Kevin Young and Deborah Garrison Discuss “A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker”

Summary

Summary of “Kevin Young and Deborah Garrison Discuss ‘A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker’”

Release Date: January 29, 2025 | Podcast: The New Yorker: Poetry | Host: Kevin Young

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Introduction

In this episode of The New Yorker: Poetry, Kevin Young, the poetry editor of The New Yorker, engages in a thoughtful and expansive conversation with Deborah Garrison, an editor at Knopf and former editorial staff member at The New Yorker. Together, they delve into the newly released anthology, A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025, celebrating the magazine’s 100th anniversary by showcasing nearly a century's worth of poetic excellence published within its pages.

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Origins and Structure of the Anthology

Kevin Young opens the discussion by sharing the genesis of the anthology, reminiscing about his longtime admiration for the 1969 Yellow Paperback Anthology: The New Yorker Book of Poems, which initially drew him to The New Yorker. He recounts how David Remnick, the magazine’s editor, entrusted him with editing the new anthology, a task that had been a dream since his youth.

“Many of Deb's own poems have been published in the magazine, a few of which appear in the anthology,” Young notes ([00:59]). He highlights the anthology’s unique structure, which eschews a simple chronological arrangement in favor of thematic sections that mirror the progression of a day—from morning to midnight—and intersperse various decades, allowing different poetic voices and eras to interact in unexpected and meaningful ways.

Deborah Garrison praises the innovative structure, explaining how it creates a dynamic interplay between poets across different times, much like different voices overlapping within the passages of a single day. “Just reading the table of contents that you proposed was like reading a song that went both through the century, but also through a sense of a day dawning and a day ending in just our life in poetry,” she reflects ([03:10]).

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Preservation and Accessibility of Poetry

The conversation shifts to the challenges of archiving poetry before the digital age. Garrison reminisces about the tangible scrapbook archives used in the mid-80s to 1990s, contrasting them with today’s digital accessibility. She appreciates the anthology’s effort to surface and preserve these poetic treasures, enabling modern readers to access and appreciate works that might otherwise remain forgotten.

Young echoes this sentiment, emphasizing the anthology’s role in capturing the “keepsake quality” of poetry—“Some people will come up to me and say, I've been carrying this poem in my wallet... It has that same quality, I think, of a keepsake” ([05:53]). He also discusses the anthology’s reflection on the magazine’s historical lack of diversity, noting that only a handful of Black poets were published over the decades, a gap that the anthology seeks to address and contextualize.

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Diversity and Representation in The New Yorker’s Poetry

A significant portion of the discussion centers on the anthology’s examination of diversity within The New Yorker’s poetic canon. Young acknowledges the magazine’s historical shortcomings in publishing Black poets, pointing out that after Langston Hughes, there was a long hiatus until Derek Walcott began contributing. This absence informed their selection process, compelling them to include a broader range of voices to better reflect the diverse tapestry of American poetry.

Garrison concurs, highlighting the anthology as a “reckoning” that not only celebrates but also critically examines the magazine’s poetic journey over the century. “When you look at 100 years, it's a celebration... but it's important to also stop and say, what were we not doing 40, 50 years ago that we are doing now?” she asserts ([08:05]).

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Exploration of Selected Poems

The heart of the episode features an in-depth analysis of several standout poems from the anthology, each illustrating different facets of poetic expression and historical context.

1. Elizabeth Bishop’s “Filling Station” ([10:18])

   Young reads and dissects Bishop’s “Filling Station”, exploring its vivid imagery and nuanced portrayal of everyday life. He appreciates the poem’s blend of wry humor and tender observation, encapsulating the beauty found in mundane settings.

   “Somebody loves us all,” he notes ([12:11]), emphasizing the poem’s underlying message of universal love amidst the gritty backdrop of a family-run filling station.

   Garrison adds that Bishop’s class consciousness and the poem’s enduring appeal lie in its ability to reveal humanity and beauty within a seemingly unremarkable scene. “There’s such a class Consciousness in this poem... all attempts to make beauty in this kind of greasy world are actually commendable and lovable,” she remarks ([12:35]).

2. Nikki Giovanni’s “Love in Place” ([15:27])

   Giovanni’s “Love in Place” is presented as a poignant reflection on love and memory. Garrison reads the poem, capturing its conversational tone and emotional depth.

   The poem’s exploration of personal history and affection resonates deeply with both speakers. Young connects it to Giovanni’s broader body of work, highlighting its lyrical quality and the way it encapsulates long-term love and commitment.

   “The End of Poetry,” Garrison states, “a mysterious title... she’s just letting you in on a little bit of snobbery of the speaker. But then the speaker comes to, Somebody loves us all,” she explains ([17:50]).

