Transcripts

LOUIS JENKINS: In a box of old photos, there's one of a young man with a mustache wearing a long coat, Circa 1890. The photo is labeled Uncle Carl on the back. That would be your mother's grand uncle who came from Sweden, a missionary, and was killed by Indians in North Dakota, your great grand uncle. The young man in the photo is looking away from the camera, slightly to the left. He has a look of determination, a man of destiny, preparing to bring the faith to the heathen Sioux.

But it isn't Carl. The photo was mislabeled 50 years ago. It's actually a photo of Uncle Axel from Norway, your father's uncle who was a farmer. No one knows that now. No one remembers Axel or Carl. If you look closely at the photo, it almost appears that the young man is speaking, perhaps muttering, I'm Axel, damn it, quit calling me Carl.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: You know, these prose poems are so offhand and casual for us to read, but I don't imagine they were easy to write.

LOUIS JENKINS: Well, some are more difficult than others. And sometimes, it's a matter of practice so you can do it fairly easily because of that. It's like painting, those motions, you know the brush motions. And so you know how to do it. It took a lot of time to get to the point where, you know how to do it. And also, it's like painting. And then, I think, sometimes, if you labor it too much, you ruin it. And I've ruined quite a few in my time.

But I think about, if I'm working on a poem, if I've got something started, I'm thinking about it a lot of the time, just sort of turning it over as I go along, go through the daily routine.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: Well, I think we have time for another poem. I love the animal poems.

LOUIS JENKINS: OK. Which one would you like to hear? What's your favorite animal?

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: There's one about a squirrel.

LOUIS JENKINS: OK. This is short.

The squirrel makes a split-second decision, and acts on it immediately, headlong across the street as fast as he can go. Sure, it's fraught with danger. Sure, there's a car coming. Sure, it's reckless and totally unnecessary. But the squirrel is committed. He will stay the course.

You see squirrels doing that all the time.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: And presidents.

LOUIS JENKINS: Yeah. Well, that was a phrase that you hear a lot. And that's sometimes-- a starting point for a poem is to-- you've got a phrase turning over in your head, and you say, how is that useful? Stay the course.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: So you turn regular life into poetry, and you're always looking for something then? It doesn't just come from deep inside and demand to be expressed.

LOUIS JENKINS: No. Well, I mean, there's some necessity to do it, some obsession to do it. But the poetry comes from looking at things, and from other things. It's, maybe, a resonant note with you. Something happens, and something inside your head goes mmm. And then, you try to make a poem out of it. And yes, you're always-- I am. And I think, probably, poets always are trying to find the next poem, waiting for it, looking for it.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: Well, thank you so much for reading for us and talking to us about it.

LOUIS JENKINS: Well, thank you for inviting me.

STEPHANIE HEMPHILL: Louis Jenkins. His new book is North of the Cities, and published by his new Will o' the Wisp books. I'm Stephanie Hemphill.