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My name is Padre Gutuma, and years ago I gave a reading in Australia. And afterwards somebody came up and she had a book in her hand, and she held out the book to me where I was sitting, and it was open at a particular poem. And she said, you should read this. And I read it, and I was totally overwhelmed. I probably swore. And then she looked at me and said, that book's yours now. And I love that poem. I love the book and I love how I got it. Michelle Trabilco is the woman who gave it to me. I stay in occasional touch with her. And the book is by the Australian poet Kevin Hart. And the poem is called Prayer. So here it is. Prayer by Kevin Hart. Oh, come in any way you want in morning sunlight fooling in the leaves or in thick bouts of rain that soak my head because of what the darkness said. Or come though far too slowly for my eye to see Like a dark hair that fades to gray. Come with the wind that wraps my house or winter light that slants upon a page because the beast is stirring in its cage. Or come in raw and ragged smells of gum leaves dangling down at noon or in the undertow of love when she's away Because a night creeps through the day. Come as you used to years ago when I first fell for you in the deep calm of an autumn morning Beginning with the cooing of a dove because of love, the lightest love, or if that's not your way these days, because of me, because of something dead in me. Come like a jagged knife into my gut because your touch will surely cut. Come any way you want, but come. In a poem like this by Kevin Hart, a poem titled Prayer. I wonder what it's asking for. Prayer comes from the French word prie, which means to ask. And I look through the poem and I wonder what some of the asks are. You know, come in any way you want, or come though far too slowly from my eye to see. Come with the wind that wraps my house or winter light that slants upon a page and then come in raw and ragged smells of gum leaves dangling down at noon. There's the request to come in the undertow of love when she's away. Come as you used to years ago. Come like a jagged knife into my gut and come any way you want. Someone or something, or maybe even more so. Some you is being called to and summoned by the speaker of this poem, and it's called Prayer. So the first thought, really, and maybe the only thought, is to think of some God that's being spoken to some you, some transcendent you. I wonder why the poem offers five strange because of what the darkness said, because the beast is stirring in its cage, Because a night creeps through the day. Because of love, the lightest love, and then as well, because your touch was surely cut. None of those are the kinds of languages that I'm used to thinking about when I think of something titled prayer. Years ago I was at a service in London, a religious service, and it was a liturgical service. There was kind of responses said from the front and everybody was supposed to respond with what was written on the order of service. And there was a woman got up to read some prayers that she was reciting from some pages. And she started off by saying something like, this isn't a perfect recollection, but it was something like, God, I hate some people and I bring my hate here. And then she went into detail about ways within which she hated some people. Not in a way that was caricaturing them. She wasn't sending them up and making it seem like she was a great virtuous person by the ways within which she was trying to get over her hate. Rather, she was doing something so interesting. I was totally arrested by the language of prayer, by the clarity of language. And I think about her so often when I think about what Kevin Hart says here because of what the darkness said, because of love, the lightest love that seems to be the one with the most levity in these reasons of because that are given. There is yearning the whole way throughout this poem. And something like a really nature based transcendence and desire. And the nature based feeling of it is so important. And in the anguish of the final part of this prayer, the attention to the physical is really, really worthwhile. Speaking of Kevin Hart has a great line from an interview that he gave once where he said, but the spiritual world is within this one. Not as a secret, but as a radian. I wonder who's the person that's speaking in this poem. I don't know. I wonder if Kevin Hart knows. There's a clarity and an elevated language that seems very different from the way a person would speak in the everyday. Or what's so clear is that this person is filled with yearning. That repeated call to come, come, come in any way you want. This person is so attentive to nature, to the physical world. Morning sunlight falling in the leaves or thick bouts of rain that soak my head. And the evocative line, raw and ragged smells of gum leaves. Kevin Hart's Australian and The gum leaf is a way of talking about the eucalyptus tree. And that gorgeous smell that you get when you rub your hand. The gum leaves. And then there's more as well, you know, the deep calm of an autumn morning. That seems to be referring to an early way of attention, to some kind of yearning, some devotion, the cooing of a dove. The speaker is very sensual. This poem seems filled with an erotic intelligence. There's the line, come as you used to years ago. There seems to be a reference to love in the past. A reference to an easy period of some kind of devotion. And they have a relationship with time. They seem to have aged too slowly for my eye to see. Or like a dark hair that fades to gray. And again and again you hear the presence of the knowledge of control. And the lack of control and constraint and wildness. Because the beast is stirring in its cage. And lastly, I think. I'm sure there's loads of things that could be said about this speaker. But the last thing that really strikes me is that this speaker of the poem seems to be a reader. There's a gorgeous reference to Emily Dickinson in the line. Or winter light that slants upon a