3. W.S. Merwin’s “To the Words” ([21:20])

   Merwin’s “To the Words” is discussed as an elegy to language itself, particularly poignant in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks. Garrison interprets the poem as a plea for words to capture the ineffable grief and chaos of tragic events.

   Young reflects on the poem’s urgency and its embodiment of the poet’s struggle to express the inexpressible. “It's the crying out... begging the words as these ancient, precious, kind of like runic thingies,” he observes ([24:08]).

4. Langston Hughes’ “Wake” ([26:58])

   Hughes’ brief yet impactful poem “Wake” is lauded for its blues-inspired rhythm and succinct expression. Young draws parallels between Hughes’ work and contemporary poetry, noting its ability to convey profound emotion in minimal lines.

   “Can you hear me? Enough,” Garrison emphasizes, highlighting the poem’s directness and emotional resonance ([28:05]).

5. Louise Bogan’s “At Midnight” ([29:34])

   Bogan’s “At Midnight” is celebrated for its concise depiction of sorrow. The speakers appreciate its universal relatability and the masterful economy of language that captures the essence of despair.

   “We've all experienced it,” Garrison remarks ([29:54]), underscoring the poem’s timeless relevance.

6. Ada Limón’s “The End of Poetry” ([31:15])

   Concluding with Limón’s “The End of Poetry”, the anthology presents a modern reflection on the role of poetry in times of crisis, such as the COVID-19 pandemic. Garrison describes the poem as a “significant” piece that encapsulates the collective longing for human connection amidst isolation.

   The poem’s repeated use of “Enough” serves as both a lament and a plea, encapsulating the tension between verbal expression and the need for tangible human touch.

   “It's a terrible attempt as much as the solution,” Young interprets, highlighting the poem’s dual role as both an invocation and a farewell to the limitations of language ([34:24]).

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Concluding Thoughts

As the conversation wraps up, both Young and Garrison reflect on the anthology’s significance in honoring The New Yorker’s poetic legacy while acknowledging and addressing its historical gaps. They emphasize the anthology’s role in preserving diverse voices and illustrating the evolving landscape of American poetry over the past century.

Young wraps up by inviting listeners to explore the poems discussed and others in the anthology, available through The New Yorker’s website and bookstore.

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Notable Quotes with Timestamps

• Kevin Young ([05:53]): “Some people will come up to me and say, I've been carrying this poem in my wallet. It has that same quality, I think, of a keepsake.”

• Deborah Garrison ([08:05]): “When you look at 100 years, it's a celebration... but it's important to also stop and say, what were we not doing 40, 50 years ago that we are doing now?”

• Kevin Young ([12:11]): “Somebody loves us all.”

• Deborah Garrison ([15:27]): “Love in Place. Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoes... I'm asking you to touch me.”

• Kevin Young ([24:08]): “It's the crying out... begging the words as these ancient, precious, kind of like runic thingies.”

• Deborah Garrison ([29:54]): “At midnight, tears run into your ears.”

• Kevin Young ([34:24]): “It's the crying out. I mean, this poem was the purest cry that any poet came up with in that moment.”

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Final Remarks

This episode serves as both a tribute and a critical examination of The New Yorker’s century-long relationship with poetry. Through their insightful dialogue, Kevin Young and Deborah Garrison illuminate the anthology’s role in celebrating poetic milestones, fostering diversity, and preserving the rich tapestry of voices that have graced the magazine’s pages.

For those interested in exploring the full breadth of A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025, the anthology is available for purchase through The New Yorker store and various booksellers.

Transcript

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[Kevin Young]

Hi, you're listening to the New Yorker Poetry Podcast. I'm Kevin Young, poetry editor of the New Yorker magazine. This year the New Yorker turns 100 years old, and to celebrate the occasion, we're publishing an anthology, A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025. On today's program, I'll be discussing the anthology with Deborah Garrison, an editor at Knopf who's worked closely with me and the New Yorker team on this exciting project. Many of Deb's own poems have been published in the magazine, a few of which appear in the anthology. And she was also on the editorial staff at the New Yorker for several years. And full disclosure, she was my editor for has it been 25 years now? Deb, welcome. Thank you so much for joining me.

[Deborah Garrison]

Thanks for having me, Kevin.

