Transcript
A (0:00)
Martha listens to her favorite band all the time in the car, gym, even sleeping. So when they finally went on tour, Martha bundled her flight and hotel on Expedia to see them live. She saved so much she got her seat close enough to actually see and hear them. Saw dog, you were made to scream from the front row. We were made to quietly save you. More Expedia made to Travel Savings vary and subject to availability. Flight inclusive packages are atoll protected.
B (0:30)
Hey there, it's Maggie. For the next two weeks of episodes, the poet Sameer Bashir will be guest hosting the Slowdown. I hope you enjoy her selections and reflection. I'll return on February 18th.
C (0:52)
I'm Samia Bashir and this is the Slowdown. It's Groundhog Day, the day we all wait on bated breath for sunrise to see if Punxsutawney Phil, our national meteorological groundhog, has or has not seen his shadow upon his emergence from his winter's hibernation. There's a lot riding on the tuxedo and top hat wearing, nearsighted rodent an entire season's joy or misery. The tradition brought to us by the Pennsylvania Dutch is linked with Candlemas, which commemorates the presentation of Christ at Temple in 19th century Pennsylvania. The Germans replaced their Christ representing bear with a groundhog whose shadow symbolizes the suffering or darkness which grace and light can overcome. For our current 21st century moment, I'd like to interject a young black poet. February 1st is also known as National Freedom Day to honor the day in 1865 that President Lincoln signed the 13th Amendment into law, abolishing slavery nationwide. There's something to be said about our strongly held veneration for freedom, freedom not only of movement, but of living and choosing our own paths. I've chosen the path of teaching creative writing, especially poetry. For more decades now than I like to count, I've picked up a habit the sharing of today's poem. In the first or last meeting of a new class, this poem makes a promise of its title, dresses it in flesh and bone and tracks it across time. It's a clear, bold promise that might actively change the future, not only for its speaker, but but for the world. We all share Gratitude by Cornelius Eady I'm here to tell you an old story. This appears to be my work. I live in the world, walk the streets of New York, this dear city. I want to tell you I'm 36 years old. I have lived in and against my blood. I want to tell you I am grateful because after all, I'm A black American poet. I'm 36, and no one has to tell me about luck. I mean, after a reading. Someone asked me once, if you weren't doing this, what, if anything, would you be doing? And I didn't say what. We both understood. I'm a black American male. I own this particular story on this particular street, at this particular moment. This appears to to be my work. I'm 36 years old and all I have to do is repeat what I notice over and over. All I have to do is remember. And to the famous poet who thinks literature holds no small musics. Love. And to the publishers who believe in their marrow there's no profit on the fringes, love. And to those who need the promise of wind, the sound of branches stirring beneath the line, here's another environment poised to open. Everyone reminds me what an amazing odyssey I'm undertaking. As well they should. After all, I'm a black American poet and my greatest weakness is an inability to sustain rage. Who knows what'll happen next? This appears to be one for the books. If you train your ears for what's unstated beneath the congratulations. That silence is my story. The pure celebration and shock of my face defying its gravity, so to speak. I claim this tiny glee not just for myself but for my parents who shook their heads. I'm older now than my father was when he had me, which is no big deal except I have personal knowledge of the wind that tilts the head back. And I claim this loose seed in the air glee on behalf of the social studies teacher I had in the 10th grade, a real bastard who took me aside after class the afternoon he heard I was leaving for a private school just to let me know. He expected me to drown out there that I held the knowledge of the drowned man, the regret of ruined flesh in my eyes. Which was fair enough, except I believe I've been teaching far longer now than he had that day and I know the blessing of a narrow escape. And I claim this rooster pull down mourning glee on behalf of anyone who saw me coming and said yes. Even when I was loud, cocky, insecure, even when all they could have seen was the promise of a germ, even when it meant yielding ground. I am a bit older than they were when I walked into that room or class or party, and I understand the value of the unstated push. A lucky man gets to sing his name. I have survived long enough to tell a bit of an old story. And to those who defend poetry against all foreign love and to those who believe a dropped clause signifies encroachment, love. And to the bullies who need the musty air of the clubhouse all to themselves, I am a brick in a house that is being built around your house. I'm 36 years old, a black American poet. Nearly all the things that weren't supposed to occur have happened anyway, and I have a natural inability to sustain rage despite the evidence. I have proof and a job that comes as simple to me as breathing. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. And find us on Instagram @downdownshow and blueskylowdownshow.org.