Transcript
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Major Jackson (0:59)
Hi, it's major As I close my time as host of the Slowdown, I'm grateful for the opportunity I've had to share poetry with you these past few years. The Slowdown has a deep store of episodes, and for the next few months we're reaching into the archive to bring you some of our favorites. Here's one from my time on the show.
Major Jackson (1:28)
I'm Major Jackson, and this is the Slowdown.
Major Jackson (1:42)
Last year, I traveled to multiple book festivals in Portland, Miami, and the Twin Cities to promote Razzle Dazzle. The climate of live music, food trucks, and books is the far side of my solitary life. At my desk, wherever large numbers of readers gather in one place, I feel the exhilaration of being a writer. Next to independent bookstores shout out to open books in Seattle, Parnassus in Nashville and Northshire Books in Manchester, Vermont. Festivals are where I make the deep plunge to support poets. I hope you do too. I typically pack an extra bag for books I'll purchase and have signed by my favorite authors, and I'm lucky to get to share the stage with a few of them. Last year, I relished soulful conversations with Ross Gay, Jane Hirschfeld, Carrie Miller, Tracy K. Smith, and Matthew Sapruderm. In the green room, over cans of sparkling water, we catch up with each other. We applaud each other's achievements and inquire about family and latest projects. And maybe even more importantly, there is that celebratory atmosphere, gaining insights on a range of topics. The exaltation of books and authors, the thoughtful public conversations feel like democracy at its best. I smile, give hugs, and dance. But then I feel this dissonance between my public self and the me on the page. Sometimes I find it difficult to navigate my Persona as a poet and the very real emotional context out of which my poems emerge a demanding work schedule, the dictates of parenting and being a life partner, my frustration at the headlines, the intensity of war, the impact of conflict on our collective well being, and a rising intolerance for a diversity of public opinions. At the end of a festival day I am exhausted. I try to take advantage of the relaxing environment such trips occasion. If there is any glamour to finding some success as a writer, it is in a spa like tub in a hotel, away from the worries of existence. In today's poem I hear a shared melancholy, a world weariness where the edges of life fail to offer answers. Yet I detect two in the presence of a deity, the transits and rituals of hope and renewal. Sonnet for Oshun by Leslie Saenz after my left arm I washed my right neck, decolletage and navel I ate ground meat with large crystals of imported salt. The women and men who would stroke my hair if I asked, I thought of them fondly. Then sadly at the flea market what I touched with a fingernail was a copper lamp, a mundane painting of mountains, the cashier's hum. I bought nothing I didn't want in the cul de sac I found clouds on leashes, loose roosters, I thought, thoughts ugly as clothespins. Reading a used book I suspected I knew less about death than the last person who held it. I spat into a mirrored sink. I lost my slippers and and face to feel more like water. I drank it before bed. I walked my plank of uncertainties and plunged further into uncertainty. Am I capturing all of history in this gesture? I shouted into the future. In the wet air of the future I could have but never appeared. No one was sorry but me.
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