The New Yorker Radio Hour - Poetry as a Cistern for Love and Loss

Episode Date: December 16, 2025

Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s most recent collection, “The New Economy,” was a finalist for the National Book Award for Poetry this year, and one of their poems was included in “A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker,” an anthology volume published this year on the occasion of the publication’s hundredth anniversary. The magazine’s poetry editor, Kevin Young, spoke with Calvocoressi about their creative process, how poetry can help with grief, and the inspirations behind their work. This segment mentions suicide and suicidal thoughts. If you are having thoughts of suicide, call or text 988 or chat at 988Lifeline.org. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. This is The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. This year, The New Yorker published an anthology called A Century of Poetry in The New Yorker. It was all to help mark the magazine's centennial, and it was put together by our poetry editor, Kevin Young. The book includes works from the early days of Dorothy Parker and moves onward and onwards to poems we printed in just the past few years and months. One of those poets is Gabriel Calvo Caressi. Their recent collection called The New Economy was a finalist for the National Book Award this year. And Calvacrucce sat down recently to talk about it with Kevin Young.

And heads up that some of Calvacrucce's work addresses suicide, and this is going to come up in our conversation as well. I was so excited about the opportunity to talk with Gabrielle because they're such a force on the page in person, and you can hear in their poem, poetry, this kind of sense of both community and individuality, this sorrow and this joy, this idea of ecstasy and expectation, but it's flecked with real human trial and tribulation, with everyday pain, but also sort of extraordinary moments. Can we start today with the title of your new book,

The New Economy? Yeah. Can you tell us where that title came from? Because it's not a book about the stock market or inflation, but it is about, you know, what, we pay, what the cost of things are in some sense? Tell us about it. Yeah, absolutely. You know, it's interesting. I wrote a poem in my last book, Rocket Fantastic, called Praise House, The New Economy. And, you know, like, sometimes, I imagine you have this, too, you get a kind of phrase or an idea in your mind, and it just keeps living with you. And I, that poem thinks a lot about what is it to just think of, like, kindness and love and generative hunger and pleasure as a kind of economy in and of itself. And then I, when I was sort of beginning to build this

book and make these poems, I thought, you know, I think the title of this thing that I'm making, whether it's a book or whatever it is, I think I like this idea of the new economy still. I like this idea of this book is so much about neighbors. This book is so much about what it is to reach out, what it is to feast with people, what it is to protect people. And what it is to do a lot of times under real duress, which I think, you know, like the stock market, we are rising and falling and often. We are doing those things because of forces outside of ourselves that we are at least told we cannot control. And maybe the book is a little bit about that too. Maybe we can control them more than we think. Are your books often connected in this way? Do you find like there's crossover connection?

Yeah, I think certainly I would say now they are. I mean, although I think in a funny way, there are ways that this book, The New Economy, which is my fourth book, I can't believe it, I just turned 51 years old. Like, who knew? Four books? Thank you. In some ways, this book reminds me very much of my first book in ways that I can't even, like, totally articulate. But coming back to a lot of these questions about coming home, what it is to come home. But more recently, in a lot of ways, because I am interested in things like jazz and opera, like long-form music, at some point I thought to myself, not just like why couldn't the same ideas come up, but like why couldn't phrases?

You know, why couldn't you start having like you do in jazz? Like, why couldn't this just be a kind of phrase that I'm playing through the books, that I'm thinking about, I say things in my day-to-day life as I'm sure, like, lots of people who are listening to, like, I probably, to a boring extent. I say the same things a lot of the time, but often with different inflections, you know? And so I think that's something I actually have really started to try and do in the poems as well. What if I just sounded like myself? What if I said, I love you 75 times and every year. time, it sounded a little different, just like we do, you know, or can I have that donut, which is also something that might show up in the poems. I love that about the poems, those echoes and reverberations that really connect. You said you often begin writing a poem on your feet, like just walking around, and the poems have that kind of quality. Could you tell us about that?

Yeah. Well, you know, I was a kid who I did not. I have a visual and neurological condition called the stagmas. And so that affects my balance. And so I didn't walk. I mean, I didn't really walk until I was like three years old. And I couldn't do stairs. I have poems about it where like I couldn't do stairs until I was like seven and a half, eight years old.

So once I could start walking, I really didn't stop. And I, and walking is still, though, a thing that's kind of a challenge for me. Balance is tough for me. But this like act of like walking, moving, I'm also like a professional daydreamer. Okay. I love the poets who are like, well, I sat down in my desk. And I just, the meter came to me. And I just, I mean, I'm just like dreaming all day long.

