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The Daily Poem

Tyree Daye's "Where She Planted Hydrangeas"

The Daily Poem

Goldberry Studios

Education For Kids, Arts, Kids & Family

4.6729 Ratings

🗓️ 4 April 2022

⏱️ 7 minutes

🧾️ Download transcript

Summary

Tyree Daye is a poet from Youngsville, North Carolina, and a Teaching Assistant Professor at UNC-Chapel Hill. He is the author of two poetry collections River Hymns 2017 APR/Honickman First Book Prize winner and Cardinal from Copper Canyon Press 2020Daye is a Cave Canem fellow. Daye won the 2019 Palm Beach Poetry Festival Langston Hughes Fellowship, 2019 Diana and Simon Raab Writer-In-Residence at UC Santa Barbara, and is a 2019 Kate Tufts Finalist. Daye most recently was awarded a 2019 Whiting Writers Award.


Bio via Tyree.work.



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Transcript

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0:00.0

Hello and welcome to the Daily Poem. I'm Heidi White, and today is Monday, April 4th.

0:07.3

Today I'm going to read for you a poem by American poet Ty Reed Day. He's a contemporary poet from

0:14.1

Youngsville, North Carolina, and he's also a teaching professor at UNC Chapel Hill. He's the author of two poetry collections,

0:22.9

2017's Riverhams, comma, the, and Cardinal, which was published in 2020. And today's poem is

0:31.7

called Where She Planted Hydrangeas, and this is how it goes. My grandmother migrated from South Carolina to

0:40.1

North Carolina with three children, a sister named Betty Lee, and a best friend named Lou.

0:46.1

They sailed here and prayed God to line the highway with angels whose wings could hide them

0:52.1

from every evil thing. On moonless roads, the stars gone missing.

0:57.0

They arrived like most black folk, looking for more than a field to turn over, to find

1:03.0

a dead turkey vulture's feathers scorched under the truthful dirt. Its wings bent as if it died saluting

1:10.0

the dead rabbit it stood over.

1:12.8

What stood over them was a field the hands will never stop touching.

1:17.7

They slept on homemade beds and ate over fires out of a cast iron pot.

1:23.1

A whole community gathered together in the woods to pull wild onions to pick pecans off the cold ground

1:29.4

all her dreams she scattered like chicken feed across the yard my mother aunts and uncles ate those

1:36.9

chickens and they sowed those dreams into us i purpled under the window sill of those lives. I love this poem. I have been reading it

1:49.0

over and over again today. This is a poem that recounts a family history, a family history

1:55.8

that was formative to the narrator of the poem, who seems pretty clearly to be the author of the poem. It's a very

2:02.6

specific story with details, like people's names and what they ate and where they went. But along

2:10.4

with being specific, it's also representative. This is a poem that celebrates and eulogizes and honors a larger and deeper body of American

2:23.2

cultural memory. And I love that because one of the purposes of poetry is to remember. It's to

2:30.6

immortalize the experiences of individuals and of peoples and of entire cultures.

...

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