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- [00:05]
A
Hi.
- [00:06]
B
You're listening to the New Yorker Poetry Podcast. I'm Kevin Young, poetry editor of the New Yorker Magazine. On this program, we invite a poet to pick a poem from the New Yorker archive. Then they read one of their own poems that's been published in the magazine. The poems we're featuring in this episode also appear in the anthology A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025, available for purchase from the New Yorker store or wherever you buy books today. My guest is Bruce Smith, the author of eight poetry collections, including the forthcoming Hungry Ghost. He's received awards from the Academy of American Poets and the American Academy of Arts and Letters, as well as fellowships from the Guggenheim foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He teaches at Syracuse University. Bruce, welcome. Thanks so much for joining me.
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A
Thank you. Glad to be here.
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B
So the first poem you've chosen to read is Open Letter to My Ancestors by Mary Rufel. What was it about this particular poem that caught your eye when you were leafing through the anthology?
- [01:10]
A
I thought it had a kind of strange energy, a kind of what Emily Dickinson called domestic mysticism and this strange dislocation of past and present. And surprise is. It's a word which she uses in the middle of the poem. So all of those factors for this.
- [01:33]
B
Poem sounds good to me. Why don't we listen to the poem? Here's Bruce Smith reading. Open Letter to My Ancestors by Mary Rufel.
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A
Open Letter to My Ancestors Sometimes I walk around the house wearing a green clay mask. It's supposed to be for my skin, but I don't care about that. I wear it in honor of you. I am so sadly far away from you. I secretly hope someone rings the doorbell so they cannot recognize me. Surprise. I am seasick on my long voyage. I've left everything behind except this valise, which I protect with my body and God's love, because I believe in the day I will board a bus with a bag of potatoes in my right hand worth more than the valise and everything in it. Thank you for that. These smoked chops are incredible. You have to look at it as one person with a very long life. It's better that way. Blood, tears, violence, hate, ashes, everything. The mad blue terror of dying, of having to learn another language. Per Durabo. It all works out in time. There is no end. I had no kids. There's a niece in Cincinnati. She's marrying a Greek next week. Just so you know, I'm going to wash you off now into the luminous depths where even A recluse bird must fly.
- [03:26]
B
That was Open Letter to My Ancestors by Mary Ruffel, which was originally published in the October 8, 2012 issue of the New Yorker. So I love hearing this poem and hearing you read it. I love the idea too, of an open letter. What do you think about that? You know, it's the kind of letter, of course, that would be like, say, in a newspaper. An Oprah letter to Angela Davis is something that James Baldwin wrote, for instance. What did you think about that?
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A
You know, I thought that Mary Ruffle, I think, always pushes back against another form and the open letter for her allows her that intimate address and as you said, like an open letter, that would appear to Angela Davis, for instance. So I think it allows both that intimacy and that distance that you might get.
- [04:15]
B
Do you think all poems are open letters?
- [04:18]
A
Yes, I hadn't thought of that, but yes, sure. The letter form is a way to be able to have an IU exchange, even if it's with the ancestors. And also a way to. The letter is always a way to journey into the interior in a way.
- [04:41]
B
I love that. I love that journeying you're talking about because I also think it connects two places automatically, of course, and implies distance, even if it's right across town. And here the distance is more than just time. I think it's also, I guess, a sense of what one's ancestors might have gone through. In this case, that lovely part where it says surprise. I am seasick on my long voyage, which might be the voyage of life. I've left everything behind except this valise, which I protect with my body and God's love, because I believe in the day I will board a bus with a bag of potatoes in my right hand worth more than the valise and everything in it. Do you think when it says things like surprise or thank you for that, or speaks in another language, do you think those interjections are sort of part of Rueful's surprise, the speaker's sort of surprise? How do you take those moments which I think are really integral to the fabric of the poem, and not they take it beyond sort of a narrative of, gee, I'm missing you, ancestors. It's more like I'm kind of you at times, you know, I traveled, I've journeyed. How do you take that?
- [05:53]
A
That's right. No, no, exactly that. I think that Mary Ruffle has said, you know, elsewhere in her poet friendly book, Madness, Rack and Honey talked about that, talked about bewilderment and delight as part of the work of Poetry and transformation. And so that surprise that happens there, one I think she gets from immediately walking around the house in a kind of comic face painted green clay mask. And that distance to this part of the poem where she says, it all works out in time, there is no end. So there's a huge shift and jump, I think there. And I think that's what he does best, that kind of leap.
