Episode Description
The Sin of Being Okay, that’s the title of the most recent book of poetry by Dawn Leas, published by Kinsman Quarterly, and we’ll talk with Dawn about two of the poems from that collection and one she has chosen to share by Ada Limón.
Dawn is also the author of A Person Worth Knowing (Foothills Publishing), Take Something When You Go (Winter Goose Publishing), and I Know When to Keep Quiet (Finishing Line Press). Her poetry has appeared in Literary Mama, The Pedestal Magazine, SWWIM, New York Quarterly, The Paterson Literary Review, Wild Roof Journal, and elsewhere.
I’m David J. Bauman, your host, and your listening to a conversation In Three Poems.
Poem 1: Written by Dawn Leas, and read by David J. Baquman
"Trowel, Screen, Camera"
I never wanted to be an archeologist. Until I met you. Wide-brim
hat and hiking boots. Reach of the mid-summer sun long
over the Rockies. Dust of dry season and sweat staining back
of a linen shirt. Sleeves rolled up to my elbows. I crisscross
time zones searching your history. Traipsing across topographies,
I trowel Colorado sandstone. Sift soil through screens. I hike
the mountains of North Carolina with a backpack full of supplies.
Toggled metal bottle bounces off my hip with each step.
Listening to “Rhymes and Reasons” on repeat, I collect artifacts.
Your elementary school pictures. Home-movie footage of you
learning to skip. The last page of a high-school essay about Bowie.
Newspaper feature on your college band. A photo of you
with long-hair, lips just a millimeter from mic. First page of your
first screenplay. I dig and dig to learn who you are. Yes, I am
writing another poem to teach you who I am.
Poem 2: Written and read by Dawn Leas
"Sin of Being Okay"
A cadralor
1.
You drew triangles, circles,
squiggly lines in margins above
math problems with purple pen,
under reading notes. Teachers
expected answers you couldn’t
find outside the windows past
the flat playground, horse farms
and cow pastures, just
the tip of your imagination.
2.
He dreams in tie-dye
each bright yellow flowing
into pink, green, blue, orange.
He sees dream you before real you
teased hair, Rugby shirt
three sizes too big. Real you
rarely smiles, worry lines
setting into forehead. But his voice
reaches you, unfolds your mouth.
3.
How you describe the color of water –
blueberry, shallow as
your grandmother’s eyes, violet
like your cousin’s middle name,
blue as a marble skittering
across terrazzo in mid-summer sun.
Muted trumpet in a city club.
Your favorite pair of Levi’s decades old.
A lover’s voice saying, I’m sorry.
4.
Define sinoky –
Sin of being okay.
Collage of photos with faded edges.
Lying naked in the woods.
Late-spring snow.
Gold star for breaking the rules.
Crying during sex.
A dream that can be let go.
A period with hot flashes.
Underwater sounds of an abandoned ocean.
5.
From an early age
you learned to be small
could fit in a Jack-in-the-Box
at the slightest raised voice,
even brief eye contact, embarrassing
hair out of place. Each person
cranked – one click, two clicks, three.
The tighter the turn, the tinier
you became until the pop splintered your life.
Poem 3:
"Instructions on Not Giving Up," by Ada Limón, as published in her book
The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018). Our thanks to Ada Limón and Milkweed Editions for the use of the poem here on the podcast.
Links:
"Instructions on Not Giving Up" by Ada Limón as published on Poets.org.