6. Compost by Dan Chelotti - A Friend to Alice

Welcome to The Poetry Exchange. We have conversations with individuals about a poem that has been a friend to them. In exchange we make them a gift: a unique recording of their chosen poem, inspired by the conversation and their thoughts and feelings about the poem. The Poetry Exchange takes place in a range of venues and settings, featuring public visitors and special guests. In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Alice talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’Compost' by Dan Chelotti. We are delighted to feature 'Compost' in this episode and would like to thank Dan Chelotti, Poetry Foundation, Poetry Magazine and Greying Ghost Press for granting permission to use the poem. Do visit them for further inspiration and to find out more about Dan and his work. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/dan-chelotti http://www.greyingghost.bigcartel.com/product/compost-by-dan-chelotti https://www.poetrysociety.org/psa/poetry/crossroads/Chapbook_Anniversary/dan_chelotti/ Alice visited The Poetry Exchange at Greyfriar's Chapel in Canterbury, as part of Wise Words Festival in September 2014. We’re very grateful to Wise Words for hosting The Poetry Exchange. http://www.wisewordsfestival.co.uk Alice is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer. 'Compost' is read by Michael Shaeffer. ***** Compost by Dan Chelotti There is magic in decay. A dance to be done For the rotting, the maggot strewn Piles of flesh which pile Upon the dung-ridden earth And the damp that gathers And rusts and defiles. There is a bit of this In even the most zoetic soul —  The dancing child’s arms Flailing to an old ska song Conduct the day-old flies Away to whatever rank Native is closest. Just today I was walking along the river With my daughter in my backpack And I opened my email On my phone and Duffie Had sent me a poem Called “Compost.” I read it To my little girl and started To explain before I was three Words in Selma started Yelling, Daddy, Daddy, snake! In the path was a snake, Belly up and still nerve-twitching The ghost of some passing Bicycle or horse. Pretty, Selma said. Yes, I said. And underneath my yes Another yes, the yes to my body, Just beginning to show signs Of slack, and another, my grasping In the dark for affirming flesh That in turn says yes, yes Let’s rot together but not until We’ve drained what sap Is left in these trees. And I wake in the morning And think of the coroner Calling to ask what color My father’s eyes were, And I asked, Why? Why can’t You just look — and the coroner, Matter-of-factly says, Decay. Do you want some eggs, my love? I have a new way of preparing them. And look, look outside, I think this weather Has the chance of holding.