Due to growth in the podcast, the transcripts have moved to WordPress. To view older transcripts you can browse here or look our on WordPress sight linked below.

Is it Normal?; Poetry Walks Episode 16

This episode of Poetry Walks is a little atypical as Kayla Henderson reads the poem herself. Join us for a beautiful reading with Anonymous Da Band Accompanying. This poem is best experienced heard via the podcast— linked above or available wherever you listen.

Is it normal for black girls to be sexualized
Conceptualized as radical and promiscuous
for having Shapes for chest and thighs
when the creator gave this Geometry to us

Is it normal for us to be exploited yet degraded
never compensated, erased, and demonized
Described as angry to minimize our feelings
can we not be ?
Why can't we just be passionate like ball players
like the grips that you take out of our thighs
The passionate roll of tears from our eyes when our hearts begin to fumble inside, adjusting to its layers


Is it ,, normal ?
For us to walk with silent steps
To not be cat called ..
Stripped to our damn draws
By x-ray visionaries
As we walk the thin line into wherever we’re going
Arrested by words of misogyny for not going home with you
At 12 ,
my ears sunk into my stomach
As fear climbed my bones
suffocating my movement
suppressing my breath…

Stares and wonders became my usual
N**** with the lottery tickets behind me in line
Couldn’t help but ponder on how his hands
Would grip , fold, and hold this ass in place
As he’d rock himself into an orgasmic space

And another hovered over me as if he were an eagle and I a rabbit .

Why is this our normal?

See we are the universe’s flowers

Empowered plants with heavenly ways
Although most of our flowers were taken before our wedding days
before they could sprout or be harvested
but our smiles still open like nature's curtain drapes
Releasing our hearts from being guarded
We’re the popularly hated plants in the garden
Needing to escape the mesmerized

Our delicacy is never televised
Ratchetness has everyone hypnotized
Drama and Unintelligence is centralized
yet no one ever seems to hear our cries

The eyes of this world can make it difficult to be you
so I would abuse my niceness just to be pursued

Like

Forward

Copy

Report

Giving Myself to Soothe Other People
Just to be misused
Yet still complaining
I must've been insane then

good days were hard to come around
most times defeated, spat on, and mistreated

I’d prayed this skin away more times than
a mother with an unwanted fetus
Because black girls with something to say
To society have nothing to say:

Because we’re just sexual beings
Conceptualized as radical and promiscuous
for having shapes for chest and thighs
Although the creator gave this geometry to us

exploited yet degraded
never compensated, erased, and demonized
Described as angry to minimize our feelings
can we not be
Can we just be passionate like ball players
like the grips that you take out of our thighs
The passionate roll of tears from our eyes when our hearts begin to fumble inside, adjusting to its layers

Can we just Be normal ?

Coming Out (of hibernation); Poetry Walks Episode 15

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. Today’s podcast features Salim Chagui Sanchez’s 

poem entitled low. Salim moves from a human rights and community advocate framework. Recently, Salim was reunited with artistic practices such as poetry. 

Low by Salim Chagui-Sanchez

low

hibernation (n.):

“a hibernation is a covert preparation for a more overt action” - Ralph Ellison

in what sometimes feels like

an endless sea of meaningless

floating

I wait,

wander down convoluted and colorless pathways

this is not empty.

this is a slow and intentional near-death,

a deliberate and empty contemplation,

a meditation, really,

a true surrender of mind.

a soft surrender to the my natural, divine rhythms.

the rhythms of flesh and nature,

both of which are one and the same.

my body rising and falling with the same breath

with which birds fly,

land gracefully,

or come tumbling to the ground.

it’s dark in here…

yet I can see more clearly than ever.

there’s a part of me

that knows

you must sit in

and experience

your darkness

in order to rise.

Salim states that, 

This poem was written in the last year, when I began to engage with my art more intentionally. I realized that I wanted artmaking to take up more space in my life and so I challenged myself to write poetry about a number of different topics, one being hibernation. and the essence of the piece is recognizing the need to slow down as part of our process of living and growing. when it comes to hibernation it can seem like total inactivity, when in reality there’s a lot of subtle work happening, work that sustains and regenerates the body and prepares it for the spring. while I was writing, the idea of biomimicry was on my mind, this mirroring of nature. nature is a great teacher. because we are a part of it, we naturally follow its rhythms, but a lot of our modern ways of being teach us to see ourselves as apart from it, even superior to it, and to resist those rhythms. so this poem is a relearning of how to move with the seasons. a rewilding. The other final piece that was woven into this poem is the concept of shadow work. this practice of sitting with our demons, the dark, sticky parts of ourselves that make us uncomfortable, our lower self, our base instincts. which is done so we can know and accept ourselves fully in order to grow and shine our light. I deeply resonated with Salim’s words. Some of which reminded me of lessons from communing with nature. Many find deep peace, myself included, while walking in a forest, hand soaked in soil, outside gardening. I believe this is because by surrendering conscious thought we are able to as Salim writes, experience our own darkness. Through this point of stillness comes clarity, peace, and acceptance.

  I am reminded of words that Audre Lorde wrote in Poetry Is Not A Luxury, she states that a woman’s place of power is neither white nor surface: it is dark, it is ancient, and it is deep. I bring this up because oftentimes we are socialized to minimize, erase, and diminish what is dark, ancient, and deep when really that is our place of power. It is our work to strengthen and uplift all parts of ourselves in fullness. Our grandest and most subtle work happens  trees communication and nutrient networks and buried in rich and dark soil, healing happens under the surface.

low by Salim Chagui-Sanchez a second reading

Arlo reads the poems for a second time.