[Kevin Young]

So we wanted to start out just giving little a sense of where this anthology came from. And I remember it's something you and I had talked about and dreamed about because we both fell in love with the 1969 Yellow Paperback Anthology the New Yorker Book of Poems. That's how I came to the New Yorker, essentially. And as I write in the introduction for the book, you know, I bought the copy, I think, in like a town crier or a B. Dalton or some bookstore in Kansas, and I still have my copy. You know, it has little neat underlines, I think I don't underline as neatly anymore in ink, which I don't do anymore either. But I very much was thinking of that anthology when David Remnick, the editor of the New Yorker, asked me to edit it. And I remember he asked me, would you have any interest and I think I said, only since I was 15 years old have I wanted to think about this powerful magazine and what this century meant. And so one of the first things that came to mind is the structure, because I didn't want to go front to back. Those who will get the book soon, I imagine, will get to see the ways that it's in these theme sections. And it kind of follows a day starting with morning all the way through the next day. And then those are interspersed with some of these decades, which I think are so interesting to see all together. And the 20s have a feel. The 50s have a feel. The 70s and 80s, when we were coming up, has a feel.

[Deborah Garrison]

And I think, Kevin, I love the way just commenting on the way you go through the day with. I think it's morning bell and then 20s and 30s and then lunch break and 40s and 50s, which causes us to realize that in terms of a century, it's Almost like the 40s and 50s are the lunch break. I mean, there's this way in which it speaks to the dawn of a hundred year period being the morning. And I just also loved the way in those themed sections you then get voices, like in the magazine, bumping up against each other. That wouldn't be in a decade together.

[Kevin Young]

Right.

[Deborah Garrison]

So that was what I found so ingenious when you first sent me the contents. Just reading the table of contents that you proposed was like reading a song that went both through the century, but also through a sense of a day dawning and a day ending in just our life in poetry. And the way that different voices might remind you of other voices that you wouldn't expect to find next to each other.

[Kevin Young]

Yeah, that was better said than I said it. Around midnight it got real interesting for me, I think, you know, there was something special about how many poems. Think about the late hour or think about an after work drink, which was a particularly fun section. Thinking about the New Yorkerness of the New Yorker and the way that that's a kind of habit one might be in in the city, but also spills out into other things. So I really liked putting it together that way and thinking of it.

[Deborah Garrison]

Such a pleasure. And for me also to see what you pulled out out of the old scrapbooks in the old magazine. When I worked at the New Yorker, which was really the mid-80s through the 1990s, we didn't have the electronic systems that one has now. Like, I love that a reader now can just pull up a New Yorker poem and hear the poet read it. But back then there Was this library with these giant big black scrapbooks. And you had to kind of page through them to find whatever poet and see all of their stuff. But it was pasted in. Literally somebody's job was to cut out. So anyway, I wondered about, did you go through some of those scrapbook type things?

[Kevin Young]

Well, I remember you asking about them and I was like, what scrapbooks? You know, like, sounds like, well, maybe.

[Deborah Garrison]

They don't even exist and they've all been digitized.

[Kevin Young]

Yeah, they weren't there, you know, so in a way, at the beginning it was kind of a bit more trying to remember. Oh yeah, that's amazing poem. And I remember a poem or two where you were like, I remember this One poem from 94. You know, there were all these moments of kind of memory. In a way, that kind of keepsake quality of the poems is what I wanted to capture too. I end up calling them in the introduction, refrigerator poems. Where people will come up to me and say, I've been carrying this poem in my wallet. Or, you know, this is the poem I love, or this is the poem I cut out and put on the fridge. It has that same quality, I think, of a keepsake.

[Deborah Garrison]

Absolutely. And I was interested that there are some from that 1969 book that we both grew up with that have stayed with us. And then I think there's a feeling to me, always with the New Yorker poems, that an individual person selected them, even though it's part of the magazine.

[Kevin Young]

Sure.

[Deborah Garrison]

There's something about an individual encountering a poem and that some of these are your very particular choices that will resonate with many, many readers. But the idea that as individual readers, there are just certain poems that we love and in some quirky way that your way into them would be different from my way into them.

[Kevin Young]

Sure. Well, I think it's a very human process picking these things. And in a way what you're trying to discover is another person through their work. And I think back to that 15 year old kid reading through the old yellow volume, what he encountered, what spoke to him. And it was a lot of different things. And I think that variety and breadth was really important to try to maintain. It can't just be one school or one thought. And the New Yorker, I think, has been good about being broad. But, you know, there was also a kind of discovery about the ways that the New Yorker hadn't included, you know, say, black writers.

[Deborah Garrison]

Yeah.

[Kevin Young]

It actually published Langston Hughes early on and hopefully we'll get to hear one of his poems. And I thought that Was so amazing. And I remember looking through old issues, literally, physically, sometimes with Hannah, the deputy editor, like, are there some poems like that that escaped us? Cause we didn't have a database for a while. But sad to say, it was just Langston Hughes. And then for 30 years, sort of no one else till Derek Walcott. And so to see that and to find out when I published my first poem ever, in 99, I think it was, I was like the sixth black poet in the history of the New Yorker's poetry. That was really strange, you know, so there was a kind of double feeling about doing it. And in a way, what that helped do is it helped us think about who's speaking to who. And it became all the more important to include those thematic sections that also play with and think about people who might get along great across the century, you know, who might, if they're given.

