Gregory Orr Photo Credit: Trisha Orr.
Gregory Orr's poems in this issue
Mary Ellen Redmond's poems in this issue
Mary Ellen Redmond
Gregory Orris the author of ten previous collections of poetry. His chapbook, The City of Poetry will be published by Sarabande Books in the summer of 2012. Among his other volumes are: How Beautiful the Beloved(Copper Canyon Press, 2009), Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved (Copper Canyon, 2005), The Caged Owl: New and Selected Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2002), Orpheus and Eurydice, City of Salt (Finalist, LA Times Poetry Prize), We Must Make a Kingdom of It, The Red House, Gathering the Bones Together, and Burning the Empty Nests. He is also the author of a memoir, The Blessing (Council Oak Books, 2002), which was chosen by Publishers Weekly as one of the fifty best non-fiction books of 2002. His personal essay on his experiences as a volunteer in the Civil Rights Movement, Return to Hayneville, appeared in the VQR and was subsequently reprinted in Best Essays of 2009, Best Creative Non-fiction 2009, and Pushcart Prizes. In addition he is the author of Poetry as Survival (University of Georgia Press, 2002), a consideration of the existential function of the personal lyric. His personal essay was chosen to be broadcast on National Public Radios This I Believe series in the spring of 2006. He has been the recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, and an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He is a Professor of English at the University of Virginia, where he has taught since 1975 and was the founder and first director of its MFA Program in Writing. He lives with his wife the painter Trisha Orr, and his two daughters in Charlottesville, Virginia.
Mary Ellen Redmond is entering her 18th year teaching English on Cape Cod, MA. In June 2011, she earned her MFA in Writing and Literature from the Bennington Writing Seminars. She was a regional finalist for 2011 Cape Cod Cultural Centers poetry contest, as well as a 2010 finalist for the NCTE Poet of the Year Contest. A former member of the Cape Cod Poetry Slam Team, her poems have been published in A Sense of Place, An Anthology of Cape Women Writers; World of Water, World of Sand: A Cape Cod Collection of Poetry, Fiction and Memoir; Capewomenonline; The Larcom, Primetime, and Sahara. Her non-fiction articles have appeared in Cape Cod Travel Guide and Cape Cod Life Magazine.
by Mary Ellen Redmond
Mary Ellen Redmond: In your workshop yesterday, you spoke about the covenant between the word and the world. Can you speak about that in regard to contemporary poetry?
Gregory Orr: The term covenant between the word and the world probably comes from a book by George Steiner called Real Presences. He uses it to stand for a naïve but functional assumption that there is a connection between the words we say and the things in the world. He takes it back to the mythic scene where Adam names the creatures in the Garden of Eden as God parades them before him. If you want to be skeptical of this mythic event, you can point out that this is the place where Adam took dominion over the world. The whole idea of mans dominion over the world, over nature is bad news. But what Steiner would be stressing is the positive aspect: that words connect us to the world, that they cling to the things of this world. Steiner says there was a certain historical moment when this covenant was broken and this magical assumption that there was a connection between words and world, was broken by two French poets. By Mallarmé in one direction and Rimbaud in another. They had different ways of disintegrating the self. Rimbaud disintegrates the self because he wants to become a visionary poet, and Mallarmé wants to transcend the world because he wants the pure essence. Another way to think about it, this covenant being broken, is to go to the French linguist Ferdinand de Saussure, who gave this course in linguistics in the early part of the 20th century and where he said that the connection between signified and signifier is arbitrary, and for some reason people got really excited about this idea: that there was no connection between the word maple and that tree over there. It is an arbitrary connection. That was an incredible oh that blows my mind kind of thing. From that, and this is my take on the subject, its as if there are always two things in every word. One of them is the music of the sound, and the other is some part of the word that wants to go towards something else in the world or something inside us. It doesnt work with abstract nouns, but it certainly works with clover and grass and maple and sparrow. It works with a lot of things. With person and dog.
Whitman has this wonderful poem where he talks about a a noiseless, patient spider. And the spider is there all alone on a promontory and it sends out from itself filament, filament, filament to connect up to things. Its not a web-building spider; its the kind that sends out the single threads. And Whitman says: Thats me. I am all alone like an isolated spider unless I can send out these filaments of language to connect me to things. To bring about that connection which is the basis of all meaning. Well, thats what language does.