Thank you Salim for sharing your lessons in letting go, in understanding ourselves in fullness, and for your wise words. To read more of Salim’s work you can read his thesis, Blackish: Afrolatinidad and Dominican Identity in NYC. Sending deep gratitude to my dear friend and community leader, Zien Hodge for connecting me with Salim and Tinotenda, for uplifting each individual in the Hudson Valley, and for nourishing the community from the inside out. 

There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section— that’s spelt a-r-l-o t-o-m-e-c-e-k.com. 

Thank you Radio Kingston for supporting Poetry Walks. Be sure to tune in if you’re in the Kingston area or visit their website. 

 At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Mohican territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. 

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing me  arlotomecek@gmail.com

How I learned to Heal; Episode 14

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. Today’s podcast features an excerpt from Tinotenda Jayne’s Inner Child Ruminations. Tinotenda moved from Zimbabwe at five years old for an open heart surgery and now resides in the Hudson Valley. She has embraced the personal statement “I welcome all with an open heart,” Tinotenda is committed to paying it forward through her creative vision to use the visual and social arts for transformation and radical change through discourse and action centered around sexual health, healing work, and trauma. I feel that this poem embodies Tinotenda’s mission so beautifully. Tinotenda’s Inner Child Ruminations examine weighted memories and pertinent events as a way to promote internal and collective healing. With that, Inner Child Ruminations, an excerpt:

The universe is pressing me 

to pursue change. 

I think of creativity  

raspberry chrysanthemums

and rubies radiating royalty 

lipstick and lace 

lingering tension 

light laughs 

blessing and blooming 

 wisdom 

and enticed expectations.

emotions 

Dancing together 

Senselessly 

Sometimes 

they are just meant to be felt 

to linger 

to entice

To relearn 

the potential held

within the  innocence in a child’s eye 

exit signs 

providing guidance 

urgencies reviving  

surviving with organized chaos 

alert

learning to forgive myself   

for the damage 

I’ve done

And reconciling the sins 

That I have committed against me. 

Something we stray away from discussing and understanding internalized guilt as survivors of painful events. We at times feel obligated for preventing what was out of our control. Or there may be times when we put ourselves in harm’s way out of habit. I appreciate that Tinotenda addressed this layered and complicated feeling through this poem — that which is difficult to comprehend itself let alone put into words— I admire that she is “learning to forgive myself for the damage I’ve done and reconciling the sins that I have committed against me”. This poem is so honest, I feel that it offers permission to relearn, to examine further ourselves in order to heal. Thank you Tinotenda for balancing accountability, shame, acceptance, forgiveness, and compassion so delicately, so beautifully, and so honestly. 

An Excerpt of Inner Child Ruminations a second Reading

Arlo reads the poem a second time. 

Thank you again Tinotenda for sharing your work! You can stay up to date on Tinotenda’s creative projects via instagram. 

And thank you all for listening to Poetry Walks. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section— that’s spelt a-r-l-o t-o-m-e-c-e-k.com. 

Thank you Radio Kingston for supporting Poetry Walks. Be sure to tune in if you’re in the Kingston area or visit their website. 

At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. (https://native-land.ca/ , https://www.whose.land/en/, https://library.chatham.edu/whoseland )

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing me  arlotomecek@gmail.com

How I Found Love; Episode 13

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. Today’s podcast features an excerpt from Mariel Norris’s Thesis A Rumor Has Spread that I am Alive. Mariel is a  writer and middle school teacher.  Mariel would like to add, 

“When not hanging out with middle schoolers, I write poetry, fiction, essays, and category-blurring experiments. I also like to send friends snail mail, go for nature strolls and river runs, try to meditate and draw distorted fish”. These two poems are excerpts from her writings in 2013. They are inspired from writings by Federico Garcia Lorca. Quick housekeeping: I am recovering from Covid and it completely took my voice. My voice may sound different than usual as a result. Additionally, I want to thank my friend, Olivia Tencer for pronunciation support and corrections for the poem Time United. Without Olivia’s kindness, today’s recording would not be possible. 

Stagnant Time Without You

The night will not come to carry us,

And so,

We are stuck

Far apart.

But I will find you no matter what,

Even in dry heat, even 

If a scorpion sun should bite  me along the way.

And you will find me no matter what,

Even in a downpour, even

If salt from clouds’ tears scorches your tongue along the way.

The day, like the night, refuses to come forth.

Without its arrival we’re stuck in blank space.

But I will go no matter what.

I’ll carry a carnation in my mouth, ready 

For you.

I will walk through mud and grime,

And if toads march in my path,

I’ll toss the chewed-up flower in their direction

As long as I get you in the end.

And you will find your way

To me,

climbing

Through murky sewers of darkness.

Neither day nor night will come

To move the hours forward

And make our times unite.

So we must find each other 

In the place that lacks a word for time.

Time United

Tú: ¿Sueñas conmigo?

Me: Do I dream with you? Probably not, since we dream at different times. Nuestras horas ya no estàn unidas.

Tú: No, what I mean is if you dream of me. Am I inside of your dreams?

Me: Pues, sí… claro que sí

Tú: Ah, ¿is? And what about me do you dream?

Me: That I have to talk to you through a hole in the ground—

Tú: ¿Un hueco a través del mundo?

