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I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the Slowdown. I have always loved myths, legends, fables and fairy tales. When I was young, the myth of Icarus was one that captured my imagination. As the story goes, Icarus was the son of Daedalus, a master craftsman in ancient Greece. When Daedalus was punished by the king of the time, he and his son were imprisoned in a tall tower. Like most children confined to a small space, Icarus quickly became restless. And Daedalus, craftsman that he was, devised a plan to escape. He made two sets of wings from from feathers glued together with wax. He warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, which would cause the wax to melt. He also warned him not to fly too low, which would cause the feathers to get wet with seawater. Together, Daedalus and Icarus escaped the tower. Icarus, however, flew higher and higher. The wax melted and he fell into the sea and drowned. Today's poem references this myth, this cautionary tale, in beautiful, unexpected ways. It explores not only the tragic ending of the myth, but also what it tells us about our human desire to for freedom. If night you were a city by Adam Wide Awitch, I would return to you in a jacket of gold leaves drawn tight against the city wind whipping around corners, through buttonholes, over cobbled streets, park lanes cordoned off, barbarian herds of steel and glass and concrete, ground zero for crowds of absence. We'd lift off beyond the brick toward choked stars. Moons outshined by neon and by anxious day. Moons perched on dark spires, golden lions we'd wrap our naive wings around to embrace the. The artifice of it all and the reality. The heat here is unbearable and I miss the need to be warm. That need to look forward to nights alone with you with no morning on our minds, no time, no need to claw through restaurants packed with bridge and tunnel dwarf drunk on the filth and the beauty. For here there is no comparison. No autumn as autumn, no snow to justify a hot drink or a fat meal. The fish is delicious and the beer even better but not the same. Some say the grass is greener as if it's law and more that I try to recreate Metropolis each time a baobab drops a beetle to flee every time winter floods the sand to mute the night Boats eclipsing the mainland sprawl trading with another language transformed before my ears tell me how you lived your dream, and I will tell you who you are every night. Every single night. And with a wingspan I resurrect in a cold sweat. And off in the distance there are drums, drums beating the island like drums and outside the window and an unexpected laugh, drums in concert with a percussive horn of the fairy. To you there's nothing romantic about this, nothing absolute. I am reminded of everything that went wrong, everything that went right. And when I wake, if I wake up, may the flash not wax our feathers, may it not melt our wings. 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. Find us on Instagram @downdownshow and bluesky.downdownshow.org. Maggie Here, host of the Slowdown Listening to and reading poetry helps us find our footing in an uncertain world, especially during challenging times. You can help keep these moments of poetry and reflection going by making a gift today. Visit slowdownshow.org donate.
Host: Maggie Smith
Date: March 17, 2026
This episode of The Slowdown centers on the poem “If Night You Were a City” by Adam Wiedewitsch, exploring themes of myth, longing, and the human search for freedom. Host Maggie Smith frames the episode through the lens of the Icarus myth, delving into how the poem uses this ancient story as a powerful metaphor for aspiration, risk, and desire.
“When I was young, the myth of Icarus was one that captured my imagination… today's poem references this myth, this cautionary tale, in beautiful, unexpected ways.”
— Maggie Smith [00:27]
“We'd lift off beyond the brick toward choked stars. Moons outshined by neon and by anxious day. Moons perched on dark spires, golden lions we'd wrap our naive wings around to embrace the… the artifice of it all and the reality.”
— Adam Wiedewitsch, read by Maggie Smith [01:40]
"Tell me how you lived your dream, and I will tell you who you are every night. Every single night. And with a wingspan I resurrect in a cold sweat."
— Adam Wiedewitsch [03:55]
“And when I wake, if I wake up, may the flash not wax our feathers, may it not melt our wings.”
— Adam Wiedewitsch [04:55]
In this episode, Maggie Smith uses the Icarus myth to frame Adam Wiedewitsch’s poem as an exploration of risk, longing, and the perpetual act of striving for something just out of reach. Through vivid city imagery, mythic allusions, and a tone of wistful vulnerability, the episode reminds listeners of the complexities and hopes in seeking freedom and meaning in our daily lives.