Seán Hewitt: The Glimpse.
Martina Evans: And I realized poetry can do everything. So if it
was point of view, if it was plot, if it was dialogue, character, I
could find them in all the poems. And that was a real revelation to
me.
Seán Hewitt: Welcome to The Glimpse, I'm your host Seán Hewitt.
Martina Evans treasures voice, humor, and cats in her works. She's
the author of 13 books of poetry and prose. Her latest narrative
poem, "The Coming Thing," was shortlisted for the Derek Walcott
Prize for Poetry, born in Cork and now living in London, Martina is
the poetry critic for The Irish Times and our guest today on The
Glimpse.
In her poems, Martina Evans has one of the most distinctive voices I
know: self-deprecating, demotic, erudite, but never showy, rich with
a humor that sings off the page. To listen to Martina read is to feel
animated, to feel in the best company, to be sat down and told
wonderful gossip, to feel voices from history and daily life
revivified in an almost uncanny way. Witty, humane, subversive and
always attuned to the minutiae of the spoken word, these poems fill
our heads with voices that are indelible. Welcome. Martina, thank
you for being here.
Martina Evans: Thank you, Sean,
Seán Hewitt: The thing I love about all of your poems is how I can hear
Martina Evans: Absolutely. I just love the sound of the way people
speak, what they don't say, how they circle around the subtext, the
you so clearly in the voice of them, even when the voice is the
voice of another person or an animal. And I wanted to start by
asking you about how those voices come to you and how you go about
capturing them on the page.
music of a voice. And I'm very interested in place, the way place
and voice are connected. Place runs through the voice.
Seán Hewitt: I think the idea of a of the human voice as an instrument
is a really great one. And I think it captures something about how you
go about, you know, learning the instrumentation of capturing a
voice and dialect and the way people speak, and that comes
through in the poems: not only just in the sort of language that they
use, but even in intonation and syntax and the way you punctuate a
poem. And I wondered if, if you would call it research, the sort of
eavesdropping or reading that you do to try and capture a voice.
Martina Evans: Yes, I honestly think it's something you inherit.
Because I think my mother comes in a lot to this, because one of the
things I absolutely love is cockney, cockney language and how
it keeps changing, and it's very much influenced by the West Indian
music. You know, since the early 20th century, there's a huge change
in how Londoners speak, and I think it's just absolutely wonderful. And
I would love to be able to put that into writing, but I know I'd get it
wrong. You know, if I tried to speak with a Cockney accent, or
even if I was trying to do Northern Ireland, I might be able to get one
or two or three words right, but I wouldn't attempt to do a monologue,
because just wouldn't hear it right.
And, you know, I started in Cork, and like you, Sean, you started
your Irish sojourn in Cork, and then went to Dublin. And as soon as
I went to Dublin, they were taking off my Cork accent, but I could
hear they weren't getting it right. And of course, then I came to
London, where they take off Irish accents. And of course, to a
native, when someone tries to do somebody else's accent, it sounds
so bad. I used to just feel sorry for them, rather than angry. So I
think there's a sensitivity there, and it's affected my writing,
actually, because at the beginning, I was writing a lot more novels,
and I did find it frustrating because I realized I had to stick
close to the voice I knew.
Seán Hewitt: And one of the things that you do more than a lot of
poets, I think, is inject humor into the poems and also work with
narrative. Was that something that you always felt drawn to in the
poem? Humor is, I think, more than comedy in your poems, because it is
also a way of getting to the heart of the local, the particular
grievances of a person or the character of a person. Did you
start off with narratives?
Martina Evans: That's what I wanted. That's what I thought I
would write. I, you know--poetry didn't occur to me because I
thought that was just a specialized thing that I wouldn't be equipped
for. And I had... even though I Ioved poetry, you know, novels were
what I was attracted to. And I think in a way, over decades, I
have somehow come back to writing novels and poems. They are related,
and I think gradually I am mixing the two together. And I had to find
my own form and the long narrative poems to mix the two of them
together. But I think with some of my poems, I think, are kind of
related to those kind of Irish laments that can be kind of funny
as well. And when I'm being funny, I'm being very, very serious,
really, I know it's when I'm at my most serious, because humor is a
way of dealing with things, isn't it? Difficult things. And I think
it's like a kind of gallows humor.