And so I find few places, you know, sort of more generative and more wonderful to dream than like being in my fallible body, like trying to cross a street, walking along a trail. And so that is a really big deal. A lot of times the poems start there. A lot of times my ideas start there. My hopes start there. And so it's a long time often. before the poem actually gets to the page. I want to ask you about this form you've created,

which I absolutely love, the Cistern. Yeah. Can you tell us about that and how that came to be and how that came to dominate this book? Absolutely. You know, again, like rooted in music to some extent, there is this extraordinary, like, maybe we should take a break now and just for an hour listening to Polly and Olivares right here.

Just like let the people really dig into it. But Pauline Oliveros, really one of the parents of electronic music, had this remarkable project called the Deep Listening Project. And she went down into the Dan Harpool Cistern and had all of these musicians playing down there. You can go listen to the Deep Listening band sessions and it's worth doing. And part of her idea was that you could have all of these musicians down. there. And because of the resonances of that cistern, people could start playing at different times. And once you got to the top of the cistern, once you were standing on the top, though, it would all come out as a like unified vision. And I thought to myself, well, like, what am I other than, you know, I'm the most recent top of the cistern of my family?

I'm the most recent top of the cistern of my own experience, but also perhaps of a certain kind of experience in America in my neighborhood. I'm part of a cistern. I'm just like down in the cistern also speaking my piece and we're all coming together. And at some point someone's going to stand on the top and they're going to hear us all. So there's that. And then there's also just this idea of reverberation and echo, kind of like this idea of phrases that come back through my books. Like, what if I'm just building a deep well here? You know, like, what if I'm just in a deep well? And someday I'm not going to be here anymore. The funny thing is that when I was talking to Copper Canyon about this book and my wonderful editor, Michael Weakers, was like, tell me about the cisterns.

I started talking about Polly and I Haurpe-A-Liveros and the Dan Harpull sister. And he went, the Dan Harpul Cistern. I said, yeah, he said, I'm looking at it right now. Wow. It's right across from Copper Canyon. Oh, wow. And I guess, like, I think, with this. And so where is that reminder or?

listeners where that is? That is in Port Towns in Washington. If anyone wants to come to the Dan Harpool Cistern with me, I don't have the balance to crawl down into it. How big must it be? Oh my gosh, I wish we could pull it. Well, it's on the cover. This is just part of it. Oh, wow. So it's a real, it's almost like a

mine shaft. It's more than a well. It's a vast, vast. I think they used it for water. I think it's like a vast container. And they do bring like musicians down and stuff. was like, maybe we can get you down there, but then I saw the picture of the rickety ladder. And I was like, okay, but only on the last day of my life. But my dream is that, and anyone who wants to join, we all, like, people go down in the system. We descend in order to ascend.

Yeah, and then we also, like, if the whole book could be read in the cistern. Wow. And then we, some of us could sit on top and, like, listen. I mean, that'd be so rad. Well, I think you've achieved that just in the poems themselves. this, would you say, a vast sort of area that you've created. Yeah. That these voices, mostly yours, but I feel like there's others and yours is, you know, full of multitudes.

Well, I want to hear a cistern. Can I have you read the first poem in the book, which is the one the New Yorker published in 2018, Hammond B3, Oregon Cistern. The days I don't want to kill myself are extraordinary. Deep base, all the people in the streets waiting for their high-fives and leaping. I mean, leaping when they see me. I am the sun-filled god of love, or at least an optimistic undersecretary. There should be a word for it. The days you wake up and do not want to slit your throat.

Money in the bank. Enough for an iced green tea every weekday and Saturday and Sunday. It's like being in the same. the armpit of a Hammond B-3 organ, just reeks of gratitude and funk, the funk of ages. I am not going to ruin my love's life today. It's like the time I said yes to gray sneakers, but then the salesman said, wait, and they are out of the backroom like the bakery's first biscuits, bright blue kicks, iridescent, like a scarab, like a scarab, Oh, who am I kidding? It was nothing like a scarab. It was like bright blue fucking sneakers.

I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don't we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don't know, then you're lucky, but also, you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop. Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on everybody. Say it with me nice and slow. No pills, no cliff, no brains on the floor. bring the base back, no rope, no hose, not today, Satan. Every day I wake up with my good fortune and news of my demise. Don't keep it from me. Why don't we have a name for it? Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop. Hallelujah. So great to hear that. Thank you so much. Thank you. M&B3 organ cistern. That was also gathered in the century of poetry in the New Yorker as well as 1925 to 2025 to 2025.

