Duluth poet Barton Sutter explores midlife in book "Farewell to the Starlight in Whisky"

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MPR’s Cathy Wurzer has a conversation with Duluth writer Barton Sutter about his book "Farewell to the Starlight in Whisky." Sutter explores a wide range of topics: among them, politics, sobriety, the Minnesota wilderness, and love.

Segment includes a reading Sutter.

Transcript:

(00:00:00) My friend that the poet Louis Jenkins gave me a hard time about that. He said I've been thinking about your title. It's a really a wonderful title. You just forgot the second half of it should be farewell to the Starlight in whiskey hello to comes and the pens and he had about three other reasons. He gave me two
(00:00:25) for will the Sterling whiskey by the way. That's the first line of sober. A song and you are recovering alcoholic.
(00:00:33) Yes. I am. Yep, and at some point a couple of years into the sober life. I thought you know, there's so many wonderful drinking songs in the world. I probably should try writing a not drinking song and so I worked on that but I felt in the process of writing the poem now, I can't cheat on this sobriety is working out pretty well. But anyhow, Holic is going to feel some pretty serious regret about giving up booze, you know, an alcoholic sitting down to pour the single malt scotch is not like other drinkers not like social drinkers. It's you know, you're bellying up there to Holy Communion. And so I wanted to be sure to get some of that sense of loss in there to
(00:01:27) where the lessons for you as a writer. Writer and a recovering alcoholic
(00:01:32) Boozer such a part of my life that you know, it felt like a very serious and dangerous loss and who knows, you know, I had to face the possibility. Maybe I won't be able to right after this. Maybe I'll have to be doing other thing. Did you really think that yeah, I think It's really so bound up with one's life that you have a hard time imagining doing things otherwise and you have to kind of work up some new rituals. Of course. What happened was that after two or three months? My sense perceptions came back to me stronger than they've been in years and my thinking kind of straightened out and it's it's worked out really well for me in your better. Right right. I So yeah, sure.
(00:02:24) Let's talk about the necklace which is a lovely piece. Well, thanks and in that, you know, it's really a very nice way of looking at the love of your life.
(00:02:35) Yeah. I remember being really excited in the process of writing that poem because it was I could feel two-thirds of the way through it. This thing is going to be a sonnet, but I knew at the same time. This is going to be a sonnet such as Shakespeare never wrote. What's pretty is upper Midwestern materials? That's for sure. And I think my greatest point of pride in that poem is rhyming walleyes with black flies. I don't believe that's ever been done
(00:03:05) before I believe not Barton do us a favor, please if you would and read for audience the necklace be glad to thanks
(00:03:14) ten tough years and you are still the one I want despite your steel backbone anxiety attack. X The Lunatic hysteria you carry in your blood like a dose of malaria. I've heard you murmur odd thoughts about God and SOB as you shoveled the grave for your dog. I've seen you drive tractor drag a bush hog and hunt for lady slippers and a quaking bog. You can build a wooden fence and glaze a window. I'm glad to have a wife who threads her own minnow the other night as you fried fresh walleyes. I was way too shy To do what I felt but I wanted to kiss that necklace of welts where you'd been bitten bloody by Fierce black flies.
(00:04:01) Truly a love poem written by a Minnesotan.
(00:04:04) Yeah for four minutes. So yeah, exactly. My wife is actually much more handy than I am. And so I'm humiliated constantly by her competence.
(00:04:14) I've always enjoyed because of your Minnesota roads and your love of the state. I've always enjoyed your poems and your writings about our Lovely landscape that we have here the lakes and rivers in the woods what really jumped out at me Barton was the poem about the blowdown area of the BWC a and it seems as if you really had quite an experience, they're going into that area and it really touched you
(00:04:40) although the blowdown was a huge huge blow. So I had tried a couple times to write poems about that Devastation and I failed And I fail a lot and a kind of lesson came to mind. That is I spend a lot of time in the woods with my old pal Dexter to you who's a photographer and he often tells me forget about the panoramic nonsense. You've got to focus down do less and it will represent more and that's really what happened with this poem because I was on a favorite Lake. My favorite little island there had one white pine on it and it had been blown down and suddenly I was able to write on a small scale about this much larger
(00:05:35) loss. Go ahead
(00:05:39) blow down. The needles of this white pine have turned from green to red as if a tree should be embarrassed for falling on its head it never stood especially tall, but had a certain Grace it crowned this little island and now has left a space iPad around the granite slab to view the underside the root system that let the pine shine and grow up, right? Here's the lowdown. Here's the dirt shocking crude and raw Roots, like writhing snakes like hands that reaching grasp and Claw to get those nutrients. They need they groped both night and day thirsty greedy from the seed and still clutch clots of clay lumps of loam the bones of trees rocks the size of skulls to see these secrets of the soil feels vaguely. Terrible a landmarks gone. I grieve it the pine earned local Fame a claim on our affection. And then the big wind came those of us who pass this way will feel that something's wrong though. Hungry saplings pushing up say not for long.
(00:07:00) It's what is it a poet Barton Sutter reading from his new book farewell to the Starlight in whiskey, you know, it's always a pleasure talking to you
(00:07:07) Barton. Thank you Cathy same to you and take care of yourself. I'll try you too.

Transcripts

text | pdf |

BARTON SUTTER: My friend, the poet Lewis Jenkins, gave me a hard time about that. He said, "I've been thinking about your title. It's really a wonderful title. You just forgot the second half of it. Should be "Farewell to the Starlight in Whiskey. Hello to Tums and Depends."

