266 - The Return of Poetry Week

Hey all, it is Jeffrey Kraner reminding you that we are on tour.

Welcome to Night Vale, is coming hopefully to a place near you.

Starting this July, we're going to be in Newark, Brooklyn, Boston, Northampton, Norwalk, Pittsburgh, Columbus, Cincinnati, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Minneapolis.

And then in September, we're going to be down in Philadelphia, D.C., Richmond, Virginia, Asheville, Durham, Atlanta, Tampa.

In October, we're going to go from Austin, Dallas, OKC, Lawrence, St.

Louis, Indianapolis, Toronto, and Detroit.

And then finally, in January, we'll be out on the West Coast, Seattle, Portland, Eugene, Sacramento, San Fran, Los Angeles, Tucson, Albuquerque, and Boulder.

I know those last few aren't really West Coast, but west of me, what are we counting as geography?

But those are the places we're going so far.

I hope we will see you there.

Tickets are on sale now at welcome to nightvale.com/slash live.

You can see all the show dates and times for where we will be and when.

And this new show, this new live show, it is brand new.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it's starring Cecil Baldwin, of course, featuring Symphony Sanders and me and live music by Disparition and a weather guest, and maybe even a few other guests along the way.

We cannot wait to get back out on the road again because it's so fun to perform for all of you and meet all of you in person.

So get your tickets now at welcome to nightvelle.com/slash live and we will see you soon.

And hey, thanks.

At Starbucks, we've more than doubled paid parental leave, now up to 18 weeks, which means Starbucks baristas can spend more time with the best company they know, their families.

At Starbucks, benefits like parental leave are just the start.

That which does not kill us will lose its job at the killing factory.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, after an 11-year hiatus, Night Vale Poetry Week has returned.

One of our most sacred town traditions was banned after what happened last time.

I'm not sure I could say aloud exactly what that was.

It involved people entering a place they weren't supposed to enter.

I shouldn't tell you what place.

I don't want you getting devious ideas.

But that forbidden place rhymes with log park.

So, this year, Nightvale.

Let's just concentrate on getting those poems written.

We need hundreds from each of you.

Pretty much non-stop poetry writing.

The librarians need to feed on your trochies and alliterations.

They hunger for your slant rhymes and free verse.

They don't particular care for limericks.

If it's just like one or two, that's fine, but they prefer not to make a whole meal out of that junk.

Oh, look!

We've already gotten our first poem sent in.

This is from Nasr al-Mujahid, and it's called An Ode to Francis, Both of You.

Oh, this looks like a sonnet.

Iambic pentameter, 14 lines.

Ooh, I'm so excited.

This reminds me of my Shakespearean acting class back in college when we had to learn monologues from Richard III and Tartuffe and Sleepless in Seattle.

Well, let's give Nazr's poem a read.

If autumn trees and southbound birds can take for them a season's break, then I will make a solemn try to seize some time for you and me.

We'll live ten thousand years as new lovers on satin sheets, our legs awake and arms adrift and mouths agape for sake of seeing with our lips not eyes the true wet red and ripe snap green of fruits that do live in endless leaves.

Flowing capes of bees and flowers, trees and showers, one soft breeze that is all ours, confusing then our skin, which can't tell where you end or I begin.

There, in that time of dew and dust, I'll be, after our Decembers, with you again.

Nazur, what a gorgeous love poem!

But I didn't see anything in there about dolls with dead eyes or pale girls with black hair covering their faces or even snakes with human skin.

I feel like if you're going for the full Shakespearean sonnet, you have to include at least one of those things.

Night Vale, I'm looking forward to reading more of your work.

Keep writing.

Now, let's have a look at horoscopes.

Be careful with curiosity, Aries.

Open no doors, lest you find a shadow that is not yours.

The stars tell you, Taurus, and I quote, we hope you like spiders in your throat.

People are mean, Gemini, but don't get annoyed.

Block out the haters and stare into the void.

Oh, cancer, we can't tell you exactly what's in store, but it involves a chase and a scream and a light touch of gore.

Don't look in the attic, Leo.