If you say, oh language is a game. Words are just music. Syntax is a joke. Communication: who needs it? Lets have fun. Lets play with words. Of course, play is an important part of poetry. But to turn it all into play, to turn it all into sounds and to give up this aspiration to connect meaningfully to the physical world, to the past or to objects and people seems to me solipsistic, narcissistic, [and] nihilistic. Now, you can do all those things and have fun, but ultimately it seems to be the end of meaning. To be nihilistic would be to say there are no meanings.
So, at that point, I got off the contemporary linguistics train, the experimentalist train. [Here is] a sort of psycho-biography of my poetry. As a poet and person, I come from a place where trauma is a primary experience, so when any theory announces that the world doesnt mean anything, Im thinking—I already knew that. I knew that when I killed my younger brother in a hunting accident when I was twelve. I knew that when my mother died overnight when I was fourteen. Thats when I realized that the world doesnt mean anything. That its filled with horror and violence, an arbitrary meaninglessness. So meaninglessness doesnt have any attraction for me. In fact, its the name of the horror. Its the name of isolation. Its the name of everything that made life unbearable for me when I was a young person starting at the time of my brothers death and not changing until I discovered writing poetry in my last year in high school.
At first, writing for me, as it is for many of us, was an outpouring of emotion in language onto the page. I had no ability to shape that language, no clue that the bringing of form and coherence would be gratifying to me, would bring me back toward the world of meaning. But from the outset, I understood that one function of language is to be expressive of what a self feels, sees, thinks, remembers. From the outset, I was excited to feel I could write about what I saw; write about I felt. I couldnt make much sense of the world at that point, but merely turning the world into word was exhilarating to me.
Then, I also think about the way that early on some of the first poems that I wrote in my last year in high school. First I was just amazed that you could create a world out of words. I still think its so thrilling. The world I wanted to create was one very, very far from where I was. In other words: escapist fantasy. Whatever you want to call it. I also had this early experience with my high school teacher/librarian who looked at one and said, Oh thats nice. I thought: Ive communicated with somebody! Im not trapped alone in this horrible place, which is how I had felt ever since my brothers death. So Im just rehearsing my own individual version of a very standard story of where expressive poetry comes from and how it can come to be an incredibly exciting connection first, between yourself and whats confusing inside you; second, between yourself and the world; and third, between yourself and other people. And then you have someone say, Oh thats interesting. Emerson said somewhere that it always comes back to beauty and no one has any idea what it is. But without some dream of it, its hard to think about what to do.
I am not a religious poet, and the term covenant is a religious term. I am a secular humanist. I believe that the only thing that is sacred is the human project to survive against huge odds including the basic nature of what it is to be human, the evil in us, the joy that many of us seem to take in destruction. But I dont believe in any thing in the way of God or soul or afterlife or any of those things. I do believe in the secular religion of poetry. My beliefs in that regard are almost standard late 19th century or Romantic perspectives. Around the 19th Century, a number of people in Western culture noticed it was getting harder to believe in God and a divine Jesus and heaven. Its hard to believe in those things.
Mary Ellen Redmond: So you created the Book.
Gregory Orr: Yeah, thats what I believe in. It just came to me one day, this idea of a Book. And as soon as it came to my head I thought, of course. I know its a secular bible. I know that Blake thought he was making a bible. I know that Whitman considered his Leaves of Grass to be a new American bible. He wanted people to go out and study it like a sacred text. I dont think I am creating a bible. Im not that kind of grandiose visionary like Whitman and Blake whom I adore. Im not interested in making a system that people believe in. But I do love Emerson when he said: Make your own bibles! He says everyone has to make their own bible. Thats the thing I like. So, all Im saying is make your bible out of the Book. And the Book is everything—its this giant, impossibly huge anthology of songs and lyric poems gathered and gathering itself since the beginning of our ability to record and preserve poems. Its a giant anthology containing all this testimony, this dense testimony we call lyric poetry—this testimony thats there for us to choose from: choose the poems we most need, most love—those that help us live. We make our personal versions of the Book—just those we need and love.
I mean we are sitting on this bench, but we can go to early Yeats or we can go to Tang Chinese poetry, Eskimo lyric. We can go all over the world, all over time. There is Aztec lyric poetry, which is oddly enough, really beautiful. Here is this Aztec culture which is sacrificing humans every day in order to make the sun rise, to give the sun potency. And then, there is this whole other segment of Aztec culture that is saying: These military people are crazy with their violence. What is really important is just to be here, to sing songs, to see what is beautiful in the world and be sad about the fact that we die. Thats Aztec lyric poetry: Be here, feel love and companionship, admire whats beautiful in the natural world, and feel pretty bittersweet about when we die knowing that maybe this is the last world we might ever see. Thats cool. I mean Aztec poetry! You can pull an Aztec poem from the Book and put it in your book.