And it was so great to run that, to see that. Hearing it again, I'm struck by so many lines in it, I'm not going to ruin my love's life today. Or every day I wake up with my good fortune line break and news of my demise, don't keep it from me. How do you balance this candor, this ability to talk about these difficult things, death, suicide loss, things that often, as you say, why don't we talk about it?

Yeah. And how do you balance that good fortune with news of my demise? Yeah. You know, I think this is something I have learned, or I should say I am learning to do in my, like, life and in my poems in real time. And I'm allowing myself to sound like myself doing that, right? in terms of, like, I've just started using periods in different ways in the line, right? Like, I am not going to ruin my love's life today, period, right? As opposed to, like, before I would have been like, I am not going to ruin my love's life today, like a train surging through the hillsides of Scandinavia.

You know, like what? Right, you kept going. Yeah, like, there's something about this is, these days that we have, have, I mean, I imagine people who are listening. There are people like me who some days, like, it is just very hard to be alive. And that wasn't sort of being able to talk about that was like another closet I was in it. I've lived in lots of closets in my life. And that was maybe the deepest. Like that was one where I was really like swimming through the mothballs to get out of it. Because I thought, this is something we can't talk about. And the truth is we can. And I can talk about.

and I can talk about the fact that there are days where it's very difficult to be alive and also sometimes just like hearing this piece of music or just like smelling the air in a certain way, all of a sudden it doesn't change the fact that I'm devastated and also like, oh, here I am, exclamation point. Gabrielle Culvera Koresse, speaking with the New Yorker's poetry editor, Kevin Young. More in a moment. I know you've written about your mother's death from suicide.

Yeah. I wonder if you, is that something you're still writing about in this book? Oh, yeah. I think that I think I will probably never stop writing about it, right? Yeah, I mean, I think that this book is full of her. She is definitely one of the ghosts. Also, I think, what is it when we get older than our parents were when they died? You know, I'm significantly, she died at like 42 years old.

I'm 51. Like, I'm older. I wrote about her a ton in my other books. I was still younger than her. I came to certain kinds of understanding as I approached her age. but it's wild to look back at my mother as like this young woman, like this young woman who was in a lot of pain and who was also like a poor mentally ill person

in the jaws of the Reagan era. That is a very powerful thing, and I think this book tries to also look at that. Right. Well, I think it's a book in some ways about survival and about triumph as we hear. I wonder about place and thinking about moving there to North Carolina. How does it shape your work?

I got to say, I love the South. And that is, I think a lot of people might hear that and say, what, you know, you're a trans, lesbian, like what? where I live in the South in Durham or Old East Durham, North Carolina, first of all, like it's tobacco country. And where I grew up in Central Connecticut was actually tobacco. We grew broadleaf. It was like Connecticut was like the huge tobacco part of the country besides North Carolina. Also like the first town I lived in Middle Hadam, Connecticut, which is part of East Hampton, Connecticut, with my grandparents. I just like, everybody knew everyone and everyone was in your business, like, in a great way.

And, I mean, I'm sure difficult ways too, but like the whole town had dinner together four times a year. And also, and I do say this, and this is like the poems, like, if I walked to the post office and I did not say hello to everybody there, by the time I got home, my grandmother would be like standing outside being like, Mrs. So-and-so called. She said you must not be feeling well. that is not different than living in a neighborhood in North Carolina. And I, one of the reasons I think when we got there, I immediately felt so comfortable was like there were just grandmothers everywhere. And I live my life like I'm coming, like my grandmother's going to say something to me. I had a lot of people talking to me about my garden. I had a lot of people being like, why are you doing it that way?

And I was like, I'm in heaven. You were fine with that, yeah. It turns out it's my absolute pocket. But I would say the South actually feels extremely familiar to me and maybe. many ways. It's also, and so that I think brought up a sense of like childhood in my poems again, like a sense of like being in community, going to church, like having people like really asking me questions about myself and like caring. Well, tell us about the Miss You poems. We have the one, Miss You would love to grab that chilled tofu that we love. And also Miss you would like to take a

walk with you. Yeah. We were deep in COVID. I had lost. both my friend Jenny Tonpahot and Randall Keenan. And I started to think about, and I'm always thinking about my grandmother. I mean, my mother is in my poems, but my grandmother is, like, always in my poems. And I started thinking, gosh, like, I miss, I just miss them so much. And then I started thinking about that phrase, oh, yeah, I'm missing. I miss you, I miss you, I wish you, I wish you. And I thought to myself, gosh, like, what would it be if I could just say that enough?