Me: Sí, y que eventualmente subes el hueco en la oscuridad total. Y entonces ya no tenemos que gritar porque estamos màs cerca el uno del otro.
Tú: Qué sueño tan raro. Prefiero hablar contigo cuando estamos en el mismo espacio, como ahora.

Me: Pues, lo que he notado es que… pues, creo que estoy soñando ahora. Esto significa que no estamos en el mismo espacio. Este espacio sólo es mío.

Tú: What is it do you mean of this? Maybe you tell me in English.

Me: This space we’re in.. this unmoving mass of colorless, of hour less, of windowless, groundless, almost spaceless space is just mine. It belongs only to me and not to you. Because it’s part of my dream. You’re not real. And I must be very tired because my imagination won’t even paint me any sort of landscape, let alone show me your features clearly.

Tú: But I’m not in a hole like that dream you told me about. I am on land with you. Maybe you do not see this land but I am able to. Therefore, it is certain I am real. I will show my features clear before you. Look. Mírame. 

Me: You mirror me, reflect my sleeping mind. You are my thoughts, and real you is far away, living beneath other hours on the other side of the world. The dream was a whole other dream. When I told it to you I thought I was awake but now I know better. I’m talking about my dream in my dream, burins myself farther and farther from reality.

Tú: Vale. Ahora voy a mi hueco de tú sueño. Sigue enterránandote hasta que me encuentres.

What was compelling to me about these two poems is not only how they speak to one another, but how it feels to learn how to love and to begin learning another language. These poems feel as if they are coming right out of the romanticism movement — I imagine the character proclaiming her love at the edge of a cliff towards the sea. The poem, Time United,  seems to bring a subconscious love to the surface. When understanding ourselves, sometimes we can bury ourselves, our passions, and desires in a hole in the earth only to find that  hole consume us. Time United reminds us to face ourselves and what we love in fullness. 

Stagnant Time Without You and Time United a Second Reading

*Arlo reads the poems for a second time*

Thank you Mariel for sharing your enchanting words. I look forward to reading your book which is in the works to be launched Fall 2023. You can stay in touch with Mariel via her website marielnorris.com. That’s spelt m-a-r-i-e-l-n-o-r-r-i-s.com

And thank you all for listening to Poetry Walks. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section— that’s spelt a-r-l-o t-o-m-e-c-e-k.com. 

Thank you Radio Kingston for supporting Poetry Walks. Be sure to tune in if you’re in the Kingston area or visit their website. At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. 

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing me  arlotomecek@gmail.com

Support Ukraine; Episode 12

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. If you’re a frequent listener of Poetry Walks— you’ll know that many poems feature local Hudson Valley poets, but today we will be reading a poem to honor Ukrainians and those affected by the unprovoked invasion in Ukraine. As we learned last week, poetry allows us to better process that which feels nameless and without words. By doing so, we can act intentionally in support to rather than fall into reactive patterns. Today’s poem is by Ilya Kaminsky. Kaminsky is a Ukrainian-Russian-American poet and professor. He is best known for his poetry collections Dancing in Odessa and Deaf Republic. Ilya Kaminsky was born in Odessa and now currently resides in Atlanta, Georgia.

Arlo reads the poem for a first time.

A copy of the poem can be found here.

This poem both serves as an appeal for forgiveness and a cautionary tale for what has already occurred and what is yet to come. This poem exhibits how fragile peace is and encourages us, as individuals to question our own complacency. 

At the time of recording this podcast, there have been protests in support of Ukrainians around the world. An estimate of over 100,000 anti-war protestors in Germany, over 70,000 in Prague, over 15,000 in Amsterdam, an approximately 4,300 in Russia. In this moment when we feel potentially powerless, we come together to better understand this crisis through poetry, but our action can not end here. For more information about ways to assist Ukraine you can visit the links in the description. To continue to stay up to date about the human rights crisis in Ukraine you can do so by visiting this link. To support Ukraine and areas affected by the current humanitarian crisis in surrounding regions you can do so by clicking here.

Arlo reads the poem for a second time.

Thank you for listening to Poetry Walks. If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing me  arlotomecek@gmail.com. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section— that’s spelt a-r-l-o-t-o-m-e-c-e-k-.-c-o-m.  At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description of this podcast. (https://native-land.ca/ , https://www.whose.land/en/, https://library.chatham.edu/whoseland )

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.

This Essay Changed Me; Episode 11

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for a few minutes while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. Today’s podcast features an essay by Audre Lorde entitled, “Poetry Is Not A Luxury”. While this is not a poem, it is by far one of the most influential works I have ever read and is integral to the canon. If you’re not familiar with Audre Lorde or her works, I invite you to study her fiercely. If you know and love her, I encourage you to support the Audre Lorde Project. 

So without further ado, Poetry Is Not a Luxury

Arlo reads Poetry Is Not A Luxury which you can read here.

A reminder that I do not own or claim the rights to this essay. All words were written by Audre Lorde and later edited by Roxane Gay in The Selected Works of Audre Lorde. 

Today’s podcast was recorded in Audre Lorde’s birthday which was just a few days ago on February 19th. She would’ve been 88. To read her work, I have a free pdf linked in the description to this essay. To support her mission you can support the Audre Lorde Project which I will also link in the description. I will not be reading this a second time as it is quite lengthy, but I recommend that you give it a second read through. Talk about it with a friend or a neighbor or maybe yourself in the mirror.  There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section. At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. 