[LAUGHING]

And he had about three other versions he gave me too.

CATHY WURZER: "Farewell to the starlight in whiskey," by the way, that's the first line of Sober Song. And you are a recovering alcoholic.

BARTON SUTTER: Yes, I am, yep. And I at some point, a couple of years into the sober life, I thought there are so many wonderful drinking songs in the world. I probably should try writing a not-drinking song. And so I worked on that. But I felt in the process of writing the poem, now I can't cheat on this. Sobriety is working out pretty well, but any alcoholic is going to feel some pretty serious regret about giving up booze. An alcoholic sitting down to pour the single malt scotch is not like other drinkers, not like social drinkers. You're bellying up there to Holy Communion. And so I wanted to be sure to get some of that sense of loss in there, too.

CATHY WURZER: What are the lessons for you as a writer and a recovering alcoholic.

BARTON SUTTER: Booze was such a part of my life that, it felt like a very serious and dangerous loss. And who knows? I had to face the possibility maybe I won't be able to write after this, maybe I'll have to be doing other things.

CATHY WURZER: Did you really think that.

BARTON SUTTER: Yeah, uh-huh, I think it's really so bound up with one's life that you have a hard time imagining doing things otherwise wise. And you have to work up some new rituals. Of course, what happened was that after two or three months, my sense perceptions came back to me stronger than they've been in years, and my thinking straightened out. And it's worked out really well for me.

CATHY WURZER: And you're a better writer?

BARTON SUTTER: I think so. Yeah, sure, mm-hmm.

CATHY WURZER: Let's talk about the necklace, which is a lovely piece.

BARTON SUTTER: Well, Thanks

CATHY WURZER: In that, it's really a very nice way of looking at the love of your life.

BARTON SUTTER: Yeah, I remember being really excited in the process of writing that poem because I could feel 2/3 of the way through it. This thing is going to be a sonnet. But I knew at the same time. This is going to be a sonnet such as Shakespeare never wrote.

CATHY WURZER: Yeah, It is.

BARTON SUTTER: As upper Midwestern materials, that's for sure. And I think my greatest point of pride in that poem is rhyming walleyes with black flies. I don't believe that's ever been done before.

CATHY WURZER: I believe not, Barton. Do us a favor, please, if you would, and read for our audience The Necklace.

BARTON SUTTER: I'll be glad to.

CATHY WURZER: Thanks.

BARTON SUTTER: 10 tough years, and you are still the one I want

Despite your steel backbone, anxiety attacks,

The lunatic hysteria you carry in your blood like a dose of malaria.

I've heard you murmur odd thoughts about God and sob as you shovel the grave for your dog.

I've seen you drive tractor drag a bush hog and hunt for lady slippers in a quaking bog.

You can build a wooden fence, and glaze a window.

I'm glad to have a wife who threads her own minnow.

The other night as you fried fresh walleyes, I was way too shy to do what I felt.

But I wanted to kiss that necklace of welts where you'd been bitten bloody by fierce black flies.

CATHY WURZER: Truly, a love poem written by a Minnesotan.

BARTON SUTTER: Yeah, for a Minnesotan.

CATHY WURZER: Yeah, exactly.

BARTON SUTTER: My wife is actually much more handy than I am. And so I'm humiliated constantly by her competence.

CATHY WURZER: I've always enjoyed-- because of your Minnesota roots and your love of the state, I've always enjoyed your poems and your writings about our lovely landscape that we have here, the lakes and rivers and the woods. What really jumped out at me, Barton, was the poem about the blowdown area of the BWCA, and it seems as if you really had quite an experience there going into that area, and it really touched you.

BARTON SUTTER: Oh, the blowdown was a huge, huge blow. So I had tried a couple times to write poems about that devastation and I failed. I failed a lot, and a lesson came to mind, that is, I spent. A lot of time in the woods with my old pal, Dexter Tui, who's a photographer, and he often tells me, forget about the panoramic nonsense. You've got to focus down. Do less, and it'll represent more. And that's really what happened with this poem, because I was on a favorite lake. My favorite little island there had one white pine on it, and it had been blown down. And suddenly, I was able to write on a small scale about this much larger loss.

CATHY WURZER: Go ahead.

BARTON SUTTER: Blow down.

The needles of this white pine have turned from green to red,

As if a tree should be embarrassed for falling on its head.

It never stood especially tall, but had a certain grace.

It crowned this little island and now has left a space.

I paddle around the granite slab to view the underside,

The root system that let the pine shine and grow upright.

Here's the lowdown.

Here's the dirt, shocking, crude, and raw,

Rots like writhing snakes, like hands that reaching grasp and claw to get those nutrients they need.

They groped both night and day, thirsty, greedy from the seed

And still, clutch clots of clay, lumps of loam, the bones of trees, rocks the size of skulls.

To see these secrets of the soil feels vaguely terrible.

A landmarks gone. I grieve it.

The pine earned local fame, a claim on our affection.

And then, the big wind came.

Those of us who pass this way will feel that something's wrong,

Though, hungry saplings pushing up, say, not for long.

CATHY WURZER: That's Minnesota poet Barton Sutter reading from his new book, Farewell to the Starlight in Whiskey. It's always a pleasure talking to you, Barton.

BARTON SUTTER: Thank you, Cathy. Same to you.

CATHY WURZER: And take care of yourself.

BARTON SUTTER: I'll try. You too.

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