- [06:47]
B
Well, and I think it's also. It gets one to think, you know, it is comic, but there's something about it that makes us think, are we all walking around with masks of some kind? And maybe yours is clay, maybe mine is green, maybe yours is blue. But there's this kind of way in which the delight in the mask is part of the poet but also part of the descendant of this group that is addressed in this broad way. How can you write a letter to all of your ancestors? But also, how can you not. How can you not sort of live through them and live the lives they can't kind of imagine? And then there's a kind of, I don't know, it feels almost like a thank you note. Do you see that?
- [07:27]
A
Yes, too. I love that. And I think that that's why the mention of the immediate kin, like, I have a niece. There's a niece in Cincinnati, she's marrying a Greek next week. That connects.
- [07:41]
B
Just so you know.
- [07:42]
A
Yeah, just so you know. Yeah, the just so you know and thank you for that and surprise are the reader friendly kind of notes that maybe make that leap that you suggested between just her immediate situation and this longer narrative of the ancestors. I love the way it gets into the luminous depths at the second to last line. That's a lovely place to have your poem go.
- [08:18]
B
I agree. It's so beautifully done there at the end. And I often think about that when I'm reading a poem. You couldn't start there if we started with the luminous depths, you'd be like, I don't believe you, or that's too quick or sure, okay, I agree, granted. Now let's move on. And instead we have this figure in their own house who is sort of strange to themselves. And there's something about that. Like your ancestors, of course, are your blood, but they don't necessarily know you. Always, though in the tradition I come from, you might believe they already know you and they've sort of imagined you in some way. And so for her, I think there's something really interesting where she says, you have to look at it as one person with a very long life. It's better that way. Blood, tears, violence, hate, ashes, everything. The mad blue terror of dying, of having to learn another language. And that's such a beautiful idea that instead of this broken up lineage, it's actually one long. One long life. One person with a very long life that everything's in there, including this mad blue terror. I think there's something really profound about that and it has to be journeyed toward. If the poem started that even, which is a part of the imaginative leap, I don't think it would be as effective as the letter form and the incantation that kind of goes along. And those of us who are hearing it and not seeing it, it has no poem punctuation. And I'm curious about that quality of it. What do you think the lack of punctuation or maybe the presence of no punctuation does for the poem?
- [10:00]
A
Yes, that kind of fuses or confuses in a good way. I think those. I don't know what to call them levels, but those. The ancestral past and the sort of comic immediate and also relations that seems.
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B
Who I may not know, but made up of.
- [10:23]
A
Right. I've heard a story about these bag of potatoes that they carried in, you know, to Ellis island or someplace like that.
- [10:32]
B
That's interesting. I also think there's the last, I don't know, 10 or 12 lines after the dying mention learning another language. There's a kind of rush. It says it all works out in time. There is no end. I had no kids. There's a niece in Cincinnati. You know, it's sort of telling you things almost as a confession, but almost as a kind of poignant reminder of, you know, there's also this idea of being someone else's ancestor and by saying there is no end. But also I had no kids. There's a kind of tension there. And one that I think is beautifully resolved in the poem itself, which says, I'm going to wash you off now into the luminous depths, as you said. But there's that last line which I have to ask you about, where even a recluse bird must fly. Okay. I mean, that's almost out of nowhere. But it also fits so well, right.
- [11:28]
A
You know, the strange logic and the strange scale and what I call slippage that happens with Mary Ruffle poems are really captures. I liked your way of describing it as a sort of a rush at the end. What else do I have to say at this? My open letter to my ancestors. There's a lot.
- [11:52]
B
How do I sign off this thing?
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A
Yeah, right, right. So I'm Gonna wait. I have these things to tell you. You know, I had no kids myself. I'm gonna wash you off now. And I don't know about the recluse. Bird must fly. I mean, I really. That's remains mysterious to me and kind of characteristic of a strange logic that I love in Mary Ruffle. Not resolved necessarily, but taking flight and going somewhere else. Kind of definition of a fugue. You know, it's going off, going somewhere else. Escaping from this moment.