Wishing you peace and connection in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  

If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing arlotomecek@gmail.com

Before You Grow Fruit; Episode 10

* Musical accompaniment created by Arlo Tomecek plays in the background. They are playful electronic pads in a minor key *

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or sometimes within the comfort of our own homes.  Today’s podcast features Eli Rhett also known as Stella Rose Schneeberg. They graduated in two divisions from Bard College in  Eli graduated from Bard College where they double major. One of Stella’s theses was in The Division of Science, Mathematics, and Computing while the other was in the Division of Languages and Literature. I love that they married both sciences and literature which, typically, people think oppose forces, but I find they bring out the best in each other. They truly can do it all! Today we will be reading a few pages from one of their theses, Before You Grow Fruit.

Arlo reads the poem.

If I ascended to meet you on the ceiling

of your bedroom you would show me with cold hands

turn my head down my world below mirrored in yours above

purposeful then was my gaining access to the bed

I need not mind those flowers whose pattern I was so integral to

my own memories reflected in your ceaseless petalled emissions

I waited but you did not speak again

still-water face tucked through a blanket of flowers

almost childlike endless mane of a costume lion

hair that was in life your gothic sunburst but really forever now

true horizon where train tracks meet

Pink roses to the left of me soft waxy petals

grasping with gentle urgency my fingers moving in search of a center

flowers within flowers until sand came pouring out

beige grains of beach emptying what had filled a sandal all over my dress

A faint seagull called as I moved to the next just a common daisy

when my thumb moved across its yellow middle it glowed

at first a night light but in seconds became the sun

so I set down the star nearly perfect hot sphere of plasma

What I appreciate about this series of writing is as a reader, I’m never sure where I may end up, but I’m comforted going there. I feel as if I am free flowing through different portals and memories — wrapped in a quilt of loving letters. As someone who is continuing to navigate feelings of grief loss and the remembrance, Eli’s words feel resonant and tender. Before You Were A Tree is written in remembrance of Stella’s maternal aunt passing away on December 29th 2017 in Fairfield, Iowa. Eli writes, 

This project is an exploration of being present for her death. I put myself into the physical room where she died, and I stare into the petals of the flowers covering her deathbed, each a portal. I ask the questions I have had about her death that I had not before now been able to put into words. I grieve in a way that was before now not accessible to me, by using ecstatic states of consciousness to navigate through her death, cremation, and the planting of her as an apple tree.

The passing of our loved ones can leave us with more questions than answers, Stella’s series of uncoverings allow us as the reader to find deeper meaning in moments that feel indescribable. 

Before You Grow Fruit Excerpt a Second Reading

Arlo reads the poem for a second time.

If I ascended to meet you on the ceiling

of your bedroom you would show me with cold hands

turn my head down my world below mirrored in yours above

purposeful then was my gaining access to the bed

I need not mind those flowers whose pattern I was so integral to

my own memories reflected in your ceaseless petalled emissions

I waited but you did not speak again

still-water face tucked through a blanket of flowers

almost childlike endless mane of a costume lion

hair that was in life your gothic sunburst but really forever now

true horizon where train tracks meet

Pink roses to the left of me soft waxy petals

grasping with gentle urgency my fingers moving in search of a center

flowers within flowers until sand came pouring out

beige grains of beach emptying what had filled a sandal all over my dress

A faint seagull called as I moved to the next just a common daisy

when my thumb moved across its yellow middle it glowed

at first a night light but in seconds became the sun

so I set down the star nearly perfect hot sphere of plasma

Thank you Stella for allowing me to read your wonderful and vulnerable words. I look forward to reading more of your work. And thank you all for listening to Poetry Walks. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section. At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. 

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  

If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing arlotomecek@gmail.com

Penske; Episode 9

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 10 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or within the comfort of our own homes. I invite you to listen to this podcast whether you’re immersed in the frosty outdoors or bundled up at home. Today’s podcast is featuring Jerakah Greene. Jerakah graduated from Columbia College Chicago with a degree in Creative Writing and a double minor in Literature and Gender Studies. Their work has been featured in Pen America, Impossible Archetype, and now Poetry Walks. The poem I will be reading by Jerakah is entitled, “Penske”, but originally titled Uhaul. 

Uhaul Penske by Jerakah Greene

orange and white streaking down the turnpike

And my truck driving girlfriend behind the wheel. 

her hair half up, thumbs drumming on the dash,

a big wide windshield spread out in front of her

and a big wide world spread beyond that.

she’s got new order on the radio— 

that’s what she’s drumming her thumbs to— 

And dried wildflowers dangling from the rear-view

mirror.

ninety miles behind her and six hundred to go

and i’m still asleep,

curled up in a pothole at the end of the road.

maybe she’ll go too far and run me right over.

in a few minutes i’ll wake up and crawl out of the 

pothole and get ready for class.

tonight i’ll have that dream again,

the one where she’s making the drive 

in a uhaul Penske she rented from the airport

Jerakah features this poem with a photo of their girlfriend and their self in front of a Penske truck. Jerakah states that they consider themselves more of a prose/fiction writer.. so poems come super freely. They don’t worry about perfection, but rather allow the poems to be themselves.  What I appreciate about this poem is that it is on the precipice of adventure. We all — or most of us— have made a move at some point and the tradition of packing up the Penske truck.. in great anticipation of what new memories lie ahead while also releasing past memories of before is a beautiful tradition. There’s also a monotony to it with the lines of Jerakah writing about sleeping in the passenger seat and also in the pothole. The way that it suspends disbelief and interweaves imagination and reality. This poem and podcast are on the verge of sounding like we are a Penske advertisement. But I am here to set the record straight! That we just happen to love poetry and Penske just happens to be featured in the podcast today. So with that in mind let’s get into a second reading.