Mary Ellen Redmond: In How Beautiful the Beloved you write: Praising all creation, praising the world: / Thats our job—to keep / The sweet machine of it / Running smoothly as it can.
Gregory Orr: Yeah, and the sweet machinery of it... I think the human project is the sweet machinery of it. Its not just the natural world. Most of our attempts to keep the natural world moving smoothly tend to backfire. The sweet machinery of it would be to say: yeah, we need to be more loving; we need to do less destruction. You know all the clichés. But what else is there? So what if I repeat the obvious. Whats the harm in that? But I have to say it in an interesting way.
Mary Ellen Redmond: I am intrigued by a section of your book Poetry as Survival called Readers and the Personal Threshold. Heres a segment for those unfamiliar with the text: Some readers have a higher threshold for disorder and need more disordering in the poems they read. Others have a lower threshold and need a larger proportion of order to disorder in the poems that give them pleasure or that resonate meaningfully with their own experiences. The essential point is that for a poem to move us it must bring us near our own threshold. We must feel genuinely threatened or destabilized by the poems vision of disordering, even as we are simultaneously reassured and convinced by its orderings(55).
Now Id like you to read Rae Armingtrouts poem Paragraph. As a reader, I couldnt find my way into this poem. Am I understanding you to say that my threshold for disorder in poems is low and therefore the poem will not give me pleasure or resonate meaning in me? So I need to read poems that have a larger proportion of order to disorder? Do I understand you correctly?
Gregory Orr: I think threshold is one way of understanding when poems dont work for you or when they do. I dont think its good to approach poems with an idea about threshold. Does that make any sense? First, you have to read the poem without any lenses or preconceptions. It might be best to say: the few preconceptions I have about this poet are not very useful to me. They are just vague pieces of information and possible prejudices and stuff. I am understanding her to be an experimental poet. Just a word I am using.
Mary Ellen Redmond: What does that mean exactly?
Gregory Orr: Well, it doesnt mean anything exactly. Inexactly, it means for me, what I would also call a post-Language poet. Post-modern. Its where the covenant has been broken. Where the poem is likely to say: sinceritys a saps game. Its for jerks. Sincerity is just a pose, not a possibility. Thats a very post-modern thing. My daughter tells me about that all the time. Youre still back with irony. If youre not going to go with sincerity, I think youre stuck with irony. Sincerity is when you trust your feelings. Trust the possibility that people can speak from a feeling place authentically. Irony is when youre too smart to fall for that delusion. Make any sense? Youve gotten smart. You can see through it. You can see through yourself. You can see through everybody. Pretty soon, the problem becomes again: how do you get out of it, how do you get to the world of feeling again if you are ironic? To me, if you get too ironic youre getting trapped in your head, in your mind. Its the mind blocking the heart. If you cant use the word heart(heart is now for jerks), then youre in trouble. Then, youre going to work from this place up here (gestures toward head), the head that is not connected to feelings. Id rather work from the feelings up toward the head. I dont worry about my head. Im smart enough to know what I know and what I dont know. I am also smart enough to know that thinking and being incredibly smart and ironic has never done diddly-squat for me as a person in the world. I teach in universities and I know irony. I know people who live and die by irony and it seems like not a very good meal to eat every day. Make any sense?
The danger of going with feelings is sentimentality. But one persons sentimentality is another persons deep feeling. Who knows? Whos to judge? Ok, the truth is, each of us is to judge. Back to the question of threshold and stuff. Thinking about threshold: if you read a lot of poems you dont like, what are you doing? Your saying that there is something here...and Im not getting it.
Mary Ellen Redmond: Or I have to work real hard to get it. Suddenly, I am presented with a poem in a workshop and I have to crack the code. I am a patient person, but how much time am I going to put into trying to resolve this puzzle? I dont think that poetry is a puzzle.
Gregory Orr: See, thats it for me, too. The puzzle, the game. Poetry is so much more than that. I think even the really good poets that are working in the experimental mode feel that, too. But the mode of working experimentally is too much work for me. And my question is: how much work to I have to do in order to get a certain amount of pleasure? Does it pan out?