[Deborah Garrison]

The opportunity to be in that conversation. I mean, I love that the anthology was kind of a reckoning in that way. I mean, when you look at 100 years, you know, it's a celebration, and it's joyous in many ways. But it's important to also stop and say, what were we not doing 40, 50 years ago that we are doing now? And we need to recognize that. And I think you did that in a really, really graceful way and opened it up for readers. Just showing us, you know, what that journey has been. There have been different people. Again, very personally, editing that poetry section over time. Yeah, you know, let's tell the story of what the New Yorker poetry has been.

[Kevin Young]

Well, what I love, too, is it made me see the ways that my predecessors, immediate predecessors, you know, have been doing a lot of work to think about the magazine. Because one of the things that I saw is these big events, whether it's world wars or, you know, Vietnam and the kind of protests which do make their way into the pages. But just personally, I remember, you know, 9 11, and also Covid and the Pandemic, which make their way as kind of framing devices for the whole of the book. And I think that was one of the first things you and I talked about. Is how these framing events of the past 25 years are both still with us. And also how the New Yorker was there, too. And I love the fact that we can publish something a week after it happened. And it happens more often than you think.

[Deborah Garrison]

And poetry, in a way, has that ability to really turn on a dime. I mean, what's fascinating is there's so many poems that are just beautiful pieces of poetry. Unto themselves that might not be under the pressure of a historical or difficult cultural moment. But then when those times have come, I mean, the pandemic was just an amazing outpouring of remarkable work by poets of all stripes. And people would write things and we'd see right away the pressure on all of us flowing out in the pages in a way that you just can't do if you're doing, you know, a reporter at large about, you know, the origins of the pandemic and the mistakes that the government made. I mean, that's gonna take some months to report out. Sure, there is just a wonderful ability of poets to respond under pressure.

[Kevin Young]

Okay, let's read a poem from the anthology. Let's hear one of my favorites, which is Filling Station by Elizabeth Bishop. And I think I'll read it. Filling station. Oh, but it is dirty, this little filling station. Oil soaked oil permeated to a surprising overall black translucency. Be careful with that match. Father wears a dirty, oil soaked monkey suit that cuts him under the arms, and several quick and saucy and greasy sons assist him. It's a family filling station, all quite thoroughly dirty. Do they live in the station? It has a cement porch behind the pumps and on it a set of crushed and grease impregnated wicker work on the wicker sofa, a dirty dog quite comfy. Some comic books provide the only note of color of certain color. They lie upon a big dim doily draping a tabouret part of the set beside a big hirsute begonia. Why the extraneous plant? Why, oh why the table? Why, oh why the doily embroidered in daisy stitch with marguerites, I think, and heavy with gray crochet. Somebody embroidered the doily. Somebody waters the plant or oils it, maybe Somebody arranges the rows of cans so that they softly say esso so, so, so. To high strung automobiles. Somebody loves us all. That was Elizabeth bishop from the December 10, 1955 issue.

[Deborah Garrison]

Wow. Poems like that never get old.

[Kevin Young]

I think I've taught it a thousand times and I still discover things. I think, hearing that voice. I love the narrator who, you know, now we take for granted. Bishop's narrator, who is like kind of wry and there, but not there, but there's. I think this is one of the poems that established that, that created that for her.

[Deborah Garrison]

Right where she sees the human comedy in that wry way, as you say, but the kind of realization under it of the insistence and the importance of beauty to people at whatever level. I mean, there's such a class Consciousness in this poem. But the doily that was embroidered by somebody. You know, even in this place that's so dirty is she just rides a line where you almost feel she's letting you in on a little bit of a snobbery of the speaker. But then the speaker comes to, Somebody loves us all. That all people are lovable. And all attempts to make beauty in this kind of greasy world are actually commendable and lovable.

[Kevin Young]

I agree. And I think if she didn't have that, she couldn't get away with Somebody loves us all. In a weird way, you trust the narrator because they've been so judgy or kind of humorous.

[Deborah Garrison]

Just open. In seeing. Yes.