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, I think that's right, that comes through so, so
well in your poems, that I love the idea of a poem as kind of a
crystallized form of everything you might do in a novel. You know, we
began by speaking about instrumentation, or the voice as an
instrument, and the musicality or or the rhythm of poetry must be a
great source of opportunity for capturing story and voice in a way
that I know you can have musical prose or poetic prose, but perhaps
poetry lends itself to speaking in voices?
Martina Evans: Yes, I think it does. And I think we have to
remember that the novel is such a new form. You know, in the early
part of the 19th century, Walter Scott and Byron, they were the best
sellers with their long narrative poems like Don Juan.
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, I think, you know, we forget the recent
popularity of of poetry, by which I mean, not only in the 19th century,
but a sort of resurgence that we're having now, particularly now, I
think that's driven by poetry as a spoken form, and the acceptance of
poetry as a form of speaking, or song, as it might have been called.
For our listeners, full disclosure, I used to work with Martina
reviewing poetry for The Irish Times. and aside from everything
else, one of my favorite parts of that job was having phone calls
with Martina, and Martina would give me updates on the cats. So
I am delighted to hear directly from one of them in this poem
today, Martina, would you read it for us?
Martina Evans: "The Day My Cat Spoke to Me" for Geraldine More
O'Ferrell
I was surprised not so much by the fact that she spoke but by the high
opinion she had of me. 'I think you're great,' she said and it was
at this point I looked at her in surprise. 'I mean,' she continued
'the way you've managed to write anything at all! Fourteen court
hearings and that horrible barrister, the way she looked at
you.' 'But you weren't there.' I said. 'Oh, but I can imagine it,'
said, Eileen, her yellow eyes opening wide before narrowing into
benevolent slits. 'I only had to look at you, gulping down your red
lentil soup when you came home after nearly three hours in the
witness box defending your right to write.Did anyone ever hear the
like? I could see it all in every swallow you took, her butty legs
and her manly shoulders in that black suit, did she have dandruff?
I hope not, because it really shows up on black. Saying those things to
you. Oh Miss Cotter we would all like the luxury of sitting at home
writing books! Holding up paper evidence between finger and thumb
Here is another job you failed to get, Miss Cotter. Trying to make
you go out to work with radiation in a hospital and who would take
care of us? What would the cats of this house do without the sound of
your pen scratching on paper, the hum of your computer, your lovely
lap and the sound of you on the telephone? The big dyed blond head
of her! And where did she think she was going? Well earning a lot of
money for her own words by the looks of things. And saying them to
you! The best writer that ever heaved a can of Tuna or opened a
pack of Science Plan. And as Mary Jenkins said about him who paid for
the horrible utterances. It's just as well that Shakespeare wasn't
married to him.
And then when he was in the witness box, he wished you the best of luck
with your writing...' At this point, Eileen paused, closed her
eyes I was waiting for her to say something witty herself. After all
it was a great opportunity for irony which for some reason I have
always associated with cats.
But when she opened her eyes again she requested a scoop of softened
butter after which she licked her lips in detail and hasn't opened
her mouth since if you don't count, yawning, lapping, eating, washing,
miaowing and screeching at intruders.
Seán Hewitt: I love the poem so much, I think it does exactly what
you said your poems do you know it's it has a sort of
telling-it-slant thing going on. It's both funny and serious,
because in some ways it's about the cat Eileen, but in other ways it's
about the speaker's relationship to the cat. It's about the things we
know beyond words about animals or things that we spend time with. But
then in other ways, it's also an account of a life or a period of a
life. There's so much going on there, told through this conceit of
the cat speaking. Did you know where the poem was going when you
started it? I kind of want to know how it arrived. Was it a day with
the cat? You know, were you just sitting beside the cat? Or, you
know, how did this, this poem, come into being?
Martina Evans: I know exactly how it came about, because I'd been in
court a lot, and it had worn me down. And there were many kind of
prongs to the attacks in court, and one of them was that I should be
back at work in my old job as a radiographer. But at that time, I
was working on the second novel. I was teaching creative writing, and
I had a young daughter to take care of, so if the other side were
sending me all these ads for jobs, many of them I wasn't qualified to
do in radiography and, you know, my legal team said it doesn't going to
matter, because they're going to have their day in court with you.