The stars say you ought not, unless you want to see the beast that will get you got.

The entry for Virgo contains neither letters nor words, only strange sketches of eviscerated birds.

They say Libras always keep a level head, but that bridge out sign you've surely misread.

Bad luck, Scorpio.

It was in the news across the nation that you finally learned the meaning of definestration.

Look away, Sagittarius.

You do not want to know that behind you is a clown with a knife and a banjo.

Capricorn, the aliens invaded.

I'll keep it short and sweet.

They want to know, are you light or dark meat?

Aquarius.

Looking good, bud.

Keep up the good work.

Woe be unto thee, Pisces.

Kneel and repent.

Else put on these shoes that are made of cement.

This has been Horoscopes.

Back to Poetry Week.

I've gotten a good number of poems, but um not a number of good poems so far.

Oh, okay, this one seems pretty solid.

Harrison Kipp writes in with the old hollow log.

I don't know all the trees.

I know they are majestic and proud, stoic and beautiful.

Every tree was forged by the gods.

Not all the gods, but the ones who like trees.

Yet, this old hollow log remembers only its shape while forgetting its nature, which is to live and then to die and then to return to the earth.

Still, the old hollow log remains, shunning erosion, denying the soil its nutrition, but carrying on as a landmark in an otherwise lifeless desert.

And here, upon this old hollow log, as you struggle against the restraints, your screams are unheard neath the holy chanting of our masses, just know that our God,

not one you've heard of before, a pretty new God, as a matter of fact, who is indifferent to trees, but quite enamored with sacrifice, will welcome your spirit with a cold, incurious embrace like an ATM welcomes a bank card.

And the finality of you will fill the chasm of the old hollow log.

Thanks.

Harrison?

I don't know if this is directed toward a specific person or...

You know what?

Art is art.

If it had a deeper meaning, we would have called it like thinkies

or

thoughtnesses.

or mind fertilizer.

It's called art because that's all it is.

No need to explore deeper.

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It is already in you.

It is

you.

Listeners, I'm getting an alarming amount of emails from you about a woman in a light blue suit going around eating people.

And while, yes, fair, that is somewhat newsworthy, this is also Poetry Week.

So maybe put your energy into the task at hand.

Poems are more important than a woman picking up some yokel standing next to you at the DMV and unhinging her jaw like a red-tailed boa and sliding that squirming citizen into her slimy gullet as her neck throbs with her still-living dinner.

And yes, I know how she gets this blank stare as she's digesting and how she looks all warped like a melted plastic soda bottle.

It's creepy.

Blah, blah, blah.

Sure.

Yes, totally.

But, like I said before, that woman is our town founder, Tabitha Littlefield.

She rose from a chrysalis a few months ago, and it's such an honor to have her around again.

She's only feeding on us because she's hungry.

She's been dead for nearly 300 years.

Cut her some slack.

Actually, you know what would be nice?

If you wrote poems about her.

I think she'd really like that.

Poetry Week is an ancient tradition that goes back to Tabitha's days when the first town council met.

They would pile soft meat high atop their heads and then recite original poems.

These poems were improvised and really mean.

Kind of like rap battles, but with slightly different hats.

Speaking of poems, I just received this poem from the Department of Commerce.

It's called Press Release.

Urgent Notice.

The city of Nightvale is out of food and supplies because there apparently is no way in or out of Nightvale.

At least not predictably so.

Sometimes people come here.

Other times people leave here.

But that's usually an accident.

We're not scientists.

But we are the Department of Commerce for the City of Nightvale.

and we strongly believe that commerce needs goods to actually, you know,

work.

So if anyone has any ideas on how to get imports or exports, that'd be great.

In the meantime, let's all be cool at the Ralphs, okay?

Love, Melanie, and Rich.

Well,

that's not a very traditional poem.

I like the part at the end where we learn the narrator's first names.

That was a twist.

Also, they mentioned scientists, which is highly erotic.

But the whole piece is lacking structure.

I couldn't find the rhythm in my performance, and I don't think there's a single rhyme in it.

