In this episode, poet Suzannah Evans discusses James Tate’s ‘Making the Best of the Holidays’ and how reading this work influenced the writing of her own poem ‘A Course in Miracles’.
In the interview, Suzannah reflects on the use of form, tone, humour, and the notion of objectionable or challenging narrators as she unpicks James Tate’s piece ‘Making the Best of the Holidays’. She goes on to discuss her own work ‘A Course in Miracles’, in relation to ideas of faith, encountering different kinds of spiritual or transcendental experiences, and absorbing the sustenance that is on offer.
Suzannah Evans is the author of two collections of poetry, Near Future and Space Baby, both published by Nine Arches Press. Her first pamphlet Confusion Species was a winner in the 2012 Poetry Business Competition, and her second, Green, will be published by Little Betty Press next year. She lives in Sheffield and is a creative director of Sheaf Poetry Festival.
A Course in Miracles Howarden, 2019
I’ve been counting the fly agarics on the library lawn and today there are 31. At lunch the theology scholar laughs because I’m wearing slippers. I eat a baked avocado, which I’ve never eaten before. I watch the yews that brush the churchyard wall while he pronounces the Greek Αποκάλυψic and asks me what is being revealed that might not be known otherwise. The avocado has been cooked in its skin with red onion and pepper. A visiting vicar tells me Christians are unafraid because they know they will be saved and asks if I have a faith like that? I imagine myself in the ruins of my house, fashioning a fallout shelter from a blown-off door. When John ate the scroll in Revelation it tasted both bitter and sweet and allowed him to speak prophesy, but did he wash it down with anything? The teacher of A Course in Miracles says consuming food is not essential but a human experience we’ve grown used to - while polishing off the last forkfuls of a tuna jacket. Every day more toadstools rise out of the grass like cartoon thought-bubbles. I have been reading about the expanse of their finely rigged root systems and how they communicate with trees. If I have faith in anything it’s the plants. When the time comes they’ll eat me inside out.
Making the Best of the Holidays by James Tate (Harper Collins, 2004)
Justine called on Christmas Day to say she was thinking of killing herself. I said, ‘We’re in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re still alive.’ She was furious with me and called me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone seemed delighted with what they got, and that definitely included me. I placed a few more logs on the fire, and then the phone range again. This time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his pills and washed them down with a quart of gin. ‘Sleep it off, Hugh,’ I said, ‘I can barely under- stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.’ The roast in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was Debbie. ‘I hate you,’ she said. ‘You’re the most disgusting human being on the planet.’ ‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said, ‘and I’ve always been aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.’ Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but this time Loni answered it. When she came back to the table she looked pale. ‘Who was it?’ I asked. ‘It was my mother,’ she said. ‘And what did she say?’ I asked. ‘She said she wasn’t my mother,’ she said.