- [12:36]
B
I love that. That's a beautiful way to put it. And I wanted to maybe ask you about mystery and poetry because I think when you're starting out, you love clarity in poems. And you might even like obscurity, but not necessarily mystery, if that makes sense. You're trying to make a poem clearer, I think when you're starting out and you don't always know how. And then I think there's a moment when you can make almost anything sound good. And so you have to have another kind of clarity. Like I want an emotional clarity, let's call it. But here, I think, and I think rightly so, letting a mystery be a mystery in a poem. Now that's real art because there is, and I think it's art for the writer, but also for the reader to say, whatever that is, I really love it. It's like those moments of strangeness in a song or the blue notes in jazz or the quote mistakes in a Miles Davis solo or composition where he turns it into not a mistake. And it is a mystery that I think, left unresolved, might be okay.
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A
Right. Yes. Yes. To all of that. I want to sort of go back to your remark about you couldn't start there with into the luminous depths, you know, and that's a very kind of writerly kind of acknowledgment that maybe you have to walk around the house with a green clay mask on first. You know, maybe you have to start. If you're approaching the mystery, then maybe you have to approach it that way. You can't approach the Sphinx from the rear, you know, as someone once said. So I think, you know, she gets to that place and she does that, you know, often. And it's haunting. I think that last note, and I love the blue note. It is the blue note for Mary Ruffle there.
- [14:36]
B
Well, I also think there's a sense lurking behind there, to me, through the whole poem of ritual, like these kind of rituals of traveling almost sometimes in the version of the immigrant story that is gestured toward, kind of like well worn, almost not quite Cliche but well told stories of how I came here or how my grandpa came. And instead it has that kind of ritual quality of you gotta put on a mask to see the mystery. Like you must come cloaked.
- [15:09]
A
That's right.
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B
And maybe it's another way of saying what you said, but for me that does it too. And this is a lesson too, I think. Do it through humor to get us to the serious, which is how do we go on? Where are we from? Where are we going? How am I? There's almost a little survivor guilt in the poem, but also a kind of humor about it.
- [15:31]
A
Yeah, you can't look directly into the burning bush, you know, you have to turn your face away. And the green clay mask does, you know, that work comically and wonderfully, I think, and then washing it off at the end, you know. So it has, for all her slippage and strangeness and bewilderment that she takes on, she also has, you know, she keeps it in a form, in a way, she returns to that and the letter gives her that permission to keep that form.
- [16:03]
B
Well, and the letter too is flying off, you know, and I love that the bird is a recluse, like the speaker perhaps, you know, and it's a very specific thing, you know. You know, that idea of augury which comes from, of course, birds and reading their feathers that fall and like what is happening at the end to me has that sense of augury.
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A
Yes. Yeah, those are the birds that we're reading for our faith.
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B
Yeah, that's right. More from my conversation with Bruce Smith after the break.
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Poetry has the power to connect our inner universe and the outer world. I'm Maggie Smith, poet and host of the Slowdown, a podcast from American Public Media. Each weekday, find time to take a breather from your to do list, or doom scrolling for that matter, and take in a moment of reflection with a hand picked poem. Listen to the Slowdown wherever you get podcasts.
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B
Bruce, welcome back.
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A
Oh, thanks, Kevin.
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B
Now, in our September 7, 2009 issue, the new Yorker published your poem the Game, which you'll read for us in a moment. Is there anything you want us to know about the poem before we hear it?
- [17:27]
A
Yes. The occasion for this was a trip to the baseball game. Syracuse has a minor league team now called the Syracuse Mets. And I went with a student who was here in Syracuse at the MFA program at the time, Isi Osondu, who's Nigerian by birth, and he and his son Michael went with me to the game. And memorable for me is Michael's his young son, maybe 11 at the time, singing along to Take Me out to the Ball Game, where he said, take me out to the ball game. Take me out to the Christ. And he had somehow leaded the hymn with the baseball game. But the idea of trying to explain American baseball to Issey and his son, or that feeling of being a boy at the ball game and trying to understand American male ritual was particularly interesting to me at that time. So I think that's the. If I remember, that's the occasion for thinking about that and taking the point of view of a boy or a girl at the ball game, like Kevin. Have you ever tried to explain the infield fly rule?
