Connor and Jack discuss the poignant, quiet poem "Child Holding Potato" by Rick Barot. They consider, in Barot's own words, the "limits of art to console," time's relentless march, and the power of stressed syllables. Jack may or may not muse about the one and only Bruce, and Connor may or may not rant about the state of iambic pentameter education. Learn more about Barot, here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/rick-barot Check out Barot's latest book here: http://www.sarabandebooks.org/all-titles/chord-rick-barot Find us on Facebook at: facebook.com/closetalking  Find us on Twitter at: twitter.com/closetalking  Find us on Instagram: @closetalkingpoetry You can always send us an e-mail with thoughts on this or any of our previous podcasts, as well as suggestions for future shows, at [email protected]. Child Holding Potato By: Rick Barot When my sister got her diagnosis, I bought an airplane ticket but to another city, where I stared at paintings that seemed victorious in their relation to time. The beech from two hundred years ago, its trunk a palette of mud and gilt. The man with olive-black gloves, the sky behind him a glacier of blue light. In their calm landscapes, the saints. Still dripping the garden’s dew, the bouquets. Holding the rough gold orb of a potato, the Child cradled by the glowing Madonna. Then, the paintings I looked at the longest: the bowls of plums and peaches, the lemons, the pomegranates like red earths. In my mouth, the raw starch. In my mouth, the dirt.

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“What did the council decide on item 42?” — answered with the speaker and the moment.

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