[Kevin Young]

In seeing the dream, maybe somebody waters the plant or oils it. Maybe. I mean, very funny. But at the same time, it's a kind of care in the midst, as you said, of this world that we're all in. And I also love the lines. Some comic books provide the only note of color, of certain color. And that's an interesting adjustment. Because what she's also saying is there's color everywhere. And, you know, there's also, you know, not race in the obvious sense, but a kind of sense almost of class and color and change and the automobile. And this moment, 1955, is a very portentous moment in our nation. And so you could almost read it in that way. But you don't have to, but you get something interesting when you do. But then this idea of certainty, what's that mean, certain color? I think it means both certainty and then it also means a kind of particularness. And she is also getting us to think about that. There's always this undertone. There's always this color. There's always this something else to see. And it takes, you know, I think, back to William Carlos Williams and folks like that who helped us understand Langston Hughes, that writing about what you choose to write about is also, in a way, just a form of praise. Like, I think this is important enough to put in a poem that I'm gonna send to a magazine that's gonna be in an anthology, you know, 70 years later, you know, that, I think, is a great thing that poetry can do. That, you know, the big news from 1955, we know. But these little moments, you know, in between a magazine. How often do we turn to that? And it's in the way that poetry can make it last.

[Deborah Garrison]

Absolutely.

[Kevin Young]

Well, there's so many poems to pick from. I mean, it's over, I think, 800 some poems and almost 1,000 pages which I love that when we first started talking about, you're like, it has to have this heft. It has to tell this story of the century. And we recently lost Nikki Giovanni, and she was in the magazine in the 1990s with a poem that you've brought with you today. Would you read the poem for us?

[Deborah Garrison]

Sure.

[Kevin Young]

Here's Nikki Giovanni's Love in Place.

[Deborah Garrison]

Love in Place. I really don't remember falling in love all that much. I remember wanting to bake cornbread and boil a ham. And I certainly remember making lemon pie. And when I used to smoke, I stopped in the middle of my day to contemplate. I know I must have fallen in love once because I quit biting my cuticles and my hair is gray, and that must indicate something. And I all of a sudden had a deeper appreciation for Billie Holiday and Billy Strayhorn. So if it wasn't love, I don't know what it was. I see the old photographs and I am smiling and I'm sure quite happy. But what I mostly see is me through your eyes. And I'm still young and slim and very much committed to the love we still have.

[Kevin Young]

That was Nikki giovanni in the January 27, 1997 issue. I love hearing that. And I think you really brought the sound that I think she's crafted on the page to life, you know, and there's something about that that I just love. And even the title is a little. It's a little mysterious. Love in Place. Is that like the place she's putting love or love about place? I'm still.

[Deborah Garrison]

It is. It's a mysterious title. I mean, it was interesting reading it out loud because you realize how her cadence is just drawing you forward. I mean, I almost felt like I was going to stumble because. And it's such colloquial. I mean, it's as though she's tossing it off, almost like it was a conversation with you. But this is part of her genius. I mean, the cadence of what could be spoken speech. But when you're reading it, you realize how musical and how it pulls you over the line break so that you almost don't wanna pause. And you just keep kind of rolling, rolling, rolling. It's just really wonderful cadence across the lines.

[Kevin Young]

1. I love starting a love poem. I really don't remember falling in love all that much.

[Deborah Garrison]

I must have done it because I appreciated Billie Holiday.

[Kevin Young]

And of course, there's a kind of understatement humor, which is there, but also a little bit of honesty. I remember wanting to bake cornbread and boil a ham and I line break. It almost emphasizes the I. It's very self focused. I appear so many times at the beginning but then by the end it really is about the you and the kind of connection. What I mostly see is me but then break through your eyes. That kind of twist I think is really great.

[Deborah Garrison]

Well, it has that last stanza and landing on the love we still have. Suddenly the whole poem retroactively was really for this person who then at first it seems like a general thought about oh, whether I fell in love or not. But then it's like, oh, there's an actual you in this particular place and occasion of the poem that it turns out to be a love poem to someone in a sly way.

[Kevin Young]

Right. It's also a long time love we sense, you know, through your eyes. And I'm still young and slim and very much committed to the, you know, to what? You know, like committed to a lot of things. You know, the movement, the history, all these things. But actually it's to this love. I think there's something beautiful about that too, especially cause for me, that first line of the last dance, I'm sure quite break happy kind of echoes her famous poem Nikki Rosa, where she talks about her happy childhood and how she says other folks, white folks, might not appreciate that of how she grew up. And it's a sort of declaration of black joy at a time when that wasn't always on everyone's lips. And I think there's something in that here too, about pleasure and about long love and Billie Holiday and Billy Strayhorn. If you can get those in every poem of yours, you're doing pretty good.

[Deborah Garrison]

Yeah, it's a favorite in the book for me.

[Kevin Young]

More from my conversation with Deborah Garrison after the break.