Maybe it's about the internal rhymes?

A lot of modern poets love to hide their rhymes.

Um, let's see.

Way

rhymes with okay.

Yeah.

Yeah, I like it now that I've given it some space.

It's doing something unique, really subverting our expectations about poetry and capitalism.

Good job, Department of Commerce.

Listeners, many of you have been hand-delivering your poems up to the station because you want them read on the air before they're fed to the librarians.

That's great.

I love that.

But I'm getting word that our town founder, Tabitha Littlefield, has been not only eating people, but also their poems.

While I want the best for our town founder, seems like a lovely woman, what with that blue suit and glimmering chrysalis ooze still covering her whole self, we certainly need far more poems than we have been delivered.

Let's do this!

Hang on to your original poems.

Keep writing.

And if you want to send some to me to read on the air, you can just email them.

I'm CecilGershwinPamler at gmail.com.

Not Palmer, Pamler.

I intentionally misspelled my own email address so that random people wouldn't send me dirty photos or ransom notes or family recipes or pictures of kittens or whatever deranged things sickos like to email.

But y'all are my trusted listeners.

You won't send me anything terrible like recipes or cat photos.

You'll only send me poems for Poetry Week.

And remember, Poetry Week is only this week.

After that, no more writing poems.

It's not technically illegal, but it is unethical.

Oh look, we've already got our first emailed poem.

This one is from my niece, Janice, co-written by my sister, Abby.

It's called There's No Water in the Pool.

We used to go go swimming three seasons out of the year.

The pool is still there to remind us of warmth, of floating, of life before it ever began,

of better times, of family times.

The pool is empty, yet it is still a pool to us.

We trust the concrete will never leave us.

But without the water, it's only a shell of itself.

Gosh, that's such a haunting poem, you two.

I'm very moved, and I hope you get the pool filled up soon.

Oh, I see Abby included a little note about the meaning of the poem.

She says, Cecil, I don't know how to talk to Steve about his new job.

He seems happy, but it's hard to tell.

He's so busy.

I feel like he's not really himself these days.

Something about that new company, that labyrinth, has taken away all that made him a great husband and father, and now there's just a Steve-shaped man in our house.

Abby goes on.

Anyway, writing the poem was truly cathartic.

Feel free to read it on the air, but please don't read anything else from this email.

I want to talk to Steve myself.

Um, thanks for writing in, Abby and Janice.

And good luck with the

pool.

Listeners, best to just stay inside right now.

I'm getting reports that our town founder is out of control.

This used to be a simple case of a woman in a business suit covered in primordial goo strolling about the city randomly eating people.

But now, this is a rampage.

She's still strolling about eating people.

What with so many of you in the streets writing and reading poems?

She can't seem to stop herself.

In fact, I've been told that she's growing.

When she emerged from the chrysalis a few months back, people said she was maybe a little under five and a half feet tall, but after all the feasting, she's got to be 5'4?

5'5 by now?

So, head inside, Night Vale.

I know you'd love to be outside enjoying the crisp spring sunshine, but you're safer if you just hear about the weather.

Erasing the spots,

So it looks like time stopped.

But of course, you have to go over the top.

We gotta fix you up and spit you out.

Do it yourself with a little bit of magic.

Call in your flaws and we'll sort them out.

Stay safe.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

Empty incisions,

dressing up all your pain.

Plastic for plastic, a willing exchange.

Capture your best side,

pop the champagne.

Paper for plastic, the sadness contain.

We gotta fix you up up and spit you out.

Do it yourself with a little bit of magic.

Call in your flaws and we'll sort them out.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

Gotta fix you up and spit you out.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

Scars can heal, they can last.

Don't get caught up in the past.

Scars can heal, they can last.

Don't get caught up in the past.

Scars can heal, they can last, don't get caught up in the past

Just a number

Omar

Scars can heal, they can't last, don't get caught up in the past

No one's safe from

from their face Scars can heal, they can last, don't get caught up in the past

Just a number

On their ass

can heal, they can't last Don't get caught up in the past.

No one's safe from

their face.

