Michael Hall comments on his poetry and reads from "Spam River Journal"

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October 21, 1995
Michael Hall - Reader and Speaker, Chris Roberts - Producer
Listen: Michael Hall, poet, speaks
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Southern Minnesota poet Michael Hall talks about his poetry and reads from “Spam River Journal.”

Transcript:

(00:00:00) Someone once told me don't write unless you have to I've been writing for over 20 years and I can't imagine not writing when I was in New York a Russian cabdriver asked me what I did and I told him I was a poet upon hearing this. He said so you are a poet. You are a very dangerous man. I think quite the opposite if I didn't write I would be very dangerous to myself. Most of the Poetry I write his narrative influenced by Gary Snyder and William Carlos Williams. I spent the last 15 years writing about a region where I grew up which I call spam land because it's where spam was created both. My grandfather's made spam and
(00:00:46) many of my other family members either worked there or have worked there.
(00:00:51) I tell the stories from the slaughterhouse with a personal Flair. I don't create poetry. I simply record the Poetry that exists in the world the
(00:01:01) trick is being aware and knowing what poetry is when you see it or hear it
(00:01:07) you make it interesting through a creative use of language. I don't just write for Ivory Tower English
(00:01:14) Majors. I'd like to reach a wider
(00:01:16) audience. I'd like to read some poems for you for my recent book the spam River journal.
(00:01:24) The first piece is
(00:01:26) called five
(00:01:26) uncles and I'm going to read the first two parts of this. The first one is called Uncle Dickie.
(00:01:35) My mother has five husky brothers who chain-smoke cheap cigars and work at the slaughterhouse killing cutting and lugging huge slabs of beef and pork all except Dickey who was killed in Korea the year, I was born is Granny used to say he was shot trying to escape from a commie prison
(00:01:54) camp. He was
(00:01:55) found strung up crucified on a barbed wire fence everyone in our family knew he was a hero. Mom said he could pull over the Outhouse and he could run the two miles to the slaughterhouse every morning in less than 10 minutes were called a stabbing cows and run back home
(00:02:13) after work to help with the chores
(00:02:16) seldom is his name brought up without a tearful sojourn into his scrapbook of yellow clippings for bravery in action for Heroic service in the eye of the enemy and all the purple hearts and iron crosses all my mother's Brothers fought in Korea, but the ones who came back
(00:02:34) Jack never received as much respect as the one who didn't.
(00:02:40) The second one is called Uncle Tootsie Uncle touched says eagle tattoos on both of his brawny shoulders all day long. He sucks on a six-inch stogie never bothering to
(00:02:52) light it he used to be a beef
(00:02:54) boner at the slaughterhouse until he was forced to retire they cut him loose with a bad back and numerous Scars From
(00:03:01) The Vicious boning knives and other tools of his
(00:03:04) trade. Luckily. He's only missing one finger when I I was a kid. He used to wiggle the
(00:03:09) stub at me and make me run away crying.
(00:03:12) He always had a different story about how that finger was lost. He once told me that it was chewed off by a rattlesnake in the
(00:03:19) Mojave Desert, but my mother told me that he lost it to a hungry sausage grinder. I still think of him. Every time I see the little Sizzlers in the groceries freezers. The next piece is called war
(00:03:33) games. I learned how to play dead at an early age
(00:03:38) during our first Great War. I took an apple in the left side.
(00:03:42) I fell so hard. My
(00:03:44) jeans were permanently stained at the knees.
(00:03:47) I lay motionless on the ground my
(00:03:49) tongue hanging Loosely from one side of my mouth holding my breath for what seemed Forever Until dead time was over and I could jump back up to sling an apple or green Walnut at the enemy
(00:04:02) my cousin. Larry was the first to
(00:04:04) kill me.
(00:04:05) But later that day, I killed him with a walnut to the back of the
(00:04:08) head. He didn't die as well as I did he ran off crying and our mom's voted to end that war
(00:04:16) the Knicks War. I remember we use peashooters made from
(00:04:19) soda straws from which we would Propel soybeans.
(00:04:23) We fought at close range because our tiny breaths couldn't reach that
(00:04:26) far. This war was Undeclared and eventually led to an escalation of advanced Weaponry the slingshot.
(00:04:35) Crabapple propelled from a slingshot hurt so bad that faking
(00:04:38) death became very popular a slingshot could Propel an apple rock or a corn a block away one. No longer had to face the enemy
(00:04:49) when I got married. I thought all the war games were over
(00:04:53) but I learned that a different kind of warfare existed a
(00:04:56) cold cold war of psychological proportions
(00:05:00) a war of words sent like lightning bolts ripping through all armed. Mer, I remembered all the Fatal hits of my youth and I played dead in bed. Like I never played dead before lying still for days waiting for the enemy to pack up their weapons and leave and then when the are finally cleared I jumped up elated dead time was over.