[Deborah Garrison]

You come to the New Yorker Radio Hour for conversations that go deeper with people you really want to hear from. Whether it's Bruce Springsteen or Questlove or Olivia Rodrigo, Liz Cheney or the godfather of artificial intelligence, Geoffrey Hinton, or some of my extraordinarily well informed colleagues at the New Yorker. So join us every week on the New Yorker Radio Hour wherever you listen to podcasts when your love for sneakers has you chasing limited editions, classics and rare finds, go to ebay. Score your Once in a Blue Moon pair and check off your wish list for those fresh kicks. Get authentic streetwear and expert verified accessories. Think timeless watches, vintage designer bags and.

[Sponsor Voice]

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[Deborah Garrison]

Ebay the new place for new pre loved vintage and rare fashion. Yeah, ebay things people love.

[Kevin Young]

I'm here with Deborah Garrison talking about the anthology A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker, 1925-2025, which we're publishing to celebrate the New Yorker's 100th birthday. Welcome back, Deb.

[Deborah Garrison]

Thanks.

[Kevin Young]

So, you know, we were talking about W.S. merwin earlier, and he's someone who was in the magazine, I think, over 300 times or something like that, and certainly over 50 years, starting in 1955, the same year the Bishop poem was. And you've brought to us to the Words by Merwin. This was a poem that appeared after 9, 11, and you brought it to my attention, and I thought we could hear it and talk a little bit about it. Here's Deborah Garrison reading to the words.

[Deborah Garrison]

To the words. When it happens, you are not there, O you beyond numbers, beyond recollection, passed on from breath to breath, given again from day to day, from age to age, charged with knowledge, knowing nothing, indifferent elders, indispensable and sleepless, keepers of our names before ever we came to be called by them. You that were formed to begin with, you that were cried out, you that were spoken to begin with, to say what could not be said, ancient, precious and helpless ones. Say it.

[Kevin Young]

That was to the words by W.S. merwin from the October 8, 2001 issue. This goes to what we were saying earlier about how quickly, because you and I know that that actually probably came out on the 1st or something like that.

[Deborah Garrison]

Yes, October 8th issue comes out on October 1st. So you're in the third week of September, right there.

[Kevin Young]

Yeah. And there's something about that urgency that's in the poem. He always is a poet, I think, of elegy in some way almost to language itself, you know. And the beautiful thing I think, about his work is that you see over time the ways that it changes. And he loses punctuation. He loses some of the things that he started out with. And I'm really struck here by that moment where even if you know that it's to the idea of words or to words themselves, the beginning, when it happens, you are not there. The you can't help, I think, but feel like us. And this kind of distance from a tragedy many of us watch on TV or I had friends who were in New York. I have friends who were downtown. I have people who lost people in the Twin Towers. And so that kind of when it happens, you are not there. The you become so, I don't know, fraught, and it's freighted, urgent. And yeah, gosh, I just want to go back and hear that over and over again, but then also charged with knowledge, knowing nothing.

[Deborah Garrison]

Which is really interesting from a poet because he's sort of saying words are actually themselves kind of empty. They just point to things that we want to point to, and they say the things that we need to say or want to be able to say. And he's begging them as these ancient, precious, kind of like runic thingies that there's a thinginess to words that we grasp onto to try to say something when we have nothing, when we are literally speechless, which is what he's getting at here. And.

[Kevin Young]

And, you know, someone else would just be like, I'm speechless. Instead, he's like, this is a poet. Different elders.

[Deborah Garrison]

Speechless. Yeah, Yeah. I just. That poem, for me, of all the nine. I mean, there were some wonderful. And you do put them in the book. There's a little group of kind of the poems that came out in those weeks, but this one, for me, the Merwin, really stood out as the poem that I returned to over and over. Not just about 9, 11, but about some of the stuff we're facing now in the world. I mean, when I look at Gaza or when I look at other wars, famines, wildfires, whatever it is that we're looking at and saying, what can we do to make this world better? It's this sort of sense of helplessness and asking the words to come to us. Will the right words come to us, which will help us with these. With these things that we have to face.

[Kevin Young]

I love what you said, but I also think this idea that you that were formed to begin with, you that were cried out, you that were spoken to begin with, to say what could not be said. It is the irony of being a writer. You're a poet especially. People sometimes say offhand, well, you're supposed to be good with words. Like, words seem both near and distant as a poet. They seem like these things you're searching for. And I think we're often in that state, as you pointed out. And to me, this idea that they should speak, not just that we should find them, but at the end, ancient, precious and helpless ones say it. And this it, which also starts when it happens, this it is the thing that I think the context helps us understand. But there's always this it. There's always this event, this moment that we're not able to put into words. I'm having trouble doing so now, but I think that what I love about poems is the attempt as much as the solution.