You're going to have to go in and be in the witness box and take all
this stuff and answer it, which was just awful. And this actually
happened to me in real life, in fact, during the court hearing at
one stage, the only time that I took her unawares was when I said,
"Why are you being so mean to me?"
So anyway, that is put away, right? I had that experience, you know,
you get on with things. And I was in the roof studio of the City Lit,
which is a flagship adult ed College in London, and a very well
loved place where they teach everything from Kung Fu to dancing
to poetry. And I had a great class and they'd write every week. And
then I I thought, "Oh, I'll bring the Frank O'Hara one, you know,
where, where the sun speaks to Frank O'Hara and tells him, 'you
know, you're quite good, you're one of the good poets, and keep on
doing what you're doing.'" And I thought it would be quite good if
they got somebody, the sun or a inanimate object, to address them.
And it was the first time my class were struck dumb. They couldn't
write.
So I got on the 38 big, red double decker bus, sitting there thinking,
"Why couldn't they write," you know?And then I found myself
pulling out my folder, and I began to write. And, of course, it was
all the feelings that I had stored up from my court experience; just
came out. But it was because I felt I wanted them to write it, and they
wouldn't write it. So my attitude on the bus was, well, I'll do it.
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, I think sometimes it's a great challenge to
throw yourself, you know, especially if you spend a lot of
time teaching, you know, you come up with these exercises. I do it
too, and then I think, "Oh, could I actually do that?" But I think you
pulled it off brilliantly. Do you often find yourself having that
experience where you read poems or you listen to music, or you know,
you see a piece of art or a film and a poem is jogged out of you.
Or, you know, you open a dialogue with another piece of art. Is that
something that you do often?
Martina Evans: I think so, like it does happen often, and then it
comes in other ways. It can be this, it can be that. It can be
just something somebody said, you know, it depends. I watch a lot of
film, and I think film influences me an awful lot, and I feel my
mother haunts my poems a lot. And it's interesting. I remember when
my second book, All Alcoholics Are Charmers was published, my mother
was very put out. And after she died, I felt she was writing the
books. You know, there's that Milosz quote from his poem, "Ars
Poetica" about "the house is always open, the house of poetry,
and people are coming and leaving at will."
Seán Hewitt: I like the idea of the poem almost as as calling up or
being inhabited by other voices that can kind of wander through it.
There was one thing that kind of echoed in the back of my mind with
"The Day My Cat Spoke to Me," which was obviously it set up a chain of
association, then in my head of cat poems. So I had Christopher Smart
in the back of my head. And then I went all the way back to Pangur Bán
and thinking about the, for those of you who don't know it, this
ninth century Irish poem written by a monk, and his cat is called
Pangur Bán, and is kind of sat on his knee or walking around his
writing desk, and as he writes, the cat's hunting mice becomes kind of
analogous to finding the right word in a poem, or... it's a very feline
text. But I wondered if you think that there's something kind of
inherently feline about poetry or poetic about cats, maybe?
Martina Evans: I know it's so strange in a way, that so many
poets like cats. Leonardo da Vinci said that every cat has a
masterpiece. And I do think a lot of poets were just constantly
admiring the masterpiece that is a cat. And I know that Emily Brontë,
herself, a great poet as well as a novelist, said that cats are most
like humans. I think they're very supportive to poetry. And I know
that Dora my cat, she really calms down if I read poems to her, she
likes them very much.
Seán Hewitt: Does she have a favorite poet or poet?
Martina Evans: Well, she's one of the main characters in the poem
"The Coming Thing" Dora and her favorite line is, "Dora was a
fierce intellectual."
Seán Hewitt: She definitely knows what you're saying, I think.
Martina Evans: She definitely knows what I'm saying. And Donny, the
ginger boy, who's now dead, he also always knew, because once when I
couldn't move when I was injured, he was meowing for food, and I
said, "Oh, go and catch a mouse. That's what you're supposed to do,
isn't it?" And He came back a half an hour later with a mouse hanging
out of his mouth.