Mary Ellen Redmond: Mystery, I love. Let me in a little bit. I love mystery in a poem.
Gregory Orr: We all do. But its got to be that right...
Mary Ellen Redmond: Balance.
Gregory Orr: Balance for us. One of the reasons we read and read and read...is to find a poet that we love and when we find them we read everything they wrote. But we also try to read widely looking for either other poets we love and also for other poems we love. There can be a poet whose work I dont really care for, and theyve written this one poem. Robert Duncan is a poet who died about twenty years ago. Hes sometimes thought of as a follower of Pound, but also an experimental poet on his own. He was very helpful to the San Francisco poets and Beat poets as a kind of older mentor. He wrote all sorts of poems. I dont get most of his work at all. But Duncan has this one poem: Often I am Permitted to Return to a Meadow. I think its one of the greatest poems ever written in English. That one poem of Duncans and all the rest I dont get. But what Im trying to say is: Who we are is a mystery to us and one of the ways we solve that mystery, rather than breaking the code of obscure poems out there, I would rather gather the poems that I really love. Maybe not even think about them a lot, just gather maybe twenty to thirty poems before I started thinking about them: Look, these are the poems I really love... Then sit down one weekend and look at them. And say: Ok, whats going on here? What are they about? What do I love about them.? What interests me about them? Do any of them have a common theme? That would be so much time well spent.
I was saying yesterday that Keats Ode to a Nightingale is one of my favorite poems. I almost parody it in a poem called Solitary Confinement, about being in jail in 1965, when I was working for the civil rights movement, joked about how my poem could be called Ode to a Night in Jail. But Keats poem is about the agony of being a person, being a body in time. And that agony resonates for me—it has to do with my brothers death and so on. Keats poem is structured around the need to escape this mortal, body-bound world—to rise up in ecstatic release. There are different ways people try to be somewhere else, to experience ecstasy: drugs, alcohol, imagination. That ecstasy of being transported to another place—already with thee! Tender is the night—that happens in poetry. It happens in moments of beauty. When I look at Keats Ode, I dont love it because its a poem about a bird, I love it because it has to do with that longing, that awareness of being a body trapped in time and having that intense longing to be outside... and the beautiful thing about the Keats poem... at a certain point he is out there with the bird and then he is describing his release in an incantatory rapture and he says opening on the foam / Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn./ Forlorn! the very word is like a bell / To toll me back from thee to my sole self! He comes crashing back into the body when he accidentally says the word forlorn. I mean the word forlorn, its like...loneliness turned really bad.
Mary Ellen Redmond: As opposed to solitude
Gregory Orr: Yeah. Yeah. Solitude is when we are alone and feel that something good can come of it. But forlorn...
Mary Ellen Redmond: has desperation in it.
Gregory Orr: So anyway, back to threshold, though... Its complicated because there are two kinds... Its possible to have a formal disorder as well as a subject matter disorder. I mean when someone is writing about suicide or death theyre writing about a thematic disorder, but when theyre writing experimentally theyre working with a formal disorder and... Some people also need a formal disorder as well. Everything Im thinking about the notion of threshold, I wouldnt want it to be a lens, but I would want it to be a tool.
Mary Ellen Redmond: It helps me articulate... why I cant go any further with a poem. Thats how it helps me. And I also understand as a writer, I may have a threshold, and I try to push myself to a certain degree and try to waiver between my comfort level and pushing myself. And as a reader, I have a threshold.
Gregory Orr: Absolutely. And sometimes you can have a wonderful moment where something has been consistently out past your threshold and then ten years later and you read it again, and you think, wow, I get it. Theodore Roethke was that way for me. Christ, Whitman was that way for me. Dickinson. Dickinson and Whitman are two of my favorite poets in the world now. Both of them I didnt get at all when I first read them.
Mary Ellen Redmond: Who does when theyre younger?
Gregory Orr: Dickinson I still dont get, but I love it. I dont care that I dont get it.
Mary Ellen Redmond: On page 84 of Poetry as Survival, you write Readers are only ‘saved by poems that enter deeply into them and this happens when sympathetic identification of reader with writer takes place. For people who dont read poetry, can a viewer be saved by a painting or sculpture? Is it a different process with visual art than the written word?