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B
I can't explain it to myself. And I played a little, Little League. So I remember, you know. But let's hear the poem.
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Sure.
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Here's Bruce Smith reading his poem, the Game.
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The Game. The artist is a creep with his little boxes but the athlete is a man who has stolen glory in all its forms Stolen honey in a cup from the gods and hidden it in his insides where the bees drone. I'm always a boy as I sit or stand in the shouting place and breathe the doses of men smoke and malt as the night comes down in the exact pattern of a diamond A moonlit hothouse of dirt a boy knows Is something to spit on and pat into a shape Dirt's a cure for the buried someone Even as it begins with its anthem it's lost to me the exact color of devotion so goodbye to the inning and the other numbers on scoreboards and the backs of our team are blue and red are lips are business which is to rip into them A boy learns or bark at the hit or miss Men have skill Although I see them fail and fail again and fail to hit the curve I'm always a girl as I awe and ooh what's the infield fly rule? I tried to watch the grips and tricks the metaphysics, the spin the positions of fast and still scratch and spit But I thought in all this infinity of the clementes the mazes and the yogis of the bats of ash I would have to crack and would I have to squeeze them home? Would I be asked to sacrifice? Would I belly button it or break my wrist trying not to swing? There's a box and a zone in the air and the dirt I must own to find my way out or know where it is I sit I keep my ticket stub in my fist.
- [21:23]
B
That was the Game by Bruce Smith. So I love you know you got in the Infield fly rule, the infield fly rule into the poem. I mean, that's amazing. But it seems like there's this navigation between art, sports, life, death, the artist and the athlete. But I wonder, is there a difference between the artist and the athlete in this poem? Is it something that you're trying to help us think through and conflate, or what do you think about the difference between those kind of feats?
- [21:57]
A
Yeah, the artist, since I'm. I have a little bit of background playing baseball, and I'm sitting down as a poet to write the poem and to recollect. So, yeah, they collide, I think, over and over again, both the art of the athlete and that skill, which I find particularly interesting in baseball, because even the best hitters, if you have a.300 average, you're hitting 3 out of 10 times, you're successful, and 7 out of 10 times, you're not successful. So it's about failing and failing again in a lot of ways. And isn't that what the artist does as well?
- [22:45]
B
Well, hearing it aloud, hearing you read it, I was struck again and again by these kind of repetitions. You say our business, which is to rip into them. A boy learns or bark at the hit or miss. Men have skill, although I see them fail and fail again and fail to hit the curve. That's a great line. And there's sort of turns and all this internal rhyme in there. Did it come out like that? Were you thinking about this internal rhyme? You know, and, you know, you have pretty long lines here.
- [23:17]
A
Yeah, yeah.
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B
Is it sort of a lot of seventh inning, so stretches or just how is it happening for you on the page there that sort of takes into account these failings?
- [23:29]
A
I think it's characteristic of the game and also characteristic of my sort of line, or how I'm thinking of the line to kind of load every rift with, or as Keith said, to have fail, fail and fail three times and then hit, you know, that T sound that ends the end of the line, too, and it echoes the line right above that. But also trying to perceive the game as a boy would in these kind of even sensory moments of the being among men, you know, learning. When you cheer. I'm thinking of Issy's son Michael at the game, you know, when, you know, do we cheer for that pop fly? That's an out that the first baseman feels over there, year for the ground rule double. It's a confusion of kind of ritual and law and immediate response in the game.
- [24:34]
B
I wonder about that because you're talking about it, like, sort of. It's almost age and experience, youth, innocence and experience. But there's also, as you mentioned, a kind of men versus boy. But there's also the girl. I'm always a girl as I. Ah. And ooh. And I wonder about the sort of masculinities in the poem and how you're thinking of them, but also how the poem kind of enacts. And we were talking about Escape with Mary Rufal, but at the end, there's this kind of to find my way out or know where it is I sit, I keep my ticket stub in my fist. I mean, love those sounds. Is there an aspect of masculinity that's being worked out by the speaker?