[Deborah Garrison]

It's the crying out. I mean, this poem, to me, Was the purest cry that any poet came up with in that moment. It had less architecture and less stuff in it. But somehow it was the elemental, which Merwin is so good at.

[Kevin Young]

Well said. I want to talk about an older poem, one by Langston Hughes, which is from the June 10, 1944 issue. And it sort of has a blues notion of. If not the afterlife, then certainly an attitude toward life. I'll read Wake by Langston Hughes. Wake, Tell all my mourners to mourn in red because there ain't no sense in my being dead. That was Langston hughes from the June 10, 1944 issue. I love how Hughes is able to do what I heard someone referred to as, like, American haiku. These kind of little spoken, pithy that. A little like we were talking in a different way than Merwin. Where Merwin's kind of stripped down and simple. He's simple in a different way. To use the name of one of his famous characters, Jesse B. Simple. I love that idea that he's able to, in four lines, just capture a world.

[Deborah Garrison]

To mourn in red. I mean, just again, each single word and setting you up. The rhyme of no sense and my being dead. And, Kevin, you've spent a lot of time thinking and writing about. And in your own work, writing in a blues idiom. I mean, wasn't Langston kind of certainly the pioneer of recognizing blues as a poetry, as a language? It's sung, of course, traditionally. But bringing it to the page and claiming that this could be poetry.

[Kevin Young]

Well, and I love. And I think of it almost as the opposite, too. He's saying poetry could be like the blues. He's, like, giving blues greatness its ironies and tragicomedy to poetry. Which there is a level of that in some of the 20s 30s poetry that's in the magazine. There is this kind of wryness. Someone like Dorothy Parker, of course, famous for that. But he's also, I think, imbuing poetry with something it didn't always have, which was this voice, this ability to speak as an eye. To create a Persona that was bold and kind of funny. And then also black and, you know, spoke just straight to you. But also the same kind of ironies that you find in the blues themselves.

[Deborah Garrison]

It's wonderful. And I do think it's part of a tradition also in the magazine. Of a little poem that, like, that punches above its weight.

[Kevin Young]

That's right. That's right. That reminds me of the Louise Bogan solitary observation brought back from a short sojourn in hell. You ready it's two lines.

[Deborah Garrison]

I'm ready.

[Kevin Young]

At midnight, tears run into your ears.

[Deborah Garrison]

At midnight, tears run into your ears. I mean, that is so true. We've all experienced it. And she gives you this poem where the title is longer than the poem, but she sets it up. And then you understand that you're in that misery. I mean, it is her version of a blues poem. I mean. But I think the magazine did manage to do this thing of having these little. They were almost like talk of the town poems in a way. They were in between other big, chunky, important works, but they held their own. I mean, they've stuck with us across these decades.

[Kevin Young]

Yeah, that's from 1931. So now it is the oldest one we're talking about. And I love that it could have been written yesterday. It has that kind of quality, as you said, that feels like it's familiar. So I love that kind of ability Louise Bogan had. And an interesting critic in the magazine herself, and someone who helped bring poetry to a broader view, but isn't always as well known as she should be now.

[Deborah Garrison]

Right.

[Kevin Young]

Well, I thought we would end with a poem that is more recent. The End of Poetry by Ada Limon. Would you do us the honors?

[Deborah Garrison]

I will try. This is such a significant poem to me.

[Kevin Young]

Here's the End of Poetry by Ada Limon.

[Deborah Garrison]

The End of Poetry. Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoes, maple and seeds, samara and shoot. Enough chiaroscuro. Enough of thus and prophecy and the stoic farmer and faith and our Father and tis of thee. Enough of bosom and bud skin and God not forgetting and star bodies and frozen birds. Enough of the will to go on and not go on or how a certain light does a certain thing. Enough of the kneeling and the rising and the looking inward and the looking up. Enough of the gun, the drama and the acquaintance's suicide, the long lost letter on the dresser. Enough of the longing and the ego and the obliteration of ego. Enough of the mother and the child and the father and the child and enough of the pointing to the world weary and desperate. Enough of the brutal and the border. Enough of can you see me? Can you hear me? Enough. I am human enough. I am alone and I am desperate. Enough of the animal saving me. Enough of the high water, enough sorrow, Enough of the air and its ease. I'm asking you to touch me.

[Kevin Young]

That was Ada Limon from the May 4, 2020 issue. You know, we talked a little bit about how that poem was one that was of this moment where you couldn't touch each other in that sort of casual space. Right.

[Deborah Garrison]

Let's remind readers May 4, 2020, you're 6ft of distance, everybody's hiding out.

