The brothers’ related banter…
John: Hank, I apologize in advance, this isn’t the shortest short poem you’ve ever heard in your life, but I think it’s a good one, OK? […]
John: That’s a poem by James Tate, Never Again The Same. More or less the way that I’ve felt coming home after the last two months of crazy travel and the calm that has returned to me does not even feel my own. Sorry for the long short poem, Hank, but it’s a good one right?
Hank: Yeah, it was wonderful. It was definitely not the lyrics to an Elton John song.
John: Yeah, I mean I’ve noticed that in my absence the short poems have been pretty terrible. Nothing against the many wonderful guest hosts you’ve had, but they don’t have a gift for short poetry.
Hank: Yeah. That’s something that you, you know, that you in particular are very good at.
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Click to read poem
Speaking of sunsets,
last night’s was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren’t supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
People were screaming in the streets.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn’t natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn’t breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another’s eyes-
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.
John Green Reads Poetry 