Kevin Young’s Beautiful New Poem for The National

The first thing to note about Kevin Young, the recently appointed poetry editor at The New Yorker, is his range. A survey of the 47-year-old Nebraska native’s output includes fictional telegrams to Jean-Michel Basquiat; a book-length elegy for his father; and an epic poem, written over the course of twenty years, about the Amistad rebellion. He’s as likely to allude to Jay-Z as he is W. E. B. Du Bois, and his style can slide from the richly metaphorical to the plainly vernacular in a single stanza. In Young’s new poem for The National, “Whistle,” as in much of his work, omens abound—distant thunder, a “drought-fed lawn”—but we’re left with a moment of calm: the simple solace of a train arriving on time, and the hope that it brings.

Whistle

And then he can whistle

this son, moon
     of mine
circling, the name

we gave to the far side
     of the satellite,
this thunder

in the near distance
     heralding summer,
grown thirsty,

plummeting down
     suddenly, drenching
the dog & drought-fed

lawn. Nothing
     for once is wrong—
the rain’s metal smell,

cicadas quieted,
     a train on time
arriving

& that sound now his—
     as if a kiss
might make music.

—Kevin Young