Transcripts

text | pdf |

MICHAEL HALL: Someone once told me, don't write unless you have to. I've been writing for over 20 years, and I can't imagine not writing. When I was in New York, a Russian cab driver asked me what I did. And I told him I was a poet. Upon hearing this, he said, so you are a poet. You are a very dangerous man. I think quite the opposite. If I didn't write, I would be very dangerous to myself.

Most of the poetry I write is narrative, influenced by Gary Snyder and William Carlos Williams. I spent the last 15 years writing about a region where I grew up, which I call Spam Land. Because it's where Spam was created. Both my grandfathers made Spam. And many of my other family members either worked there or have worked there. I tell the stories from the slaughterhouse with a personal flair.

I don't create poetry. I simply record the poetry that exists in the world. The trick is being aware and knowing what poetry is when you see it or hear it. You make it interesting through a creative use of language. I don't just write for ivory tower English majors, I'd like to reach a wider audience.

I'd like to read some poems for you from my recent book, the Spam River Journal. The first piece is called "Five Uncles". And I'm going to read the first two parts of this. The first one is called Uncle Dicky. My mother has five husky brothers who chain smoked cheap cigars and work at the slaughterhouse, killing, cutting, and lugging huge slabs of beef and pork.

All except Dicky, who was killed in Korea the year I was born. His granny used to say he was shot trying to escape from a commie prison camp. He was found strung up, crucified on a barbed wire fence. Everyone in our family knew he was a hero. Mom said he could pole vault over the outhouse. And he could run the two miles to the slaughterhouse every morning in less than 10 minutes, work all day stabbing cows, and run back home after work to help with the chores.

Seldom is his name brought up without a tearful sojourn into his scrapbook of yellowed clippings for bravery in action, for heroic service in the eye of the enemy, and all the Purple Hearts and Iron Crosses. All my mother's brothers fought in Korea. But the ones who came back never received as much respect as the one who didn't.

The second one is called Uncle Tootsie. Uncle Toots has eagle tattoos on both of his brawny shoulders. All day long, he sucks on a 6-inch stogie, never bothering to light it. He used to be a beef boner at the slaughterhouse, until he was forced to retire. They cut him loose with a bad back and numerous scars from the vicious boning knives and other tools of his trade. Luckily, he's only missing one finger.

When I was a kid, he used to wiggle the stub at me and make me run away crying. He always had a different story about how that finger was lost. He once told me that it was chewed off by a rattlesnake in the Mojave desert. But my mother told me that he lost it to a hungry sausage grinder. I still think of him every time I see the little sizzlers in the grocer's freezers.

The next piece is called "War Games". I learned how to play dead at an early age. During our first great war, I took an apple on the left side. I fell so hard, my jeans were permanently stained at the knees. I lay motionless on the ground, my tongue hanging loosely from one side of my mouth, holding my breath for what seemed forever, until dead time was over. And I could jump back up to sling an apple or green walnut at the enemy.

My cousin Larry was the first to kill me. But later that day, I killed him with a walnut to the back of the head. He didn't die as well as I did. He ran off crying, and our moms voted to end that war. The next war I remember, we used peashooters made from soda straws, from which we would propel soybeans. We fought at close range because our tiny breaths couldn't reach that far.

This war was undeclared and eventually led to an escalation of advanced weaponry, the slingshot. A crab apple propelled from a slingshot hurt so bad that faking death became very popular. A slingshot could propel an apple rock or acorn a block away. One no longer had to face the enemy.

When I got married, I thought all the war games were over. But I learned that a different kind of warfare existed, a cold, cold war of psychological proportions, a war of words sent like lightning bolts ripping through all armor. I remembered all the fatal hits of my youth, and I played dead in bed like I never played dead before. Lying still for days, waiting for the enemy to pack up their weapons and leave. And then when the air finally cleared, I jumped up, elated. Dead time was over.

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