page. Emily Dickinson has that line. There's a certain slant of light winter afternoons. And then also tell all the truth, but tell it slant from two different poems of Emily Dickinson's written at very different times of her life. But this speaker seems to be turning to desire and turning to the page and turning to that for which they have no other word but you and come. I've read this poem so many times since Michel Trabelco gave me the book. It was the only book that I had with me for a while when I was on that trip. And so I kept on reading the whole book and this poem in particular. I used to wonder for a while could this be a prayer to a person because of the erotic sensibility of it. But there is a reference to the undertow of love when she's away. So I don't think that this poem is trying to speak about the relationship between two people through the lens of prayer. This does seem to be a prayer addressed to a God. The object of desire is this you that's undefined and elevated in the language that this poem calls prayer. If this poem were not called prayer, I think I'd still feel like it was addressing something transcendent, something bigger, something huge, something that is marked this you by presence and by absence. By being able to arrive in mornings or evenings or night. That this you is able to Contain rage and consuming desire and tenderness and yearning and change as well. And that this you, this addressee that's being spoken to, is not afraid of time, maybe isn't even in time, but is capable of hearing the voices that come from within time. This you is sometimes recognizable and sometimes not. Comes in one way, comes in another, Sometimes in the oily scent of a leaf, sometimes in nostalgia. And there's pain and pleasure, too, in the way that this you is called upon, is summoned because your touch will surely cut. Prayer means ask. Prie, and ask builds on a want. And the interesting thing about the word want in English is that it means two things. It means a lack. I have a want. But it also means a desire. I have a want. And so desire is the whole way throughout this poem. And desire opens up such strange and complicated and beautiful things in us. Sometimes it opens up raw and uncontrolled things in us. And if you think that the rawness and the uncontrolled nature of desire is a good reason to ignore it because you don't know what to do with it, well, it's still going to do something with you. And I think you hear that in the culmination of the poem. Or if that's not your way these days. Because of me, because of something dead in me. Come like a jagged knife into my gut. Because your touch was surely cut. I feel so sorry at times for this speaker who's blaming himself or searching for blame. Because of me, because of something dead in. At times I've tried to understand this. But more so, I think the invitation is to try to feel it, to try to get it on the level of something in the gut. Where you think I, too, at one point or now have been searching for a feeling that I once had of such intensity that it was both a draw as well as something like a jagged knife into my gut. There's a draw to the unknowable, a draw to the unreachable that I think is so present here, the almost monstrous unreachable in the presence of this prayer that somehow is also not monstrous. It's overwhelming. And there can be something where I think the person praying this prayer sometimes feels like they're going to be annihilated or consumed or overwhelmed, and yet also drawn up, caught up in something that they feel really made for. So I can't explain what I think this poem is about, but I have a shared feeling in me about times I've touched into it. The raw ache for yearning for some meaning or a meaning making mechanism or some kind of song or language or word, or some evocative experience in the self that can draw you to the presence of the absence that holds all things together, where for a small moment you feel touched into it. Prayer by Kevin Hart oh come in any way you want in morning sunlight fooling in the leaves, or in thick bouts of rain that soak my head because of what the darkness said, or come though far too slowly from my eye to see like a dark hair that fades to gray, Come with the wind that wraps my house or winter light that slants upon a page because the beast is stirring in its cage or come in raw and ragged smells of gum leaves dangling down at noon or in the undertow of love when she's away because a night creeps through the day. Come as you used to years ago when I first fell for you in the deep calm of an autumn morning beginning with the cooing of a dove because of love, the lightest love or if that's not your way these days because of me, because of something dead in me. Come like a jagged knife into my got because your touch will surely cut Come any way you want but come. Prayer by Kevin Hart can be found in Flame Tree Selected poems published in 2001 by Bloodaxe Books. Thanks to them for permissions to use this poem and to Frederick Courtright of the Permissions company. Poetry Unbound is Andrea Prevot, Carla Zanoni, Daryl Chen, Sparrow Murray, Chris Heagle, Bill Sigmunds and me, Padre Gotuma. Our music is composed and provided by Gautam Srikishan and Blued out sessions. These episodes were made in New York City on unceded Lenape land. Special thanks to Will Salwin, Nave Yan and Adam Morell at Digital Island Studios in Manhattan. Thanks as well to Frederick Courtright of the Permissions company. Poetry Unbound is an independent non profit production of the On Being Project founded and led by Christa T. Exhibit. This season of Poetry Unbound is made possible by a grant from the Henry Luce Foundation. Our other funding partners include the Liana foundation, the Bidale foundation and Engaging the Census Foundation. Poetry Unbound would be nothing without the listening community. Thanks to all who listen who read and give through our weekly Poetry Unbound substack or directly to On Being. For links to the substack and to find out more about Poetry Unbound books and events, visit poetryunbound.org.