- [25:16]
A
Yeah, I think in the same way, when Bishop is in the waiting room and finding a way to find out where she is, she uses those, like the time date stamp of 1918 in Worcester, Massachusetts, and the COVID of National Geographic. And here the boy has had this experience. And partly, I think the experience is in the language. You know, that's a sacrifice bunt. I would tell. I would tell Michael. Or, you know, you try not to break your wrists when you hold up on a pitch that you intend not to swing at. And so those are both, like, interesting language about breaking the wrist and squeezing. And the boy, in that sort of welter of images and masculine presence, tries to find where he is and kind of a way home, a way out of this. And that simple act, I think, of clutching his ticket stub is a way to at least have some evidence from whatever happened in this nine innings.
- [26:30]
B
It's funny because you're describing it as quite mysterious. We were talking about mystery earlier. I think there's a mystery in it, but there's also an infinity, as you say. And that moment in the poem, which I thought you read well, and that I'm sure you can hear at home, where there's an ellipses, the spin, the positions of fast and still scratch and spit. But I thought in all this infinity of the clementes, the mazes and the yogis, I mean, there's much happening there. But the ellipses really interest me because there's a sense, almost like in a game, baseball isn't time bound. And this idea of infinity is kind of there, but obviously the speaker. But I thought, break in all this infinity of these giants of the game who are also in some way yogis. And I love that. That's a great. I mean, you know, thanks for getting us to think about yogi. Berra who I think is A one. I love his, you know, various sayings.
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A
Right. Yeah, nobody comes here anymore. It's too crazy.
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B
Exactly. Like these great, great lines, you know, but there's something about that thought versus action. Or, you know, what are the ellipses doing?
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A
Oh, right. I think so. On that very immediate physical level, you're watching grown men scratch in the dirt and spit, you know, and then there's this sort of. The other pole of that is what you mentioned is there could be. I know baseball people in the winter like to gather around and think about this. That you could have an infinitely long plate appearance by fouling off the pitches. So there could be infinity, or the game could keep on going in a Thai score like that. So that kind of more dreamy, infinite kind of idea with the spit and scratch and the pawing in the dirt and that agrarian past of baseball with bullpens and things like that come together. So there's a moment where the spit and scratch, you could leave that and then go to the greater mystery.
- [28:50]
B
I also love that. The spit and scratch and spit and that idea of the dirt, it felt almost to me like where it says, as the night comes down in the exact pattern of a diamond, a moonlit hothouse of dirt, a boy knows, is something to spit on and pat into a shape. And it's almost like creating humans out of clay. You know, one idea of the start of the universe, and there's something about that that was really beautiful. For me, it feels like the best kind of fan letter, if I may, because it's sort of describing this thing that is inherently strange, but also is inher beautiful. And it's interested in beauty in ways that we haven't mentioned yet. But I think it's worth saying, because just the sounds alone give us that. But I also understand that this idea of the game, which is one instance, but it's also talking about the singularity of baseball, once thought of still perhaps forever, America's pastime.
- [29:55]
A
Yeah, thanks for that. That's. You know, I was thinking of. One of the things that I wanted to say about that too, was that in the beginning, the athlete has stolen glory in all its forms and stolen honey in a cup. And I, you know, I was thinking of, you know, Eros. Cupid. Eros steals honey from the gods. There's something about the gods that are, you know, Maize and Clemente and. And Yogi in that. So, you know, that experience in the ball game. Not every ball game. Ball games can be boring as well. But it seems to have all those elements in it for me.
- [30:33]
B
What is the difference between the artist and a creep? The artist and, you know, a man or a boy or a girl. Are those all differentiated or are they sort of. Is that a little bit of a humor or poking fun of, isn't it?
- [30:51]
A
Those who would, you know, ride the subway to the Yankee game in the Bronx and not appreciate the artist? No. I don't know if I'm in really bad territory here, but yeah.
- [31:04]
B
Are you trying to take on Yankees fans on the New Yorker podcast? Hey, you're alone in that one, my friend.
- [31:11]
A
I'm in exile in Syracuse, you know. I see.
- [31:14]
B
And I was going to ask you, what's your team?
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A
Phillies. Oh, sorry. Grew up in Philadelphia. Phillies. Played a little with Phillies organization. So, yeah, had a triangle.
- [31:28]
B
What did you play? What was your position? What was your position?
- [31:30]
A
So, yeah, that's a good question. I played center. I caught and I played third. And it was because I had no real position that I was failed and failed to hit the curve.
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B
And do you miss playing or do you play still? How do you approach that?