Gregory Orr: I dont know about that process. I absolutely believe it. My wifes a painter. I know paintings enter her deeply. Thats how it happens for painters. We even have a poet testifying to the way art enters a viewer deeply—Rilkes Archaic Torso of Apollo. Do you know that poem?
Mary Ellen Redmond: No
Gregory Orr: Ok, you need to know that poem. He looks at it and its a torso, only part of this Greek statue of Apollo. Head, arms, and legs are off. He is looking at it so intensely and at a certain point it starts to look at him. At the end of the poem, its a sonnet, he says: For here there is no part/ That does not see you. You must change your life.
Hes looking at it, and suddenly its looking at him. It changes him. In terms of aesthetic encounters, thats an incredible kind of thing.... What Im talking about, the sympathetic identification is much more of what Whitman says in Song of Myself: I celebrate myself and sing myself and what I assume you shall assume. For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. Its an invitation for us to identify with him. I think thats what lyric poetry does. When we are talking about lyric and narrative. In a narrative poem, you are seeing the story from a certain distance. In a lyric poem, that personal pronoun I—- if its present or not present—- the same thing is happening. You are being invited to go inside the experience. You are being invited to become the I of the lyric poem. Do you see what I mean? A narrative is much more like seeing a movie. I mean its wonderful, but theres a certain distance from it. You may identify with a character in the story... Identification is a hugely important process. We dont talk about it much. We dont think about it.
In Leaves of Grass, he [Whitman] does a lot of work in which we as readers or as separate people become involved in an imaginative project... When he says, What I assume, you shall assume, sometimes it sounds like you have to accept my assumptions about democracy or something. The assumptions hes making, theyre not necessarily just mental—they arent just astounding mental assumptions like: body and soul are equal. Men and women are equal. These are astounding conceptual assumptions Whitman makes in his book. But he also assumes other identities: I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person. My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. The wounded person is there in front of you. Instead of looking at his wounds, you develop your own wounds through a sympathetic identification.
This is Francis of Assisi. Remember him? St. Francis... What happens to him? He gets stigmata. Right? Hes the first saint to receive the stigmata—the wounds on his hands and feet that Christ received when he was crucified. Francis is meditating on top of the mountain, and a seraphim appears. Rays of light shoot down from the seraphim to Franciss body and he gets the wounds of Christ on the cross. Including the wound on the side. Why does he get that? He gets that because he totally identifies with Christ. Thats what Francis whole life was, in the 12th century to decide to be as much like Jesus as he could. They call it the apostolic life. To become one of Jesus apostles. What did Jesus say to the apostles: Follow me and be like me. Which is to say, be me, become me. Its crazy, but true.
This thing about identification and lyric invitation (where the reader is invited to become the I of the lyric poem for its duration). Not enough, for some reason, is written about these things, or thought about them. But they are amazing phenomena. Were humans, were separate selves but we so easily identify with... We go to a movie and we dont enjoy the movie unless at some level we identify with the characters. But [if] youre watching a movie and dont identify with anyone, its an absolutely horrendous experience. Its a just a waste of money. Have you ever had that thing where every character is in one or another way repellent to you?
Mary Ellen Redmond: Yes.
Gregory Orr: The thing is, identification happens all time. I mean its even hardwired into our brains. I think it has something to do with mirror neurons. The way when we are talking to someone, we mimic their body. We echo each others bodies...
Mary Ellen Redmond: [Eleanor Wilner] in a speech given at Drexel University in 2004, describes the overuse of the I pronoun as a uniquely American problem—a result of the emphasis on the individual who must revisit childhood to figure out what their parents did wrong. (From an online article in poetryfoundation.org by Rachel Aviv (Editor's Note: to read an interview with Eleanor Wilner in a previous issue where she discusses this issue and cultural memory)
Do you agree with that statement? Why is the I getting so bashed now?
Gregory Orr:I love Eleanor. I have taught with Eleanor at Warren Wilson. American culture is probably the most extremely individualistic since the Greeks. Im just guessing on that. I might have to think about that more. Individualism is the source of all thats good and strong and trusting about our culture, but it also seems to create monsters of narcissism and selfishness, egotism. All thats wrong in American culture also seems traceable to the I. But the I is not going to go away. Youre not going to scold it and make it go away like Eleanor is doing. I dont think. We could disagree on this...
