Today’s episode is guest hosted by Maggie Smith.

Transcript

I’m Maggie Smith and this is The Slowdown.

Almost ten years ago, over the course of several weeks, I visited the second-grade classrooms at our local elementary school. I had been invited to talk to the students about poetry. The teachers gave me the language arts textbook they were using, in preparation for my visit. I noticed that in the poetry unit, the textbook authors wrote that poets have a special ability to see the world in a poetic way. They called this having “poet’s eyes.” They even suggested that teachers decorate an oversized pair of silly plastic glasses, so they could put on their “poet’s eyes” during lessons.

On my first day with each class, I sat down at the front of the room in a small chair, and the children all gathered in front of me on the rug. One of the first things I told the students was this: We all have poet’s eyes. We’re all born with them. We all have the ability to see the world around us with wonder.

Children naturally have “beginner’s mind.” The world is new to them, so poetry comes naturally. Watching my own children encounter the world for the first time has been eye-opening and inspiring. It’s as if they are reading the world like a book they’ve opened for the first time. And it’s fascinating to see them seeing it. They’re surprised by what they find because they don’t have so many expectations yet. With very young children, there’s no irony, no cynicism, no detachment, no coolness—just experience and feeling. I find that so refreshing.

Sure enough, those seven- and eight-year-old students came up with metaphors and images that astonished me! Working with them reinforced something I’ve believed for a long time—that writing poems and living require many of the same things. They both require attentiveness, empathy, and a sense of wonder. And isn’t wonder a cousin of gratitude? To marvel at something is to deeply appreciate it.

Today’s poem captures a scene between a parent and child that feels both familiar and miraculous. I love that poems are a place where the everyday and the transcendent can live side by side. Because they live side by side in life, too. There’s wonder everywhere, even in the tiniest, most banal moments. We just have to open our eyes to see it—or, as this poem suggests, open our mouths to taste it.

A Drink in the Night
by Deborah Garrison

My eyes opened
at once for you were standing
by my side, you’d padded
in to ask for a drink in the night.
The cup was—where?
Fallen down, behind?
Churning in the dishwater, downstairs?
Too tired to care, I cupped 
my hand and tipped it 
to you. You stared, gulped,
some cold down your chin.
Whispered, “Again!”

O wonder. You’d no idea
I could make a cup.
You’ve no idea what
I can do for you, or hope to.
You watched, curious and cool, 
as I cupped some up
to my own lips, too, 
then asked, 
“Why does it taste better?”

“A Drink in the Night” by Deborah Garrison from THE SECOND CHILD © 2008 Deborah Garrison. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.