- [31:53]
A
You know, there used to be, like, geological time spans would go by in the outfield. You know, I don't think I was really, you know, looking at my shoes a lot and thinking of other things. I would drift off.
- [32:06]
B
I didn't think of poetry. Were you a poet then? Poet, Baseball player.
- [32:10]
A
I mean, I was reading the Norton anthology on the bus. I think that got me sent home.
- [32:16]
B
Yeah, that's why I really got sent home. Well, there is, interestingly, this long tradition of sort of baseball poems. And how do you think about that? I mean, is that something you think about? People like Marianne Moore?
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A
Sure. Yankee fan, by the way.
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B
Right.
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A
Huge Yankee fan.
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B
Different hat, though. You wore a different hat than the Yankee cap. Yeah. Donald Hall's wonderful baseball punch. Do you think about those?
- [32:45]
A
I think it's a meditative game. You know, I find myself watching basketball and football now, but baseball has that meditative game. Long stretches, you know, three, two counts go on for infinity, you know. So I think that gives itself over to the mind wandering and that otherness that's brought into the, you know, like the immediate skill and hand eye coordination that's so amazing to watch when you watch the game.
- [33:20]
B
Well, and it's so much different live.
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A
Right.
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B
And I think that's what you bring to life here, is that in person it's much faster. You know, watching someone throw a fastball, it's crazy. You know, there's a guy on a Mound throwing something faster than most cars, you know, and there's someone there with a little stick who manages to hit it sometimes.
- [33:43]
A
That's right. That's right.
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B
And that kind of exchange, the one on one quality, it does feel artistic. And there's a way to kind of name it. What you've done here, how many, like.
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A
Attempts would you say, in your work do you have before you have. You have one that.
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B
What am I batting? Is that what you're asking?
- [34:05]
A
Yeah, that clears the infield.
- [34:08]
B
I daren't have a stat. Luckily there's not poetry, stats. But I do love the Ted Berrigan quote where he says, and I used it in a poem where he says, the true test of a man is the bunt. Or maybe it's a bunt. But that idea that actually the hardest thing is to sacrifice, you mention it here, it's sort of against one's nature and playing a game like, I'm going to go out on purpose so we can win.
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A
That's right.
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B
And we're in a world now where it feels like that would be the craziest thing to do is sacrifice, much less sacrifice oneself.
- [34:46]
A
That's right.
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B
And I think it's a really powerful notion and I love how you've described it here. I'm going to tell you something that you. There's no way you would know, but in Syracuse, where I lived for two years, that's where I first played Little League. And I got to go to like the Little League All Star game or something. I was a little shrimpy guy and people, I mean, there were grown men on the mound hurling the ball. I swear one was bald, like, throwing the ball, like, oh, my God, it was amazing. And I was little, like eight or nine. But you know, to me, that's where I fell in love with the game. So I.
- [35:24]
A
And what's your team? I didn't ask.
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B
Well, I moved around a lot, so I'm gonna say the Royals. I'm gonna say the Royals.
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A
Good.
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B
I did watch some of the. And I love those electric blue uniforms from the 80s and George, Brad and Willie Wilson and, you know, Frank White, those great players.
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A
That's what we do. We turn to those, you know, we sit in the stands and we mention those names, you know, the Clementes and. And, you know, remember when Clemente, he was not able to field the ball in center and then threw out the runner at second. We tell those mythic stories about this.
- [36:01]
B
Well, I think what's interesting is even just these three people are very different icons. Of the game. You have Clemente, who I think of as so important. I had a Clemente bat. Me, too. Me as a young black kid. You know, he was like. I remember my father telling me he was this really important, you know, beautiful person with an activist vein and was really important. But he almost couldn't tell me about how he died. Like, he was just almost sad, beyond sad, about his untimely death. And then I actually saw Willie Mays get inducted into the hall of Fame in Cooperstown. Yeah, we went and visited, and that's when it was. And I was young. We were living, I think, in Syracuse. I didn't know enough to. To know how special it was, but I have friends who are, you know, San Francisco fans who are just more jealous than you can imagine. Than. I got to see the great Willie Mays.
- [36:55]
A
I saw Mays play, you know, took the subway in Philly, got off, watched him, and, you know, before the game, it was as good as what happened during the game with Mays.