Uhaul Penske by Jerakah Greene

orange and white streaking down the turnpike

And my truck driving girlfriend behind the wheel. 

her hair half up, thumbs drumming on the dash,

a big wide windshield spread out in front of her

and a big wide world spread beyond that.

she’s got new order on the radio— 

that’s what she’s drumming her thumbs to— 

And dried wildflowers dangling from the rear-view

mirror.

ninety miles behind her and six hundred to go

and i’m still asleep,

curled up in a pothole at the end of the road.

maybe she’ll go too far and run me right over.

in a few minutes i’ll wake up and crawl out of the 

pothole and get ready for class.

tonight i’ll have that dream again,

the one where she’s making the drive 

in a uhaul Penske she rented from the airport

Thank you Jerakah for sharing your wonderful words. I look forward to reading more of your prose and fiction writing as well as your free poems. And thank you all for listening to Poetry Walks. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section. At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. 

Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  

If you would like to submit your poems to Poetry Walks you can do so by emailing arlotomecek@gmail.com

Heartland; Episode 8

*Tonal pads with a small amount of noise play in the background*

Arlo:

Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for 15 minutes or less while on afternoon walks or in case of the dead of winter we ground down within the comfort of our own homes. I find this poem particularly fitting as the author wrote it in the comfort of her own bedroom. Before I read this poem, I would like to state that I will be adding a couple of pauses. I urge you to read the transcript to get the fullness of this poem. I have to add a few pauses my apologies as I need to breathe occasionally. 

Heartland by Isabel Rudner

Jutting out from my building and

next to my window

is the part of my room I can’t have

Speckled ridged and valleyed beige-gray terrain

like the white popcorn on my ceiling

No, more ragged and austere

the outside and the delicate in.

Watch the white curtain dancer linger in self-same air—

hopelessly in indigenous

and also the gushy cardiovascular

system blood smush gut loop and

tissue long enough to lap my white walls and concave life.

My insides are very warm and sloppy

arteries woven into fine biologic tapestry

beautiful unwitnessed laid down

along slick tissue chambers

where the soft writing on the flesh wall reads

itself infinitely and has

not yet acquired language.

If topography became soil before

our giant eyes we would see the

dippingskatingbuildingdisintegrating

and digesting of the different, affluent materials.

My heart is made out of the same

gum as my rest.

Cardio-logic watches cartographic with its big eyes.

Arlo: I love this poem! I love the way that it combines both imagery and also biology. The way that it questions our flesh sack systems. Isabel writes in her words

“I wrote this poem on a sunny, windy afternoon in my bedroom. I think I was feeling a little hopeless about

reaching new landscapes when my childhood bedroom has become a magnetic constant in my life. It’s the

only thing that’s fully mine, and is very deeply, but this makes it recursive. I’m thinking a lot about how to get

outside myself, or get myself outside”

Arlo: I feel that’s deeply relatable.. especially in the winter months, it can be an ordeal of getting ourselves outside, connecting with nature, connecting with others, and connecting more deeply with ourselves. 

Heartland a second reading

Jutting out from my building and

next to my window

is the part of my room I can’t have

Speckled ridged and valleyed beige-gray terrain

like the white popcorn on my ceiling

No, more ragged and austere

the outside and the delicate in.

Watch the white curtain dancer linger in self-same air—

hopelessly in indigenous

and also the gushy cardiovascular

system blood smush gut loop and

tissue long enough to lap my white walls and concave life.

My insides are very warm and sloppy

arteries woven into fine biologic tapestry

beautiful unwitnessed laid down

along slick tissue chambers

where the soft writing on the flesh wall reads

itself infinitely and has

not yet acquired language.

If topography became soil before

our giant eyes we would see the

dippingskatingbuildingdisintegrating

and digesting of the different, affluent materials.

My heart is made out of the same

gum as my rest.

Cardio-logic watches cartographic with its big eyes.

  Arlo: Thank you Isabel for sharing your thoughtful words! It is such a gift to be able to read and discuss your thoughts from paper to sound waves. I am looking forward to reading your thesis, “She believes she is herself which isn’t complete madness” Becoming the Female Subject Through Womanhood as Relation after recording this podcast. And thank you for listening to Poetry Walks. There will be a full transcript of today’s episode on my website: arlotomecek.com under the sound section. At the time of recording this, I am on forcibly ceded Mohican territory. For more information about the histories untold underneath our feet, you can visit the links in the description. Wishing you connection and peace in the coming days. I will see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks.  

Season’s Greetings; Episode 7

Learning Lessons in Mourning: Episode 5

Arlo: Hello, it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. A podcast where we ground down for a few minutes while listening to poems on afternoon walks. At the time of recording this I’m on forcibly ceded Mohican territory and you may hear the sounds of the Amtrak train station nearby or tractors that mowing down grass or squirrels. If you would like to get in touch with the histories beneath your feet, you can visit the links in my description, but without further ado we’ll get into the poems for today.