And in terms of thinking about sort of the craft of poetics, could I make it specific enough? Could I build the scene enough that, like, actually the portal would open and we'd just, like, be there together for a minute. Maybe we could open the portal. Let's do it. Miss you. I would like to take a walk with you. Do not care if you arrive and just your story. skeleton. Would love to take a walk with you. Miss you. Would love to make you shrimp

Saginaaki like you used to make me when you were alive. Love to feed you, sit over steaming bowls of pilaf, little roasted tomatoes covered in pepper and nutmeg, miss you. Would love to walk to the post office with you. Bring the ghost dog. We'll walk past the waterfall and you can tell me about the after. Wish you, wish you would come back for a while. Don't even need to bring your skin I'll know you. I know you'll know me, even though I'm bigger now, grayer. I'll show you my garden. I'd like to hop in the leaf pile you raked, but if you want to jump in, I'll rake it for you. Miss you, standing, looking out at the river with your rake in your hand. Miss you in your puffy blue jacket. They're hip now. I can bring you a new one if you'll only come by. No, I told you it was okay to go.

No, I told you it was okay to leave me. Why'd you believe me? You always believed me. Wish you would come back so we could talk about truth. Miss you. Wish you would walk through my door. Stare out from the mirror. Come through the pipes.

I love the end of that poem. Come through the pipes. The idea that I started thinking again of an organ, you know, not a Hammond B3 organ, but a sort of large organ in a church or movie house. And that kind of idea, it's music it feels. How does it sound to you now? You know, I love reading those poems.

I have to say it. Like those two, particularly that last one, maybe it is because that is a poem that really, like, has kind of, it has entered a stream of consciousness where, like, it's not about necessarily, like, performing it and people love it. It's actually that it is, and this is something. thing I think that for many of us poets, it's what we want, right? Like, it is enacting its form in the world. Like, that is a poem that I made, that when I go out in the world, people know that

poem, but they know that poem because there's a cadence of it that I think rings true to them, that feels true in their bodies. They can do it too. We can do it together. I mean it. Like, everyone should just give it a shot, see what happens. And it also sounds really like me. Like, it really sounds like I can't, it cannot be artifice to ask my grandmother to come back. No, bring the ghost dog. Yeah. I mean, this isn't a, yeah.

And it isn't easy, I guess. I think that's the other thing. Yeah. That it's a, I mean, it might be something everyone can do. Yeah. But the way you do it, you managed to combine all those themes that we've touched on. It isn't just come back to me privately. It's like, let's do the thing we used to do together.

Yeah. Let's enter the ritual. Open the portal, as you said. Yeah, let's open the portal. Let's hit the gong and see what happens. Like, if one wanted to do, quote, like, what I do here, it's about, like, trusting your cadence, trusting the way you breathe, trusting that the things you see in the world and the way you put them together on a page are, like, alchemical. Like, they can actually make something happen.

And this poem does. Like, yeah, my grandmother was like the one person who always knew if I wasn't telling the truth. So if I wrote a poem asking her to come back that didn't sound like the truth, either she wouldn't come or when she did, I'd be grounded. Like, I'm 51, you know? Well, I don't think you're grounded. You've managed to make such a beautiful thing and a beautiful book. Thank you. In the new economy.

It's moving being here together. And hey, I just thank everybody here and thank everyone for listening. Gabrielle Calvo Carrese's book, The New Economy, was a finalist for the National Book Award this year. And you can read some of their work at New Yorker.com. You can also subscribe, of course, to The New Yorker there as well, New Yorker.com. Kevin Young is our poetry editor. And I'm David Remnick. That's our program for this week.

Thanks so much for listening. See you next time. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios. and The New Yorker. Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbus of Tune Arts, with additional music by Louis Mitchell and Jared Paul. This episode was produced by Max Bolton, Adam Howard, David Krasnow, Jeffrey Masters, Louis Mitchell, Jared Paul, and Ursula Summer. With guidance from Emily Boutin and assistance from Michael May, David Gable, Alex Barge, Victor Gwan, and Alejandra Deccett. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.

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