Read a poem, talk about it, read it again.
Connor and Jack explore the poem "In Youngsville" by Tyree Daye. They discuss the way the poem creates a sense of place, its connections to the blues form, and even dive deep into how it plays with using stressed and unstressed syllables.
You can buy Daye's latest book, Cardinal, here.
You can find the poem, here.
In Youngsville By: Tyree Daye I learned what a bullet does to a back, to a mother. After every funeral it rains, I was told that’s God crying in Youngsville. My uncle walked our holed streets until he died sun soaked, broken in, left me young boy and bitter in Youngsville. Hallelujahs knocked on screen doors, let the lord in. We stood on porches and watched the saved stitch wings in Youngsville. Black berries hung in my aunt's back yard where we cut the asshole off a trout, guts laid on a cutting board in Youngsville. We were told a storm was a sermon, lightning horse whips the sky, milks rain in Youngsville.