[encore] 1078: Ferment by Monica Rico - The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily

Summary

Summary of The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily - Episode [Encore] 1078: "Ferment" by Monica Rico

Release Date: March 12, 2025
Host: Ajor Jackson
Production: American Public Media in partnership with The Poetry Foundation

Introduction

In this episode of The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily, host Ajor Jackson delves deep into the intricate relationship between structured learning and the intuitive artistry found in poetry. Guiding listeners through personal reflections and the evocative poem "Ferment" by Monica Rico, Jackson explores how balancing knowledge with instinct can enrich both creative expression and everyday experiences.

Host’s Reflections on Learning and Intuition

Ajor Jackson begins the episode by reflecting on the profound influence of family in shaping one’s character and approach to life. He emphasizes the importance of humility and the grounding effect family has in preventing arrogance:

At 00:45, Jackson shares, "There's nothing like family to keep you in check... I thank them for their lessons of humility and modesty."

He candidly discusses his own predisposition towards structured learning and research:

At 02:15, he admits, "I am addicted to the vast knowledge of the world, to instructions, to learning the right way."

Jackson juxtaposes his methodical approach with the spontaneous nature of poetic creation, acknowledging the limitations of relying solely on learned knowledge:

At 03:30, he reflects, "I saturate my brain, when in fact I should instead let intuition and a meandering knowing take over."

This introspection sets the stage for his appreciation of poetry's ability to harness both learned techniques and innate creativity.

Introduction and Reading of "Ferment" by Monica Rico

Transitioning into the heart of the episode, Jackson introduces "Ferment," a poem that metaphorically explores the process of baking bread as a reflection of life's complexities and the balance between control and surrender.

He sets the scene with vivid imagery, guiding listeners through the sensory experiences of baking:

At 04:10, Jackson begins to narrate, "Imagine your grandmother who loved bread, telling you not to get caught up in the exactness of the recipe..."

The poem intricately weaves themes of tradition, precision, and the organic nature of growth and creation. Through detailed descriptions of measuring ingredients and the tactile sensations of kneading dough, Rico illustrates the delicate interplay between following established methods and embracing the natural flow of the process.

Analysis of "Ferment"

Jackson offers a thoughtful analysis of "Ferment," highlighting its exploration of control versus improvisation:

At 05:00, he notes, "It's the repetitive motion that keeps you alive... The dough responds to this. It likes the gentle heat of your hands..."

He interprets the dough as a metaphor for human creativity and existence, suggesting that while structure provides a foundation, true artistry emerges from allowing oneself to adapt and respond intuitively:

At 05:45, Jackson comments, "The pull, tuck and snap of applause. Years gone by, and yet here you are somehow flour on the counter... you are both elastic and everything."

This duality underscores the poem's message about embracing both the measured steps and the unforeseen variations that life and art inevitably present.

Conclusion

Concluding the episode, Ajor Jackson encapsulates the essence of "Ferment" as a testament to the beauty of melding discipline with spontaneity. He encourages listeners to find harmony between their learned knowledge and their intuitive impulses, both in creative endeavors and daily living.

At 06:00, he reflects, "It's okay not to time the kneading, best to do it until you begin to tire, because the dough responds to this."

Jackson's closing remarks reinforce the episode's central theme: true growth and creativity flourish when one balances meticulous effort with the freedom to adapt and evolve.

Notable Quotes:

00:45 – "There's nothing like family to keep you in check... I thank them for their lessons of humility and modesty." — Ajor Jackson
02:15 – "I am addicted to the vast knowledge of the world, to instructions, to learning the right way." — Ajor Jackson
03:30 – "I saturate my brain, when in fact I should instead let intuition and a meandering knowing take over." — Ajor Jackson
04:10 – "Imagine your grandmother who loved bread, telling you not to get caught up in the exactness of the recipe..." — Ajor Jackson
05:00 – "It's the repetitive motion that keeps you alive... The dough responds to this. It likes the gentle heat of your hands..." — Ajor Jackson
05:45 – "The pull, tuck and snap of applause. Years gone by, and yet here you are somehow flour on the counter... you are both elastic and everything." — Ajor Jackson
06:00 – "It's okay not to time the kneading, best to do it until you begin to tire, because the dough responds to this." — Ajor Jackson

This episode of The Slowdown masterfully intertwines personal narrative with poetic analysis, offering listeners a profound meditation on the essence of creation and the enduring dance between structure and spontaneity.

Transcript

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Ajor Jackson (0:34)

I'm Ajor Jackson and this is the Slowdown. There's nothing like family to keep you in check, lest your head gets too big or you forget from whence you came or in case you thought all the book learning made you somehow magically better than everyone else you grew up with or who gave you love. A crime I never committed because my family wouldn't permit it. I thank them for their lessons of humility and modesty. Even if at times their barbs felt when I was younger, targeted, meant to hurt a bit, I know their teasing. Sometimes their reprimands came from what they felt to be a little unfairness in the cosmos to bring me down a few pegs. My grandfather's favorite admonishment was I've forgotten more than you'll ever know. Another family member would tease all that book learning and still you don't know how to fill in the blank. What is true, however, is that I am addicted to the vast knowledge of the world, to instructions, to learning the right way. I am quick to run to a book. I do all kinds of research before launching into a project. I am a deep diver for an 8,000 word commissioned article that I've yet to write on the first black celebrity cyclist, also named Major Major Taylor. I read three biographies. When writing poems and essays, I saturate my brain, when in fact I should instead let intuition and a meandering knowing take over. There is something in the old time folk wisdom, in what some used to call common sense, that which cannot be learned in a book but arrives from the sweet streets of living. As a person who sticks to the recipe step by step, exact measurements and all, I appreciate how today's poem lifts up the magic of feeling and improvisation, of putting one's whole body into a task Ferment by Monica Rico first, imagine your grandmother who loved bread, telling you not to get caught up in the exactness of the recipe, which will go against what the chef taught you. When you were trying to measure 0.3 grams, a sixteenth of a teaspoon and you thought this is a pinch as you lifted and replaced each weight on the scale behind you. The dough smelled ripe like beer in those early mornings of baking school, the machines getting lost and fold after folding, the ribbon arm of dough flexible as a twist tie. It is the repetitive motion that keeps you alive. Sardines, a glass of champagne, falling asleep at 3pm after work in your whites, forgetting to dot the galaxy of raspberry spit and Morse code across your sleeves. The bull round pulled taut, flexed like flesh and muscle, holy and alive with breath or excess, expanding like the universe but in your hands an illusion of control. It's okay not to time the kneading, best to do it until you begin to tire, because the dough responds to this. It likes the gentle heat of your hands, the pull, tuck and snap of applause. Years gone by, and yet here you are somehow flour on the counter, flour on the floor, small scabs of dough mark your palms and you are both elastic and everything. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. This project is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. On the web@arts.gov to get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram slowdownshow.