Seán Hewitt: I think they know more than we think they know. But I like
that, you know, there's, there's something that the poem breaks
through, which is the, not the silence of a cat, because cats are
not silent, but the wordlessness of a cat. And instead, it kind of taps
into the language of a cat, if that makes sense. It has a real focus on
their movement, their irony, the way that they might speak, if, if
they could. And I think, you know, a lot of the time the poem feels
companionable to me, it's about companionship in a way. It's about
being seen by another thing, especially if you feel exposed or
on your own or doubtful. There's something reassuring about the
presence, either of the sun or or a cat, something inanimate or animate
that is just there for us.
Martina Evans: I think the best poems come from the body, you know
and the cinema, of course, is completely tuned into the body with
all its, you know, scenes, slow motion. It's how our bodies work.
And I think the way cats move is incredibly inspirational. And I
remember once reading that Harvey Keitel was given two pages of
dialogue, and he put it to one side and said, I can show that the way I
stand. And I mean, I just think cats, they communicate. I mean, my
cat's annoyed, she just goes and sits, very little movement, but oh
my god, it's just oozing with expression. You know what I'm
talking about?
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, I do know what you're talking about. I think, you
know, I never, I never grew up with cats. I grew up with dogs, who I
think are very open about their feelings. You know, you can tell a
dog is happy, you can tell a dog is sad and they don't have, I don't
think they have a huge emotional, expressive range in their movements
and how they behave. Nick, my partner, is obsessed with cats, and
I have said to him, "I can't interpret them." And he says, "You
know, once you get to know a cat, you know everything. You know it
will you will never get to the point of not knowing suddenly that
the cat is about to scratch you, because you can tell if it's
annoyed with you." But the thing is, I can't, I can't tell yet. So I
need, I need practice in the language of the cat. Martina, I
think it might be a good time to take a short break, and when we
come back, you're gonna read to us from Frank O'Hara and this poem in
which the sun speaks,
Martina Evans: Okay.
Cathy and Peter Halstead: We hope you're enjoying the second season
of The Glimpse. It's just one small part of the Adrian Brinkerhoff
Poetry Foundation. We're the founders Peter and Cathy Halstead.
Our goal is to make great poetry more accessible to everyone, and we
do that in a variety of ways, through partnerships, our film
series, this podcast and our website, brinkerhoffpoetry.org, we
hope these works will lure you into a parallel universe, the way a
Möbius strip brings you into another dimension without leaving
the page you're on. Thank you so much for listening.
Seán Hewitt: So welcome back. Martina Evans, you've chosen Frank
O'Hara's poem, "A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island,"
as your inspiration, and we've already covered a bit of why this
poem is sitting in the background of your poem. But I wonder if you
could tell us first a little bit about this O'Hara poem, why it
hooks you, and what you think it is that kind of draws you to it.
Martina Evans: I think its movement is really interesting. I mean, I
think he's very interesting in his casual approach. And I think it
starts so conversational, almost throw away. You know, "The sun woke
me up... Hey! I've been trying... Don't be so rude." You know, it's
almost, it's one of those ones where you hear people saying, "Is
this cut-up prose?" A phrase I hate. I mean, what does that even
mean? And then I think it moves into a much darker place, because
it starts off quite casually—the sun is going to look for him—but
then suddenly it gets very, very hot. It's also very funny and it
ends actually in a very dark place, I think,
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, it's a brilliant poem. It moves so far across just a
couple of pages. Now it is quite a long poem, but it's so full of life
I'm I'm going to ask you just to read the opening for us and for our
listeners, you'll be able to find the full poem on The Glimpse
website, yeah, "A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island."
Martina Evans: The Sun woke me this morning loud and clear, saying,
"Hey! I've been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes. Don't be so
rude. You're only the second poet I've ever chosen to speak to
personally so why aren't you more attentive? If I could burn you
through the window, I would to wake you up. I can't hang around here
all day." "Sorry, Sun, I stayed up late last night talking to Hal."
"When I woke up Mayakovsky, he was a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance." I tried to apologize "I missed you
yesterday." "That's better" he said, "I didn't know you'd come
out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close.?" "Yes," I said
beginning to feel hot, wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me anyway.
"Frankly, I wanted to tell you I like your poetry. I see a lot on my
rounds, and you're okay. You may not be the greatest thing on earth,
but you're different. Now, I've heard some say you're crazy, they
being excessively calm themselves to my mind, and other crazy poets
think that you're a boring reactionary. Not me. Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll find that people always will
complain about the atmosphere, either too hot or too cold too
bright or too dark, days, too short or too long. If you don't appear at
all one day, they think you're lazy or dead, just keep right on. I like
it."