[Kevin Young]

Yeah. If you're lucky, you were in a pod. But I had friends who were alone for weeks, and a person isn't supposed to never have any contact like that. And there was a way in which this poem, in its catalog, its enoughness, its ability to think about the kneeling and the rising and the looking inward, which we were all kind of doing in various ways, looking in. I thought it just captured it so well. I'm biased a little bit, but also not. I feel like people really responded to it.

[Deborah Garrison]

Right. It felt like a kind of viral moment poem, which isn't, you know, necessarily the aim of every poem that you published. But this poem was just a poem that everyone could come to with these feelings. And she uses the word desperate twice. I mean, the desperation of that time that it reflected. It's also interesting next to the Merwen, because in a way, she's saying, yeah, yeah, yeah. Language, phrases, poetry. You know, she calls it the end of poetry. You know, there are all these things that we write about, talk about the way the light does a certain thing. Like she's kind of putting scare quotes around, you know, and saying, all that is for the birds. I just want to be touched. I just want something human. She's kind of. It's this wonderful gesture where she's using a poem and the power of her language to tell us, like, sweep the language aside. We need something essential and human here that is, in this case, beyond words and beyond the phrases. Even her own amazing phrases.

[Kevin Young]

Well, in a way, I think back to the bishop. Instead of saying, look, there's. In these little places, beauty. It's also saying, sometimes beauty isn't even enough. Like, these are some beautiful words. Osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoe. The particularities of the world, which, as you point out, are found in language. But enough of the pointing to the world weary and desperate. Enough of the brutal and the border. Enough of can you see me? Can you hear me? Enough. That kind of cell phone distancing kind of world that we've inherited or inhabited. I think she's done a beautiful job of saying, you know, sometimes that isn't enough and we have to go away from the world to find each other.

[Deborah Garrison]

Yeah. And actually reach out and touch each other and find each other where we are, find other human beings and actually relate to them, really? Actually.

[Kevin Young]

Well, I have a question. Do you think it's a hopeful poem?

[Deborah Garrison]

Boy, it's right on a knife edge for me. I think you could read it on a day and find it incredibly dark. But I also think asking for something, asking for touch. And a lot of great poems are like this, aren't they? I mean, they're both the most desperate and the most devastating, but also in the beauty that they bring to us, there's just a hopefulness.

[Kevin Young]

Right.

[Deborah Garrison]

So maybe I land a little on the yes side. What about you?

[Kevin Young]

I think it. Yeah, it's about comfort, I think, and it's also about by naming something, to unname it. There's some power in that, too. Like a poem does that better to my mind than something else, anything else. It's able to sort of say, I'm going to invoke a thing in order to dispel it. It's kind of a spell of saying, I'm going to bring it here. And then you burn it.

[Deborah Garrison]

It's an incantation in a way. Yeah.

[Kevin Young]

You know, you bring it here and then you have to say, let's throw it into the ocean. There's something about it that's sending off. It feels like a benediction. And that's what it is in the book. It's the last poem in the book for a reason.

[Deborah Garrison]

Right. It's a beautiful final note.

[Kevin Young]

Deb, thank you so much for talking with me.

[Deborah Garrison]

My pleasure. Thanks for having me.

[Kevin Young]

You can read the poems Deborah Garrison and I discussed today on newyorker.com and in the anthology A Century of Poetry and The New Yorker, 1925-2025. Available to order now from the New Yorker store and other booksellers.

[Deborah Garrison]

You may subscribe to this podcast, the Fiction podcast, the Writer's Voice podcast, and the Politics and More podcast. By searching for the New Yorker in your podcast app, you can hear more poetry read by the authors on newyorker.com and the New Yorker app, available from the App Store or from Google Play. The theme music is the Corner by Chief Zion Otunde Adjua, courtesy of Stretch Music and Rope a Dope. The New Yorker Poetry Podcast is produced by Chloe Prusinos with help from Hannah Eisenman. Hi, I'm Deborah Treisman, fiction editor of the New Yorker. Each week on the Writer's Voice podcast, New Yorker fiction writers read their newly published stories from the magazine. You can hear from authors like Colson Whitehead. Turner nudged Elwood, who had a look.

[Kevin Young]

Of horror on his face. They saw it, Griff wasn't going down. He was going to go for it. No matter what happened after.

[Deborah Garrison]

Or Joy Williams, her father, was silent. Slowly, he passed his hand over his hair. This usually meant that he was traveling to a place immune to her presence, a place that indeed contradicted her presence. She might as well go to lunch, listen to news stories, or dive into our archive of great fiction. You can find the work of your favorite fiction writers and discover new ones. Listen and follow the writer's voice wherever you get your podcasts from PRX.