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  • I love you. I'm glad I exist.

    Hi friends,

    Today’s poem is “The Orange” by Wendy Cope*.

    At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
    The size of it made us all laugh.
    I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
    They got quarters and I had a half.
    And that orange, it made me so happy,
    As ordinary things often do
    Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
    This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
    The rest of the day was quite easy.
    I did all the jobs on my list
    And enjoyed them and had some time over.
    I love you. I’m glad I exist.

    As I mentioned, this is the last episode of the Devotions podcast. Thank you so much to everyone who tuned in, I really appreciate it. These episodes will still be accessible on all podcast streaming platforms. See you on the other side.

    Love always,

    <3 Tara

    *from Serious Concerns by Wendy Cope, published by Faber & Faber in 1992.

  • Why not / live each day as if it were the first—/ all raw astonishment

    Happy Sunday! Apologies for being a bit casual (and sniffly) this week :-)

    Today’s poem is “Imaginary Conversation” by the late Linda Pastan*.

    You tell me to live each day
    as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
    where before coffee I complain
    of the day ahead—that obstacle race
    of minutes and hours,
    grocery stores and doctors.
    But why the last? I ask. Why not
    live each day as if it were the first—
    all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
    her eyes awake that first morning,
    the sun coming up
    like an ingénue in the east?
    You grind the coffee
    with the small roar of a mind
    trying to clear itself. I set
    the table, glance out the window
    where dew has baptized every
    living surface.

    <3 Tara

    *from Insomnia by Linda Pastan, published by W.W. Norton in 2015

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  • Is there a vocabulary for this—one to make dailiness amplify / and not diminish wonder?

    Hi friends,

    Sorry for the delay in getting this out — thank you so much for your patience. Today’s poem is “Do You Speak Persian?” by Kaveh Akbar.

    Some days we can see Venus in mid-afternoon. Then at night, stars
    separated by billions of miles, light travelling years
    to die in the back of an eye.
    Is there a vocabulary for this—one to make dailiness amplify
    and not diminish wonder?
    I have been so careless with the words I already have.
    I don’t remember how to say home
    in my first language, or lonely, or light.
    I remember only
    delam barat tang shodeh, I miss you,
    and shab bekheir, goodnight.
    How is school going, Kaveh-joon?
    Delam barat tang shodeh.
    Are you still drinking?
    Shab bekheir.
    For so long every step I’ve taken
    has been from one tongue to another.
    To order the world:
    I need, you need, he/she/it needs.
    The rest, left to a hungry jackal
    he rest, left to a hungry jackal
    Right now our moon looks like a pale cabbage rose.
    Delam barat tang shodeh.
    We are forever folding into the night.
    Shab bekheir.

    Hope you’re doing well.

    <3 Tara

    *first published in Narrative in 2015, sourced from Split This Rock’s poetry database.

  • Put myself entirely / in the keep of this rainy morning.

    Hi friends,

    A casual one today, recorded in bed, on my phone. I am usually more meticulous about my recordings and what I say, but let me know if this more conversational format resonates with you.

    Today’s poem is “Rain” by Raymond Carver.* Here it is copied below:

    Woke up this morning with
    a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
    and read. Fought against it for a minute.
    Then looked out the window at the rain.
    And gave over. Put myself entirely
    in the keep of this rainy morning.Would I live my life over again?
    Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
    Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

    Happy 2023. Love always.

    <3 Tara

    *from All of Us: The Collected Poems by Raymond Carver, published by Knopf, 1996.

  • afraid, yes, but among you again

    Hi friends,

    Today’s poem is “Snowdrops” by Louise GlĂŒck* Here it is copied below:

    Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
    what despair is; then
    winter should have meaning for you.
    I did not expect to survive,
    earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
    to waken again, to feel
    in damp earth my body
    able to respond again, remembering
    after so long how to open again
    in the cold light
    of earliest spring--
    afraid, yes, but among you again
    crying yes risk joy
    in the raw wind of the new world.

    Happy Holidays and best wishes for the New Year :-)

    Love always.

    <3 Tara

    (P.S. Sorry for the quality of this recording — it was recorded on my phone as I’m still at home with my family and away from my roommate’s fancy microphone. LOL.)

    *from The Wild Iris by Louise GlĂŒck, published by Ecco Press, 1992. GlĂŒck won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for this collection in 1993.

  • i fold and unfold / my heart a hundred times each / day

    Today’s poem is “Under The Day” by Victoria Chang.* Here it is copied below:

    Every day I laugh,
    do you hear my mouth lifting?
    I fold and unfold
    my heart a hundred times each
    day so that it doesn’t freeze.

    I would love to hear some of the ways you fold and unfold your hearts. Please let me know in the comments if you’d like :-)

    Have a wonderful week!

    <3 Tara

    *from The Trees Witness Everything by Victoria Chang, published by Copper Canyon Press, 2022

  • while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite

    Hi friends,

    This week’s poem is “Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo*. It’s copied below.

    The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
    The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
    We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
    It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
    At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
    Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
    This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
    Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
    We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
    At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
    Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

    Here are some of my favorite poems by Indigenous and Native poets:
    “Fooling God” by Louise Erdich
    “The First Water is the Body” (Extract) by Natalie Diaz
    “Map” by Linda Hogan
    And you can also purchase this collection of Native poetry, edited by Joy Harjo.

    <3 Tara

    *from The Woman Who Fell From the Sky by Joy Harjo, published by W. W. Norton and Company Inc. in 1994.

  • when it is August, / you can have it August and abundantly so

    Hi friends,

    This week’s poem is “You Can’t Have It All” by Barbara Ras*. It’s copied below.

    But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
    gloved with green. You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
    on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.
    You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
    of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
    every sorrow until it fled, and when it is August,
    you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,
    though often it will be mysterious, like the white foam
    that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys
    until you realize foam's twin is blood.
    You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,
    so solid, so doll-like. You can have the life of the mind,
    glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
    never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you
    all roads narrow at the border.
    You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
    and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave
    where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,
    but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
    as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful
    for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
    for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
    sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
    for passion fruit, for saliva. You can have the dream,
    the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.
    You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
    at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
    of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.
    You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
    but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
    how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
    until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
    and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
    as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,
    you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
    of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
    your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.
    There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,
    it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
    but there is this.

    Have a great Sunday!

    <3 Tara

  • A gentle introduction + thoughts on poetry

    Hi friends!

    This is the introduction to The Devotions Podcast. It’s an entirely new format to me so I’m sure it will change a bit as time goes on, but I hope you like it. It’s poetry-centred and episodes will come out every other week.

    Referenced in this episode is Audre Lorde’s “Poetry is Not A Luxury”.

    Have a great Sunday!

    <3 Tara