I like to remember how Thoreau begins Walden by saying this book is going to be like every other book youve ever read, except you are going to see the first person singular more often. He says something like We commonly forget that it is always first person singular who is talking. Ok. So to me thats a warning. Its like saying, wait a minute. Youve got to realize that all language emanates from an individual perspective, and if you start using the collective pronoun too quickly, We Americans. Next thing you are is a skunk of a politician or a snake oil salesman or somebody. We on Wall Street understand... Youre in this collective criminal pronoun. We good Nazis and Germans recognize the need to get rid of unproductive members of society. So there is no hope in the pronoun we. Once we have a we, we dont have individual responsibility.
Ill tell you another thing. I think Eleanor is looking for a positive mythic power of a collective pronoun. I think she is still, bless her soul, in the dream of sisterhood is powerful. That we can come together and understand a positive collective, I think, unless I am mistaken, gender specific energy that can go toward positive things. I think a number of her poems are mythic. And that makes sense if it works for you.
I remember going to Yugoslavia in 1983. It was well before the Yugoslav civil war and I was a visiting writer traveling around with another poet. Traveling around means going around to these different federated republics like Serbia, Bosnia and Croatia... They were all held together in a single Yugoslavia that was created after the Second World War by Tito as a kind of benevolent dictator who had a dream that they could all get past all their ethnic and religious differences. That they could all become Yugoslavs instead of Crotians or Serbians or Bosnians. This other poet and I are there, the civil war hasnt started yet, but Tito is dead. There is a joke that the only Yugoslav that ever existed was Tito himself. Long story. Heres the anecdote. We get to meet this poet Vasko Popa. A very famous Yugoslav poet. Charles Simic translated his work. When we met him, he started to give us a lecture in a park in Belgrade. The lecture was about how American poets need to use the pronoun we instead of all these Is. According to him, we American poets used the singular personal pronoun too often. He said: In Yugoslavia we have learned to use the pronoun we. We all share this kind of common pronoun and this common mythic identity as Yugoslavian poet. We have transcended difference. Popa is a Serbian poet, but hes not presenting himself that way—hes claiming hes transcended ethnicity and become a Yugoslavian poet. But I didnt accept that, and besides—he was being rewarded for speaking collectively and trying to persuade his fellow South Slavs that they were all in this game together.
Well, I was thinking while he was saying that: Oh, these silly Americans. All this I talk. Then I thought, you know, thats what Walt Whitman did. Walt Whitman almost never says we. He says look, this is what I believe. You like it or you dont like it. I think men and woman are equal. I think its as cool to be a woman as to be a guy. You dont like it, buzz off. You know? Hes speaking from this I. Its a very enlightened I. Maybe its an egotistical I, maybe its not. The jury is out on Whitman.
Emily Dickinsons I is a pretty weird I, but it is pretty much only her when she says I. Whitman -- I think he was an I that invited people in and he also identified out with. I think thats cool. I think thats dynamic. In the preface of Leaves of Grass, he talks about pride and sympathy. He says you need both. Those are the two pillars of poetry. Pride is the ego, is the self-celebrating self. Sympathy is realizing that others are just as important as you are. And you go back and forth between pride and sympathy. You kind of dance between them. So, if Eleanor is saying dont get trapped in just the me me me me, I agree. Narcissism is boring and lonely. The answer isnt just to abolish the I. You cant. You have to grow through it. Were Americans. Were born with it.
I mean, heres this guy Vasko Popa... and eight years later, these people are doing unbelievable things to each other. And theyd still be doing it if they werent forced to stop. So to me, the dream of mythic identities is as full of dangerous solutions as the creepy narcissism of the I.
Mary Ellen Redmond: About your poetry (How Beautiful the Beloved): When you refer to the beloved you never capitalize the word and use both he and she as personal pronoun references. Sometimes I believe that youre talking about God or the Divine Creator, and sometimes I think it refers to a human being. And when the beloved/Is a person/So much the better/So much the worse. The beloved is also found in nature faithfully / Returning each evening / As the moon. Speak to be about your use of this word beloved and its origin. This is your second book about the beloved. Where did the beloved come from? Whats its origin?
Gregory Orr: I just woke up one morning and this phrase was in my head: the book that is the resurrection of the body, the beloved, which is the world. I just heard it. Its what we call an auditory hallucination. (He laughs.) I immediately understood what it meant. I knew exactly what it meant. The whole phrase was there. I was captivated by it. But I also understood: this is what the Book is. The beloved is the world. The beloved needs to be resurrected. The book resurrects the beloved. And I started writing poems. That morning.