We gotta fix you up and spit you out.

Do it yourself with a little bit of magic.

Call in your flaws and we'll sort them out.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

Gotta fix you up and spit you out.

Do it yourself with a little bit of magic.

Call in your flaws and we'll sort them out.

You're all normal, so get used to it.

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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Nightfale's founder walked across town, zigzagging down every major road, devouring maybe one out of every 50 or so people.

I've heard reports that she's eaten more than 2,000 poems today alone.

And that's a big blow.

We're going to all have to work harder, not smarter.

the rest of the week to meet the librarian's quota.

When she arrived at the center of town, the dog park's tall gates opened for her.

Oh, geez, just like 11 years ago.

Why can't we handle poetry weeks around here?

She headed straight toward the obelisk at the center of the park.

She licked the poem by former Knale mayor, Gagnell Dubois, that is engraved on the pedestal.

Tabitha then wrapped both her arms around the tower.

More arms emerged from her smart-looking blue blazer.

Then more arms.

All in all, something like 17 arms came out of that woman and she skittered to the top.

At this point, a long, forked tongue came out of her mouth and she began hissing.

A crowd gathered, awaiting a dramatic event.

Would our town founder transform into a giant winged beast?

Would the earth begin to quake?

Would the air around us all become flames?

Would the sky turn blood red and the clouds spin like lions circling their prey?

Would Poetry Week get cancelled again?

Nope.

The gates just stayed open.

And Tabitha's still up there, looking every bit like a woman in a blue business suit who just so happens to have a forked tongue and a surplus of arms.

It was...

anticlimactic?

So the crowd began to disperse.

Eh, I've seen Weirder, said James Botrose, owner of the Witch and Warlock Emporium off Route 800, in that building that was clearly once a bed bath and beyond.

This one time, my friend Rakeem, he was drinking a glass of milk, Botrose continued, and I said something really funny, like, once a generation-level joke here.

And Rakeem laughed so hard that milk came out of his nose

and he died.

Everyone standing near James Boutrose immediately went quiet and stared at him.

He continued.

Oh, I should clarify, there was an 80-year difference between when the milk came out of Rakeem's nose and when he died.

Rakeim died peacefully at age 99, surrounded by four children and 13 grandchildren, and even a few of the great-grandchildren.

But the weird part, Boudros said, is that Rakeem

was a tortoise.

Male tortoises don't stay with their young.

How did he know who those kids were?

Flipping bonkers, I tell you, Boudros concluded.

Then he waved a crooked stick in the air, A murmuration of starlings swirled about him, and he disappeared.

We've come a long way as a town, Nightvale.

11 years ago, it was taboo to even look toward the dog park, let alone directly inside it.

But nowadays, it's less of a big deal.

I'm proud of how we've grown.

But also, I'm out of paper towels and cereal, and I'm not really sure the Ralphs is ever going to restock.

So I guess if it's not one bother, it's another.

Well, Nightvale.

Who knows how long we're safe from the town founder or what she wants?

But at least she's stationary

for now.

Stay tuned next for the many poems you will write.

And as always, good night, Nightvale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Kraner, and Bree Williams and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

This episode's weather was Fix-Its and Favors by Luggage.

Find out more at the link in our show notes.

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Today's proverb.

You have two wolves inside you, Dave and Jill.

They're both film buffs.

Jill loves sports, and Dave has to travel a lot because of work.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

We've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look.

And we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Kanja and Hess.

So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unschooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my Night Vale co-creator, Joseph Fink.

It's called Unlicensed, and it's an LA Noir-style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators investigators whose small jobs looking into insurance claims and missing property are only the tip of a conspiracy iceberg.

There are already two seasons of Unlicensed for you to listen to now, with season three dropping on May 15th.

Unlicensed is available exclusively through Audible, free if you already have that subscription.

And if you don't, Audible has a trial membership.

And if I know you, and I do, you can binge all that mystery goodness in a short window.

And if you like it, if you liked Unlicensed, please, please rate and review each season.

Our ability to keep making this show is predicated on audience engagement.

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