Seán Hewitt: It's so good. I think the character of the sun, you know,
it has such personality. You know, in some ways, this poem seems
to me to be about the pressure of writing or the pressure of living.
In fact, it becomes about the pressure of living, but it begins
perhaps about the pressure of writing or the doubt that we all
feel as writers. Why bother? Why start? There's always someone
better. There's always someone doing something in a in a way that
you think is is more important than the way that you do things. I
wonder if this is a poem that you return to or carry with you through
those doubts. You know, it's sometimes nice to know that Frank
O'Hara doubts himself as well.
Martina Evans: Oh, absolutely. And I think the burning is quite
interesting in it. I spent all my time devoted to this, this art, and
I'm not any good. In some ways, you know, writing is pretty harmless,
but in other ways, you can get burned by it. Winnicott, the
psychologist, talks about artists being people who are caught between
the desire to hide and the desire to be seen. And he says something
like, "it's a joy to be hidden but a disaster not to be found." Yeah.
And I think that sums it up for us, yeah, and there's a lot of hiding
and being seen or not being seen, and the sun, of course, is in the
spotlight being seen, and it's actually terrifying and painful for
us, and we want to hide, and yet somehow we're drawn to get
sunburned.
I loved in the second half, he says, "Thanks, and remember, I'm
watching. It's easier for me to speak to out here. I don't have to
slide down between buildings to get your ear. I know you love
Manhattan, but you ought to look up more often."
And then he talks about embracing the world, and I find that really
cinematic as well. And he's he's reacting to Mayakovsky, who was a
very cinematic poet and a filmmaker and it's cartoonish. And I make all
these associations, which I think we all do when we read poems and
when we write poems, and before I finish, I must talk about
listening, because I think that's really important. "I don't have to
slide down between buildings to get to your ear." I think when we're
writing poems, we're listening. Talk about this very thing that
you're actually listening. You're listening for the poem, yeah? Mary
Ruefle talks about it. It's listening to get it right.
Seán Hewitt: Wow, yeah. I loved, you know, the idea of listening. I
was once reading an interview with Alice Oswald, I think, and she said
that the last thing she asks herself before she starts a poem
is, "Am I listening?" And I think that's right, you know, to try and
find the note or the rhythm that you're trying to to get out onto
the page, the thing that you're listening out for.
You just mentioned Mary Ruefle there and with Winnicott, which is
one of my favorite quotes, I was actually going to use it as an
epigraph to something once "it's a joy to be hidden in a disaster not
to be found." Mary Ruefle has a great essay or a lecture in that
book, Madness, Rack and Honey called "On Secrets", and she talks
in that lecture about every poem having a secret, but the trick of a
poem is wanting both to give away and to keep the secret at the same
time. So they're kind of things of revelation and also concealment.
And we want to keep those two things in in tandem, you know, the
same time as you want to express something, to give something away,
you run away and hide it, and you like the idea of the poem as a
place of of safety or being, you know, in which you can kind of
disguise things as well as give them away.
I think one thing that I was thinking about with this poem and
your cat and O'Hara's sun, and this idea of writing about inanimate
things as companionable things or or speaking things, was that all of
these poems seem to me to be poems of friendship in a way, or mutual
concern between the sun and O'Hara or the cat and and the Speaker of
your poem. And I wonder if they're there, in some ways, a sort of
secular version of mystical poems. And, you know, in another time,
would a poet maybe have imagined a saint or God appearing and speaking
to them and offering them advice or correcting their way of life, or,
you know, guiding them. Does it? Does that seem right to you? Do you
think that these poems are kind of filling in as sort of religious?
Martina Evans: I think it's very true. And Ireland was originally
the cult of St. Brigid —was sun worshippers. It's hard to remember
what I was thinking on that day, but I'm sure I would have just
dismissed God because I just can't believe him anymore. But I think
it's very true. And actually, the sun is the source of all life. If
we were supposed to adore anything, that would be the right place to
put our adoration, not some strange man in a white beard. You know?
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, it always seems to me a strange dismissal, you
know, when you see those stupid kind of colonial cartoons or
something. You know, "before we came, you were worshiping the sun."