Elegy by Frank Blau

Elegy 

For Hobbes

“Leave at your own chosen speed” - Bob Dylan

When the signs are removed from their posts and the neighbors stand down from their watch, we will always call for you in the evening light.

We will not stop examining every orange stump that at distance seems to be your sleeping fur leading us further into the underbrush.

And while we now fill just two bowls in the corner there will always be a third ready to beacon with the familiar sound of an opening can.

For among the many things you taught us, the best and lasting things were to be watchful. 

Especially of the careless ones we love and never be afraid to go deeper into the woods and listen to you calling.

Arlo begins commentary on the poem, Elegy.

Arlo: This poem was dedicated to Frank’s cat, Hobbes, who was lost and Frank was in mourning.

What I love about this poem is how tactile it is and how it highlights the lessons that animals teach us: whether it’s to be more compassionate to others, more playful, more curious about life, or whether it is to listen to our own intuition *Arlo pauses briefly*, in Frank’s words, his cat’s “calling”. 

Elegy by Frank Blau

Elegy 

For Hobbes

“Leave at your own chosen speed” - Bob Dylan

When the signs are removed from their posts and the neighbors stand down from their watch, we will always call for you in the evening light.

We will not stop examining every orange stump that at distance seems to be your sleeping fur leading us further into the underbrush.

And while we now fill just two bowls in the corner there will always be a third ready to beacon with the familiar sound of an opening can.

For among the many things you taught us, the best and lasting things were to be watchful. 

Especially of the careless ones we love and never be afraid to go deeper into the woods and listen to you calling.

Thank you Terry for connecting Frank and I and thank you Frank for submitting over 150 pages of your work dating back to when you were as young as 14. It’s a life collection and it was really enjoyable to see you grow and change as an artist based on your experiences. Thank you to the listeners for tuning into with me today of this episode of Poetry Walks. I hope that you found connection whether it’s through the sounds surrounding me or through a memory of a loved one that you had (in your life) only for a moment, in passing.

I hope that you find a moment to take a deep belly breath and find groundedness wherever you are and without further ado I’ll see you next week for another episode of Poetry Walks. You can find us wherever you listen at Poetry Walks. For a transcript of today’s episode, you can visit my personal website: arlotomecek.com. There is a bird calling, so it’s telling me it’s time to go. I’ll talk to you soon. 

Which I Find Unintelligible; Episode 4 Transcript

Arlo: Hello! My name is Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walk. A podcast where we ground down through poems while on afternoon walks. Currently while reading this poem by Amelia Van Donsel. I am sitting at Montgomery Place which is on forcibly ceded Mohican Territory. This estate was occupied by forced workers or enslaved peoples who largely remain nameless in erased histories. We’re continuing to gather more information on who worked tirelessly on this land in order for it to survive and become this beautiful space. 

For more information about Montgomery Place Orchards and who currently works here, you can visit the description of this podcast. Without further ado, we’ll get into the poem called, Unintelligible, by Amelia Van Donsel (she/her). This poem questions womanhood and poetry and existence.

Arlo reads Amelia Van Donsel’s poem, Unintelligible.

1. 

A friend tells me this 

and that while she pinches a bluish stream from her nipple (she is breastfeeding, which I find unintelligible) for the baby. Others have told me that a baby is a good thing, but I think a baby is a circle, aware of its intactness.Are you 

warm enough? she asks without looking up. 

Yes, I say, but realize that she means, of course, the baby as she 

watches him nurse, 

almost like a calf 

drinking from a big, docile camel. 

The gaze draws between them 

as they flood themselves 

with each other, and 

she, my friend, is a mirror. 

2. 

From the window, I watch a man leave with no umbrella, so his shirt goes filmy in the rain. But then his time is not mine. His apartment overlooks hurried things before the body can take them in. 

You ask me blankly, while washing the greens, what did you do when you lived 

in the country? When I told you that 

I wrote poems, you said 

you strike me as a doctor-type. 

No, never a doctor

giving orders and injections or lifting up a child to set her 

upon the crinkly paper. 

You were like me, yodeling 

in the ash of thought and getting nowhere. I’d like to know what kind of woman I must be so as to be a poet. 

3. 

Once, when you ran back for diapers, I held him budlike above the stroller, trying to understand his smallness. My terrified fish lover, you called him (this was May of ‘98), and I remember his eyes following your distance, 

his soft forehead turning until 

I lost who he was. He is the stem of us reaching out weepily in the street–– he wants you, only you, 

his cries through a ruined tunnel wander back to me. 

4. 

I love the phlebotomist–– 

she speaks dark, like a robe. 

As she finds a vein, 

I look away and think 

of fields in a long gaze 

moving like one face. 

My son shares her lyric hunger 

in the mornings when 

his teething studs 

my fingers with dents. Traitor, 

his eyes almost say. But then

she’s taken all the blood she needs for her thin flute.

In Amelia’s word’s she says, I wrote this in response to questions that were changing around my sense of womanhood. Many of the poems I was given growing up that were written by women celebrated or even equated womanhood with motherhood. Lately, I've been trying to reconcile my ambivalence surrounding having children.

This poem is so successful about vocalizing unspeakable truths. As an AFAB person, there are times when my value is reduced to producing life, carrying life, giving life. And I think that, many cis women or people who can carry babies, feel the same way at some point in their life. Amelia’s writing of, the simple question, “Are you warm enough” symbolizes the normalization of women and mothers being selfless reducing their own wellbeing.

Arlo reads the poem for a second time.

1. 

