MPR’s John Rabe interviews Irish poet Ethna McKiernan about subjects of the ordinary world in poetry. McKiernan also performs reading of her work.
Transcript:
(00:00:00) I'll give you a new poem. Okay? which isn't in either of these books here called why I lied my way through childhood because I love the texture detail fiction added to the ordinary real the dull Navy Easter coat embroidered with elaborate gold brocade instead because I dread Pippi Longstocking so many times I couldn't help believe she truly was my cousin and we'd live together every summer on that island because the Landscape effect was plain as fish dick Fridays in Lent and what harm was there imagining? I turned the dial on mrs. Hewitt's birth control pills a few notches forward when babysitting bragging to disbelieving friends. There'd be another baby in the year because I liked the sympathy the nuns doled like warm honey when they learned I had leukemia at 16 because it's well-known the Irish are prone to Hyperbole and because my parents refused me acting lessons Holding Out for violin because I always wanted the world to be bigger than it is telling my children tonight about the time. I won Merlin sword in a stone toss. I know they know this is the utter truth from Mom's
(00:01:27) childhood. When did you write that? How did you write it?
(00:01:33) I wrote it in the past few weeks. Just remembering the times as a child I couldn't recall what was real and what wasn't because I'd always embellished. What was real, I
(00:01:43) guess did you advance the birth control pills?
(00:01:46) Yes, I did
(00:01:47) and was there a baby? No, there wasn't are you glad of that now?
(00:01:52) Well, I am glad I don't think they would have hired me again, and it would have caused a lot of problems in their lives. What moved you to do that? Pure impishness High don't know I'm not I'm not
(00:02:03) sure I like the way that you connect that with you know with your kids in the Palm to I don't know if are you making the connection
(00:02:10) there? Yeah. I am making the connection sure.
(00:02:14) What do you read I have
(00:02:15) lately been reading Seamus Heaney because I had neglected him in my previous reading and
(00:02:22) I read it. He went and won the
(00:02:23) Nobel right? So I felt I had to read them even Boland and a contemporary Irish poet. I like her work a lot. I like her woman's voice and ability to use Domesticity zsasz a part of poetry rather than Warriors and heroes and politics.
(00:02:40) Why do you like that? Tell me more about that?
(00:02:42) Because I think any subject is a fit subject for poetry and I think she possesses a woman's voice and has allowed into the sort of sacrosanct male world of poetry the world of the ordinary the world of the household. I like that.
(00:03:00) Do you think most people who and and I know that a lot of people write poetry at home men and women poetry. They never expect to be published. They write it and put it in a shoe box or they share it with their friends Demand right about you know, the Trojan War and stuff or do they write about Domesticity? He's 2 for the most part,
(00:03:22) you know, it's hard to say for the most part, but I don't believe men and right exclusively about the Trojan War and George Grand epic subjects, I believe they right perhaps now as much about their children or aspects of work the daily necessity of life as women often have
(00:03:44) would you care to read us another poem
(00:03:46) sure I'd be glad to this isn't a new poem, but it's from a series I wrote in my second book. This series is called Alzheimer's weather and it's about my mother's demise into Alzheimer's The poem is called potatoes and it's one of the six or eight poems in that series, which is centered upon my father instead of just my mother. Someone is weeping in the kitchen. It is my father crying quietly as he peels the dinner potatoes. He pierces their white hearts with a fork and steam Rises upward toward his beard below hot tears salt the bowl the intimacy of the moment staggers as when I stumbled once as a child upon Him cupping my mother's face in Broad noon daylight as they entered the Keep private zone of a kiss. How could he have known when he made that vow 57 years ago how suddenly and readily she'd leave him porkchops burnt potatoes blackening over gas for that thin stranger called Alzheimer Waltzing through the kitchen door like a Suitor who has never lost a single Lover's hand. He's played.
Transcripts
text | pdf |
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: I'll give you a new poem.
SPEAKER 2: Oh, good.
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Which isn't in either of these books here, called "Why I Lied My Way Through Childhood". Because I loved the textured detail, fiction added to the ordinary real. The dull navy easter coat embroidered with elaborate gold brocade instead. Because I'd read Pippi Longstocking so many times, I couldn't help believe she truly was my cousin. And we'd lived together every summer on that island.
Because the landscape of fact was plain as fish stick Fridays in Lent. And what harm was there imagining I'd turned the dial on Mrs. Hewitt's birth control pills a few notches forward when babysitting, bragging to disbelieving friends, there'd be another baby in the year. Because I liked the sympathy the nuns doled like warm honey, when they learned I had leukemia at 16.
Because it's well known, the Irish are prone to hyperbole. And because my parents refused me acting lessons, holding out for violin. Because I always wanted the world to be bigger than it is. Telling my children tonight about the time I won Merlin's sword in a stone toss. I know, they know, this is the utter truth from mom's childhood.
SPEAKER 2: When did you write that? How did you write it?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: I wrote it in the past few weeks. Just remembering the times as a child, I couldn't recall what was real and what wasn't because I'd always embellished what was real, I guess.
SPEAKER 2: Did you advance the birth control pills?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Yes, I did. [LAUGHS]
SPEAKER 2: And was there a baby?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: No, there wasn't.
SPEAKER 2: Are you glad of that now?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Well, I am glad. I don't think they would have hired me again. And it would have caused a lot of problems in their lives.
SPEAKER 2: What moved you to do that?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Pure impishness. I don't know. I'm not sure.
SPEAKER 2: I like the way, though, that you connect that with your kids in the poem too. I don't know if-- are you making the connection there?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Yeah, I am making the connection. Sure.
SPEAKER 2: Who do you read?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: I have lately been reading Seamus Heaney because I had neglected him in my previous reading. And I read.
SPEAKER 2: He went and won the Nobel.
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Right. So I felt I had to read him. Eavan Boland, a contemporary Irish poet, I like her work a lot. I like her woman's voice and ability to use domesticities as a part of poetry, rather than wars, and heroes, and politics.
SPEAKER 2: Why do you like that? Tell me more about that.
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Because I think any subject is a fit subject for poetry. And I think she possesses a woman's voice and has allowed into the sacrosanct male world of poetry, the world of the ordinary, the world of the household. I like that.
SPEAKER 2: Do you think most people who-- and I know that a lot of people write poetry at home, men and women, poetry they never expect to be published. They write it and put it in a shoe box, or they share it with their friends. Do men write about the Trojan War and stuff, or do they write about domesticities too, for the most part?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: You know, it's hard to say for the most part. But I don't believe men write exclusively about the Trojan War and large, grand, epic subjects. I believe they write perhaps now as much about their children or aspects of work, the dailyness of life as women often have.
SPEAKER 2: Would you care to read us another poem?
ETHNA MCKIERNAN: Sure, I'd be glad to. This isn't a new poem, but it's from a series I wrote in my second book. The series is called Alzheimer's Weather. And it's about my mother's demise into Alzheimer's. The poem is called "Potatoes". And it's one of the six or eight poems in that series, which is centered upon my father, instead of just my mother.
Someone is weeping in the kitchen. It is my father crying quietly as he peels the dinner potatoes. He pierces their white hearts with a fork, and steam rises upward toward his beard. Below, hot tears salt the bowl. The intimacy of the moment staggers, as when I stumbled once, as a child, upon him cupping my mother's face in broad noon daylight as they entered the deep private zone of a kiss.
How could he have known when he made that vow, 57 years ago, how suddenly and readily she'd leave him? Pork chops burnt, potatoes blackening over gas for that thin stranger called Alzheimer, waltzing through the kitchen door like a suitor who has never lost a single lover's hand he's played.