- [37:08]
B
Right, right.
- [37:09]
A
You know, just what. Just great skill and great joy that he brought to the game, too.
- [37:16]
B
That's right. Tell us about Hungry Ghosts. Tell us about that book that's just out.
- [37:20]
A
So. A lot of 10 line poems, some longer poems, one about learning that Prince died. When I was in Rome, I was walking around near the Vatican, and the nuns were pointing to speakers in the top of the cafe, and I thought they were pointing to the. I don't know, the enunciate. Something was happening that was of a religious nature. And they were listening to Prince over the speakers. And I thought, how does one understand Prince in Rome? And how do I understand Prince?
- [38:00]
B
And the title. Is it from a poem or is it.
- [38:02]
A
Yeah, the title. Hungry Ghost. No, the title of Hungry Ghost is just the Buddhist idea of reincarnation. Retribution for your being overly desirous in your life, your next life. You're a hungry ghost. Apparently, there are 36 kinds of hungry ghosts, I learned. But if you steal food from the temple in your life, you'll come back with a tiny mouth and a big belly, always looking for food. So it spoke to our nation under Trump, in a way, to me.
- [38:42]
B
Wow. And I don't always say how I know someone, but I was remembering when we arranged to do this podcast and talk that you published, I think, my second set of poems ever. And I remember in Cambridge, where I knew you from, and I was still an undergrad, I was still in school.
- [39:02]
A
That's right.
- [39:03]
B
I don't know if you'll remember, but I said to you, oh, I don't know, it'll take too long to hear I'm moving or something. And you was like, no, I'm going to let you know in a week. You said to me, and I said, no. You said, I promise I'll let you know in like a week. And I said, okay. And I sent you these poems and you wrote me right away. You might have even called me and said, hey, I took your no editor has ever done that in the history. And it was so special to me as a young poet to have such care. And there's some of my favorite poems from that first book, long ago.
- [39:37]
A
I'm so glad you could remember that moment. That's great. That's great.
- [39:45]
B
Well, what a treat to talk with you today.
- [39:47]
A
And me as well.
- [39:49]
B
Thanks for being on.
- [39:50]
A
My pleasure.
- [39:55]
B
The Game by Bruce Smith, as well as Mary Ruffle's open letter to my ancestors can be found on newyorker.com and in the anthology A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025, out now. Mary Ruffel's most recent book is the book Bruce Smith's new collection is Hungry Ghost.
- [40:17]
D
To listen to new poetry from the New Yorker, as well as narrated fiction, reporting, criticism, and more, download the New Yorker App for more New Yorker literary audio, try the New Yorker Fiction Podcast or the Writer's Voice, which presents new fiction read by the author. You can find those and other New Yorker podcasts by searching for the New Yorker in your podcast app. Tell us what you think of this podcast by rating and reviewing it in your podcast app, and please follow the show so that you don't miss new episodes. The New Yorker Poetry Podcast is Produced by John LeMay with help from Hannah Eisenman. The theme music is the Corner by Chief Zion Otunde Ajua, courtesy of Stretch Music and Roka Dope. Thanks for listening.
- [41:08]
E
Hi, I'm Tyler Foggatt, a senior editor at the New Yorker and one of the hosts of the Political Scene podcast. A lot of people are justifiably freaked out right now, and I think that it's our job at the Political Scene to encourage people to stop and think about the particular news stories that are actually incredibly significant in this moment by having these really deep conversations with writers where we actually get into the weeds of what is going on right now and about the damage that is being done. It's not resistance in the activists sense, but I think it is resistance in the sense that we are resisting the feeling of being overwhelmed by chaos. Join me and my colleagues David Remnick, Evan Osnos, Jane Mayer and Susan Glasser on the Political Scene podcast from the New Yorker. New episodes drop three times a week. Available wherever you get your podcasts, this.
- [42:04]
C
Show is supported by Odoo. When you buy business software from lots of vendors, the costs add up and it gets complicated and confusing. Odoo solves this It's a single company that sells a suite of enterprise apps that handles everything from accounting to inventory to sales. Odoo is all connected on a single platform in a simple and affordable way. You can save money without missing out on the features you need. Check out odoo d o o.com that's o d o o.com.
- [42:35]
B
From PRX.