front of us allows for so much projection. And so much of that is perhaps, you know, my own unconscious finding some archetypes for me to splatter with my own thoughts. The limited way of imagining how we see couples, especially what we think are straight couples, act out becomes so clear. You know, he's referred to the lifeguard as the no good lifeguard. And then the husband projects onto the girlfriend that she's always nagging and nitpicking and goes on tirades. And then the wife begins to project onto the lifeguard that he should help and that there should be more support going on. And then it just continues to escalate. You know, the projection is that it is the girlfriend who was working as a waitress and she's hit on all the time and how difficult that must be. But then her husband comes back and says, no, no, no, she's the one who's flirting, giving free refills and extra large pieces of pie. And in fact, she says the lifeguard is the one who's flirting, running into the water to save beach bunnies who flatter him. These are so reductive. They're entirely entertaining. And I want to look at my entertainment because I think partly the way the whole poem ends. We look around, but no one is watching us. That's a setup, too. We are watching them. I'm watching them every time I read it. We're all watching them now, listening to this. And the question is, who are we reducing when we look at this poem? And how is it that I too am being brought into the soap opera drama of this? It's like Days of Our Lives happening in poetry, poetic form. And it has a sharp point, which is, who are you watching and what are you making them do by your watching? One of the things about conflict is that it can escalate. I think we all know that something can start off small and then suddenly something happens and it just gets bigger and bigger and bigger. And at the beginning of this poem, there's back and forth. Boy, he's sure in for it. And he deserves whatever's coming to him. They're just looking and correctly or incorrectly guessing at what's going on. And their only disagreement at that stage is, what has the lifeguard done? What's his sin? Has he cheated or has he not paid the rent? But then when the speaker states, you never take her seriously, There is a 255 word long sentence. And this escalates and rises, and they demand and accuse and project, and one identifies here and assumes something about the other, and they build and build and build in this fight, and they seem to assume that they know absolutely everything about what's going on. And this long sentence becomes a little bit breathless and energy builds, and the energy within it is multiple. It's energy of aggression, but it's also erotic energy, the argumentative energy. I wonder, is it meant to echo sex? And if it is, is it bad sex? Is it angry sex? Is it good sex? Somehow they've been getting pleasure from their projections onto this couple of the lifeguard and the girlfriend. And the pleasure is in rehearsing old arguments and falling apart. But I want to wonder, in the erotic energy of this long sentence, are either of them actually satisfied, or are they getting satisfaction from saying they're not satisfied? I wonder, is part of the art of this brilliant poem implying that fighting can sometimes replace sex for couples? And where is this going? What's going to happen? Will it challenge or will it just fade away and they'll begin to repeat it again with whatever other circumstance, something on television or something on the bus or something in the family where they can project their hostility towards each other. Suddenly, then, shockingly, out of the blue, the couple is making up the entire energy of the poem deflates. The red flag flutters, then hangs limp. And if we hadn't been thinking of phallic projection, well then Denise Duhamel has just presented to us on a plate to say, you absolutely need to take this as some kind of indication of eros and sex and understanding of the erotic life of people is caught up in the way that we act as people outside the sex. We need to ask seriously, what is it that satisfies us? And is the thing that gives us pleasure based on a reduction of other people and a reduction of ourselves too, in the acting of that. One of the things I adore about this poem is the close attention that Denise Dhammel pays to the way that people tell stories about the couples you observe. Well, then he said, and then she said, and then I said, and he thought, and he thought. And at times when you're reading it, you get a little bit mixed up to go, who is he? Is it the husband or the lifeguard? And who is she? Is it the speaker or is it the girlfriend? And partly, I think, that's deliberate. And in a way, the lifeguard and the girlfriend in their drama are able to carry some of the difficult dynamics that are happening between the speaker and the husband. Not everybody can talk about absolutely everything that seems to be lost between them, and sometimes we need sport or film or something that happens between friends or something that happens, like here between strangers in order to be able to release some steam in the hope that it can be somewhat of a reset between people who really do love each other and work well together. But other times it can be an indication of something else, and I love that we don't know that about this poem. How it Will End we have no idea how it will end. By Denise Duhamel we're walking on the boardwalk but stop when we see a lifeguard and his girlfriend fighting. We can't hear what they're saying, but it is as good as a movie. We sit on a bench to find out how it will end. I can tell by her body language he's done something really bad. She stands at the bottom of the ramp that leads to his hut. He tries to walk halfway down to meet her, but she keeps signaling, don't come closer. My husband says, boy, he's sure in for it, and I say he deserves whatever's coming to him. My husband thinks the lifeguards cheated, but I think she's sick of him only working part time, or maybe he forgot to put the rent in the mail. The lifeguard tries to reach out and she holds her hand like Diana Ross when she performed Stop in the Name of Love. The red flag that slaps against his station means strong currents. She has to just get it out of her system. My husband laughs, but I'm not laughing. I start to coach the girl to leave her no good lifeguard, but my husband predicts she'll never leave. I'm angry at him for seeing Glee in their situation and say, that's your problem. You think every fight is funny. You never take her seriously, and he says you never even give the guy a chance and you're always nagging, so how can he tell the real issues from the nitpicking? And I say she doesn't nitpick, and he says, oh really, maybe he should start recording her tirades, and I say maybe he should help out more, and he says maybe she should be more supportive. And I say, do you mean supportive or do you mean support him? And my husband says that he's doing the best he can, that he's a lifeguard for Christ's sake, and I say that her job is much harder, that she's a waitress who works nights carrying heavy trays and is hit on all the time by creepy tourists and he just sits there most days napping and listening to Power 96 and then, ooh, he gets to be the big hero, blowing his whistle and running into the water to save beach bunnies who flatter him. And my husband says it's not as though she's Miss Innocence. And what about the way she flirts, giving free refills when her boss isn't looking or cutting extra large pieces of pie to get bigger tips? Oh no, she wouldn't do that because she's a saint and he's the devil. And I say, I don't know why you can't just admit he's a jerk, and my husband says I don't know why you can't admit she's a killjoy. And then out of the blue the couple is making up the red flag flutters, then hangs limp. She has her arms around his neck and is crying into his shoulder. He whisks her up into his hut. We look around, but no one is watching us.