RENEE MONTAGNE, Host:
We're going to hear from a poet now: Dean Young. His poetry is frank, and often has a twisted humor. And many of his poems dwell on impermanence.
DEAN YOUNG: (Reading) Because I will die soon, I fall asleep during the lecture on the ongoing emergency. Because they will die soon, the young couple has another baby. She's not yet out, but it's late enough to see her struggle, like a dancer in a big bubble. Because the puppy will die soon, he learns not to pee on the carpet.
MONTAGNE: Thank you very much for joining us.
YOUNG: Thank you very much for having me.
MONTAGNE: I gather that you're known for writing every day, but using an old typewriter.
YOUNG: Right. First, I write by hand, and then I work on a 1955 Remington Quiet Writer.
MONTAGNE: Are you writing, still, every day?
YOUNG: I'm getting back to it - not with the sort of concentration and gusto that I look forward to in the future. But I am blackening some pages.
MONTAGNE: Before you received a transplant, a poem came out in "The New Yorker" called "The Rhythms Pronounce Themselves Then Vanish." Would you read that for us?
YOUNG: And that poem goes on - not endlessly, I hope.
MONTAGNE: When did you write that poem?
YOUNG: Well, it came from the actual beginning, where I'd been having a lot of abdominal pain so that I could hardly walk a block. And I got sent to a gastroenterologist, and he did a bunch of tests. And then the tests came back to me, and it was all heart-related. So then it seemed like, yes, this thing that was hanging over me for quite some time was really, you know, asserting itself. And my heart was, indeed, failing and something would have to be done, or the outlook wasn't good.
MONTAGNE: There's a letter that circulated amongst your friends and colleagues. It was about your illness. And there was one particular detail, that your heart was pumping only at about the 8 percent level.
YOUNG: Yeah, that was at its lowest. It was pretty, pretty dreary. Now, whenever anybody sees me, they comment about how pink I look.
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
MONTAGNE: Yeah, nice flood to the cheeks.
YOUNG: Yeah. Yeah. And who knows what the effect of having all this blood in my brain, if it will change my poetry. I hope it makes it better.
MONTAGNE: You know, it's often said of you - and this could be said of many poets - but I wonder how you take this one: That hearts comes up a lot in your poems.
YOUNG: Yeah. And, you know, a lot of times, it's not just a metaphor. It's - for me, it's an actual concern, because I've been living with this diagnosis for over 10 years. And my father died when he was 49 of heart problems. So it's been a sort of shadowy concern for me my whole life.
MONTAGNE: Well, there is another poem - speaking of hearts. Can I have you read "Late Valentine"?
YOUNG: (Reading) We weren't exactly children again, too many divorces, too many blood panels. But your leaning into me was a sleeping bird. Sure, there was no way to be careful enough. Even lightning can go wrong, but when the smoke blows off, we can admire the work the fire has done, ironing out the wrinkles in favor of newer ones, ashy furrows like the folds in the brain that signal the switchbacks and reversals of our thought, and just as brief. Your lips were song, your hair everywhere. Oh, unknowable, fidgeting self, how little bother you were then, no more than a tangerine rind. Oh, unknowable other, how I loved your smell.
MONTAGNE: And that is a love poem to your wife.
MONTAGNE: Your bride, really. Right?
YOUNG: Yes, my bride.
YOUNG: Since November, late November. And most of it has been spent in the hospital.
(SOUNDBITE OF LAUGHTER)
MONTAGNE: What does she think of this poem?
YOUNG: Unidentified Woman: (unintelligible)
YOUNG: She says it's very sweet.
MONTAGNE: Huh. Now, poetry, of course, isn't all memoir. Much comes from the imagination. But also much comes from real events. You are in a particular situation this last time, while you've been on this list of people in need of new hearts. How did you manage to observe your life, or somehow we use your life artistically, even as you're staring, really, at your own possible death?
YOUNG: Well, I think that's one of the jobs of poets, is they stare at their own death, and through it, they still see the world - the world of 10,000 things.
I: the line ends, the stanza ends, and the poem itself ends. And I think one of the things that's so pleasurable about reading poetry, rather than hearing it, is that you immediately know where the poem's going to end. You can see it just in glancing at it, and there's something that may be reassuring about that.
MONTAGNE: Hmm. The poems also deal with ideas of randomness and fate. I wonder if you could speak to those ideas, as they relate in particular to receiving a new heart. Do you think about the 22-year-old student whose heart you now have?
YOUNG: So, you know, we'll just see. I'm going to - I'm sure I'm going to think about this person for the rest of my life.
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
MONTAGNE: Dean Young, thank you very much for joining us.
YOUNG: It was a real pleasure.
MONTAGNE: This is MORNING EDITION, from NPR news. I'm Renee Montagne.
MARY LOUISE KELLY, Host:
And I'm Mary Louise Kelly.
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