A friend tells me this 

and that while she pinches a bluish stream from her nipple (she is breastfeeding, which I find unintelligible) for the baby. Others have told me that a baby is a good thing, but I think a baby is a circle, aware of its intactness.Are you 

warm enough? she asks without looking up. 

Yes, I say, but realize that she means, of course, the baby as she 

watches him nurse, 

almost like a calf 

drinking from a big, docile camel. 

The gaze draws between them 

as they flood themselves 

with each other, and 

she, my friend, is a mirror. 

2. 

From the window, I watch a man leave with no umbrella, so his shirt goes filmy in the rain. But then his time is not mine. His apartment overlooks hurried things before the body can take them in. 

You ask me blankly, while washing the greens, what did you do when you lived 

in the country? When I told you that 

I wrote poems, you said 

you strike me as a doctor-type. 

No, never a doctor

giving orders and injections or lifting up a child to set her 

upon the crinkly paper. 

You were like me, yodeling 

in the ash of thought and getting nowhere. I’d like to know what kind of woman I must be so as to be a poet. 

3. 

Once, when you ran back for diapers, I held him budlike above the stroller, trying to understand his smallness. My terrified fish lover, you called him (this was May of ‘98), and I remember his eyes following your distance, 

his soft forehead turning until 

I lost who he was. He is the stem of us reaching out weepily in the street–– he wants you, only you, 

his cries through a ruined tunnel wander back to me. 

4. 

I love the phlebotomist–– 

she speaks dark, like a robe. 

As she finds a vein, 

I look away and think 

of fields in a long gaze 

moving like one face. 

My son shares her lyric hunger 

in the mornings when 

his teething studs 

my fingers with dents. Traitor, 

his eyes almost say. But then

she’s taken all the blood she needs for her thin flute.

I’d like to offer deep gratitude for Amelia’s work. Thank you for submitting this poem; it’s beautiful and raw and vulnerable. I think that’s something many people struggle with in understanding their identity. In what it means to be a “woman”, “man”, “person” in our culture. Thank you for listening to this episode of Poetry Walks. For a full transcript of this podcast you can go to my website: arlotomecek.com. That’s spelt a-r-l-o-t-o-m-e-c-e-k.com. I hope you find peace and groundedness wherever you are. I’ll see you back here next Wednesday wherever you’re listening.

How I Found Hope; Episode 3 Transcript

Arlo: Hello it’s Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks a podcast where we ground down through beautiful poetry while on walks in Upstate New York. Currently at the time of recording this I’m standing on forcibly ceded Munsee Lenape land. To learn more about who’s land you are on you can visit the links that are in the description of this podcast as well as the land acknowledgment section on the Poetry Walks section of my website.

Arlo reads Allison Thompkins’ poem, “A Summer Symphony”

It’s a symphony here

With a whisper of breeze

In tune with the crickets

Way up in the trees.

The whiz of a line

In the watery bay

The flick of a fish

The first catch of the day.

Canoe paddles slapping

The strokes of an oar

The canoe club laughing

As they head out from shore.

A family whose music

Floats up from the cove

So the chatter of walkers

Meets the melody on the road.

What then was a whisper

Is now a strong shout

The leaves start to rustle

As the wind blows about.

The crackle of branches 

That land on the path

The reminders that all seasons

Even summer must pass.

And life keeps on buzzing 

As the crescendo wanes

The rhythm is changing

But the symphony remains.

This poem was written by Allison Thompkins. It came into being near a lakeside park in early September of this month, so not long ago. At that time, in the author’s words, the world felt, “hopeless” and Thompkins arrived in search of relief. Listening to the sounds of the ground, the earth, and the sky: she realized how many sounds surrounded her. These melodies hummed with the resilience of nature and for one moment the author could simply sit and enjoy the stillness.

Arlo reads the poem for a second time. This time with more excitement.

It’s a symphony here

With a whisper of breeze

In tune with the crickets

Way up in the trees.

The whiz of a line

In the watery bay

The flick of a fish

The first catch of the day.

Canoe paddles slapping

The strokes of an oar

The canoe club laughing

As they head out from shore.

A family whose music

Floats up from the cove

So the chatter of walkers

Meets the melody on the road.

What then was a whisper

Is now a strong shout

The leaves start to rustle

As the wind blows about.

The crackle of branches 

That land on the path

The reminders that all seasons

Even summer must pass.

And life keeps on buzzing 

As the crescendo wanes

The rhythm is changing

But the symphony remains.

Thank you so much to Allison Thompkins for contributing your words to this podcast. For more Poetry Walks you can subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you listen. To find a transcript you can visit my website: arlotomecek.com. That’s spelt: a-r-l-o-t-o-m-e-c-e-k.com. I hope this poem offered a semblance of peace and gave you an awareness of your surroundings. A reminder that there’s music wherever you are if you’re willing to listen.

Leap without Looking; Episode 2 Transcript

Arlo: Hello and good afternoon! My name is Arlo and you’re listening to Poetry Walks. Apparently, I chose the wrong location and space to record this podcast today as I’m at a marina. There are kayakers today, there are lots of people on boats. So, if you hear any sounds around you that aren’t conducive I apologize, but we’re making the most of the space and that’s part of Poetry Walks is connecting with the land you’re around..tapping into your surroundings and appreciating that to contextualize the poem itself.

Arlo reads their poem Leap without Looking

There’s no breaking water. No synthesis nor go between.

We hold one day, one page, one knowing.

