Transcript
Life Cereal Advertiser (0:00)
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Micah (0:25)
I really love my life hey, it's Slow down producer Micah As 2024 comes to a close, we're asking you to help us plan for a poetry filled 2025. Your donation today helps us continue making the show and plan for future episodes. Show your support during this season of giving by making a tax deductible gift in any amount today. Visit slowdownshow.org donate or find the link in the show Notes thanks and happy listening.
Major Jackson (1:00)
I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slowdown. Here's another craft episode, but perhaps more of an instigation I don't want to complain about what is missing in contemporary poetry. I want to talk about the extended conceit. It is one of the finest tools in poetry. It not only entertains the reader by way of wit and cleverness, but also sharpens the mind of a poet as they work to render legible their feelings. Which, lets admit, lies in obscurity without the press of language. Everyone's feelings lie in obscurity without some communication, written or otherwise. A conversation last winter with a friend led us down the path to a point of disagreement. Metaphor making is deceptive and superfluous on par with lying, he said. One thing is not like another thing on the surface, I agreed. But how wondrous to imagine a world absent of division. And how wondrous for a poet to disentangle the chaotic bits of existence into an instance of lucid meaning, to bring to light a world in an elegant relationship with itself. If the simile is a layup in a basketball game and a metaphor is a jump shot from the foul line, then the extended conceit is a half court attempt to win the game. You have options on any court, other players orbiting around you, but control of the conceit is paramount, that is, orchestrating the entire buzz, and of course not letting the ball go out of bounds, keeping it in play. All passes must be crisp and accurate, and the final shot is the result of an accumulative strategy, one of dazzling the reader until the ball drops through the hoop. I enjoyed today's poem immensely for how it makes its opening comparison, then leads us to the sweet conclusion, one about an experience we all share, yet it individualizes through the power of metaphor. Childhood by David Baker I miss the cold, but not the cold breaking not the small limbs sheared nor the ice pick cold white wind working its whole way through you, no matter your coat and gloves and no matter the blue scarf someone tied and tucked tight. The same cold blue all day in the sky frozen blue through limbs of the two standing elms brilliant each blue blue the color of new snow like wafers on the fields. Come in cold then and the dark comes with you. Kick off your boots and someone is rubbing your feet so they sting then stop stinging now the bruised apple red bottle at the foot of your bed steaming and come morning wood smoke in the kitchen. I miss the cold then so cold there is singing 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. Find us on Instagram at Slow down show.
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