Intro
Welcome to the Poetry Professor Podcast with Stephen Cavitt, where every week I read you an original poem and then we talk about its key technique. This season, you’ll hear poems from my book Noctis Terrores.
In today’s episode, you’ll hear “The First Date and Everything After” and we’ll talk about magical realism. Here’s…
The First Date and Everything After
On the north point of Venice Beach,
gulls bank and wheel above our heads,
dark petals against a darker sky.
We’ve walked so long the beach bars
have grown silent. We’ve walked so long
crow’s feet have grown at the corners of your eyes,
just the way I imagined them: little creases
in warm, fresh bread. The wrinkles on my hands
are agricultural now, all furrows and roots.
You’re holding the left one, the fingers thin with age.
We’ve walked all night. We’ve walked thirty years.
We’ve fought so long we’re finally good at it:
sometimes, just before I yell, you stick out
your tongue, and we heave with laughter.
I’ve forgiven you for the cruel things you said
about me that were probably true after all.
We’ve walked so long the city is weeds,
no trace of the house where we first made love,
the dog and covers pushed to the floor.
I know every time you almost left me,
and the times you wish you had.
Now the birds and the beach are gone.
We’ve walked so long we’ve left our bodies behind.
Stars rustle their wings.
I want to ask, Was it worth it?
but I’m so afraid you’ll answer.
Discuss:
In the last episode, I read you the whimsical poem “Pocket Universes.” This is another kind of “out there” poem. I’m calling this one magical realism with a shout out to Michael Hettich, whose work inspired me.
Magical realism blends things from the ordinary world with things that are not usually possible, a leap into something extra, something unknown. So let’s take a look at the ordinary and extraordinary in this poem.
We open with the ordinary world: the birds, the beach, the bars shutting down for the night. Then we slip into the magical: “We’ve walked so long, crow’s feet have grown at the corners of your eyes, just the way I imagined them: little creases in warm, fresh bread. The wrinkles on my hands are agricultural now, all furrows and roots. You’re holding the left one, the fingers thin with age.”
You have to walk a long time to see wrinkles grow, so we’ve obviously slipped into something more than ordinary, more than real here.
The next part blends the magical and the real: “We’ve walked thirty years. We’ve fought so long we’re finally good at it:sometimes, just before I yell, you stick out your tongue, and we heave with laughter.”
We’re way into the future. We somehow magically hit the fast forward button. But this is ordinary relationship stuff. They finally get each other. They match each other’s energy. They’ve reached the point of enduring forgiveness.
The next bit again blends the magical fast-forward with ordinary reality. Now the city is overgrown with weeds, but we’re remembering the house and the bed where they first made love.
Then we go all the way into the magical: “Now the birds and the beach are gone. We’ve walked so long, we’ve left our bodies behind. Stars rustle their wings. I want to ask, Was it worth it? But I’m so afraid you’ll answer.”
This is not straight-out fantasy. There’s no medieval language. We don’t have elves and dragons and sword play.
It’s magical realism because a lot of the ordinary world is in there too–sharp sensory details, attention to what really happens in relationships–but then a door in the poem opens into something that doesn’t usually happen.
That’s magical realism.
Here’s “The First Date and Everything After” one more time. Listen for that balance between magical and real. How could you use that in a poem of your own?
The First Date and Everything After
On the north point of Venice Beach,
gulls bank and wheel above our heads,
dark petals against a darker sky.
We’ve walked so long the beach bars
have grown silent. We’ve walked so long
crow’s feet have grown at the corners of your eyes,
just the way I imagined them: little creases
in warm, fresh bread. The wrinkles on my hands
are agricultural now, all furrows and roots.
You’re holding the left one, the fingers thin with age.
We’ve walked all night. We’ve walked thirty years.
We’ve fought so long we’re finally good at it:
sometimes, just before I yell, you stick out
your tongue, and we heave with laughter.
I’ve forgiven you for the cruel things you said
about me that were probably true after all.
We’ve walked so long the city is weeds,
no trace of the house where we first made love,
the dog and covers pushed to the floor.
I know every time you almost left me,
and the times you wish you had.
Now the birds and the beach are gone.
We’ve walked so long we’ve left our bodies behind.
Stars rustle their wings.
I want to ask, Was it worth it?
but I’m so afraid you’ll answer.
Prompt
If you’re writing along with me, write a magical realist poem. Put it here in the ordinary world and then let something magical happen as a way to talk about something real.
Outro
Thanks so much for listening to the Poetry Professor Podcast with Stephen Cavitt. This season, I’m reading poems from my book Noctis Terrores. It’s available now on Kindle Unlimited and in print at major online booksellers, and there’s a link in the episode description. You can support the show by picking up a copy.
I’ll see you next week.