A curling, cracking, breaking.

Folded between the corners of your mouth: you reached for yesterday, but came up empty handed.

You drifted with the curves of the Taconic.

Saying, “Tell me, tell me again. How it feels to run without limits”

Waiting for tomorrow but showing up empty handed.

Your arms reached out like dogwood limbs, “Tell me, tell me the taste of your mouth”

Now that we’re wiser. Now that we’ve leapt without looking. Do you wish we were younger?

Arlo: So I wrote this piece just after graduating from college. I was actually in the back seat on the way from my graduation ceremony. It was surprisingly frigid that day. I remember feeling a sense of gravity with each choice I made. Every decision felt very intense and contradictory. Like as if taking one step on one path would close the door to another very immediately. I was trying to find perspective at that time. car honks, Arlo repeats their sentence. I was trying to find perspective at that time as I wrote, “You reached for yesterday, but came up empty handed. You drifted with the curves of the Taconic. Saying, Tell me, tell me again How it feels to run without limits. Waiting for tomorrow but showing up empty handed..Tell me, tell me again How it feels to run without limits. Now that we’re wiser. Now that we’ve leapt without looking”

Arlo reads their poem for a second time. This time with more gusto.

There’s no breaking water. No synthesis nor go between.

We hold one day, one page, one knowing.

A curling, cracking, breaking.

Folded between the corners of your mouth: you reached for yesterday, but came up empty handed.

You drifted with the curves of the Taconic.

Saying, “Tell me, tell me again. How it feels to run without limits”

Waiting for tomorrow but showing up empty handed.

Your arms reached out like dogwood limbs, “Tell me, tell me the taste of your mouth”

Now that we’re wiser. Now that we’ve leapt without looking. Do you wish we were younger?

Thank you for listening to this episode of Poetry Walks. Come back next Wednesday to hear a poem and the serene surroundings of Upstate New York. You can subscribe to Poetry Walks here and review it if you’d like. Share it with a friend. For more information on what I’m up to you can go to my website: a-r-l-o-t-o-m-e-c-e-k-.-c-o-m : arlotomecek.com and I hope to connect with you next week!

How I Found Comfort in the Uncertain; Episode 1 Transcript

Arlo Tomecek:

Hello! My name is Arlo and this is Poetry Walks; a podcast where we discuss your favorite poems, or poems from smaller contributors while on afternoon walks. Take this moment to ground down and find center while listening to stories from contributors near and far. I hope Poetry Walks offers you a sense of peace wherever you listen.

Arlo reads their poem, Conversations with the Quietest of Streams

I’ve never been so drawn to the edge of nowhere 

Until nowhere became familiar, comfortable 

Direction was eaten by overgrown forest 

The backing held a glorious fragrance without name

With no one to call,  my mind grew frazzled. Captivated by the mystery.  

Stepping into the unknown— a cliché I find myself falling for endlessly. 

I paraphrase your thoughts and hold them against my chest

A bridge to tell all your secrets 

The quietest pacing still propels me to you. 

A run in with a mass burial site or railroad 

Too confused to tell the difference you lay flat, 

At a certain time in America you can’t have one without the other

My lips a corkscrew forcing a new opening, but my voice remains cracked and dry. 

We still have time to change the narrative 

Arlo: While writing poem, I was with someone whom I love dearly. And we were at an outdoor sculpture museum. It was one of those moments where everything felt so significant. The sky was covered with heavy clouds and the promise of rain. It was quite buggy and with each interaction — with the sculptures and with our conversation— I felt drawn to the page. It was one of those moments where I couldn’t type or write fast enough. At this point in my life it seems that the only constant that there is none as I wrote, “I’ve never been so drawn to the edge of nowhere…Until nowhere became familiar, comfortable” and “Stepping into the unknown— a cliché I find myself falling for endlessly”. This time in my life, with graduating from college in the midst of a pandemic, I have a gravitational pull towards change and uncertainty. And, I’m starting to become more at peace and more comfortable with that prospect.

Arlo reads the poem for a second time. This time more assured and calmer.

I’ve never been so drawn to the edge of nowhere 

Until nowhere became familiar, comfortable 

Direction was eaten by overgrown forest 

The backing held a glorious fragrance without name

With no one to call,  my mind grew frazzled. Captivated by the mystery.  

Stepping into the unknown— a cliché I find myself falling for endlessly. 

I paraphrase your thoughts and hold them against my chest

A bridge to tell all your secrets 

The quietest pacing still propels me to you. 

A run in with a mass burial site or railroad 

Too confused to tell the difference you lay flat, 

At a certain time in America you can’t have one without the other

My lips a corkscrew forcing a new opening, but my voice remains cracked and dry. 

We still have time to change the narrative 

Thank you for listening to the first episode of Poetry Walks. You can continue walking with us and joining our chats by subscribing to this podcast and leaving it a review. To hear more about my upcoming projects you can join my newsletter at arlotomecek.com . I’d love to hear any of your feedback. Hope you have a beautiful day wherever you’re listening.

Land Acknowledgement

This podcast was recorded on forcibly ceded Mohican land. You can learn more about land acknowledgement through the links below: https://native-land.ca/ https://www.whose.land/en/ https://library.chatham.edu/whoseland Land acknowledgement is a way of showing historical accuracy, transparency, and honoring First Nations of this land. While land acknowledgement is not enough on its own, we invite you do the research and understand the multiplicity of histories under your feet.