And I'm like, "well, yes, this makes much more sense to worship
the sun," if anything.
Martina Evans: And Apollo is the god of poetry as well, isn't he?
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, yeah. I mean, sometimes poetry is just to give
you that, that sense of wonder in something that otherwise seems
normal. And there's nothing normal about a cat or the sun. You know,
they're incredible and strange. And the stuff of poems, Martina, you
know, were you thinking here about lineages? In a way, your poem
echoing back to O'Hara. O'Hara's poem echoing back to Mayakovsky and
I wonder if you think about yourself as a poet with a lineage,
or if you're conscious of these other voices in the background, and
who would be there at the family gathering of a Martina Evans poem?
Martina Evans: Oh, God, I don't know. I find it really hard. I read
an awful lot and widely, and, I mean, Frank O'Hara would be really
important. And when you mentioned secrets, Stanley Kunitz is a huge
figure, and he spoke about "a poem should never give up all its
secrets." Yeah e's got a wonderful, wonderful, wondrous poem called
"The Abduction," where he had just been reading a book on UFOs and
things like that, and he merges it with some other more mystical kind
of experience, and it's terrific and haunting. So I love him, but
sometimes I think the poets that I love are nothing like me.
Seán Hewitt: I think that's often the case. I think I find myself
drawn to to poets completely different to me. Perhaps, if you
read poets who are very similar to you, you kind of, I don't know if
you get this experience of the cringe. You know that you recognize
yourself too much, and you can kind of see something of what you're
doing in someone else. So if you read someone very far away from
you. I think you know you've more to learn from them, perhaps.
Martina Evans: Yeah, and it's such a cliche, maybe not, maybe not, but
I just love Shakespeare, and he's timeless. I've often enjoyed
Shakespeare as a book of poems or a play of Shakespeare's, to me, is
just a long narrative poem. I think he may have influenced me in that
way. Yeah, so he's somebody I really, really love, which I
suppose you wouldn't associate with me. I think Frank O'Hara is
obvious. I think James Joyce is a huge influence,.
Seán Hewitt: in some ways, Shakespeare should be so many
people's answers, but I don't think many people are brave enough to
give the answer of Shakespeare, not because, you know, we're comparing
ourselves to him, but sometimes it seems that we take it for granted
just how renewable and strange and powerful those plays are. And
I think having a constant text, you know, if you take all of
Shakespeare as as a life's work, you could spend your life inside it
and, and happily.
Martina Evans: One poet I listen to all the time is Yusef Komunyakaa,
and I think June Jordan, yes, and Lucille Clifton would be huge
influences as well. Yeah, as you think about the demotic and, you
know, having that courage just, you know, "Homage to My Hips,"
Seán Hewitt: Yeah, I can hear June Jordan in the back of your poems. I
think I can hear them in the speaking voice. She's such a
Martina Evans: Yeah, so, and June Jordan's "A Poem about Intelligence
brilliant poet.
for My Brothers and Sisters." That's a poem I really love.
Seán Hewitt: Martina Evans, it has been such a pleasure to speak to
you. Thank you for coming on The Glimpse.
Thank you so much. Seán.
Thanks for joining us today. I'm your host. Seán Hewitt. Martina's
poem, The Day My Cat Spoke to Me" comes from her collection of poems
titled Can Dentists Be Trusted. It was published in 2004 and aired
with permission from Carcanet Frank O'Hara's poem, "A True Account of
Talking to the Sun at Fire Island," is from The Collected Poems of
Frank O'Hara published in 1971 and was aired with permission from
Knopf.
Coming up next week. Poet Stephen Sexton muses about the afterlife
through a capitalist lens, his love of American poetry and a lonely yak
in Batesville, Virginia. Make sure to subscribe to The Glimpse
wherever you get your podcasts. You can also find episodes on our
website, Brinkerhoff poetry.org/podcast. We'd also love
to hear from you. Drop us an email at the glimpse poetry
podcast@gmail.com
The Glimpse is a production of the Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry
Foundation. I'm your host, Seán Hewitt. Our senior producer is
Jennifer Wolfe. Kat Yore is our technical director and mixing
engineer. Editorial Director Amanda Glassman is our curator and
production coordinator. Amy Holmes is the foundation's Executive
Director, and our co founders are Cathy and Peter Halstead. Thanks
for listening.