Transcript
Greenlight Representative (0:00)
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Oregon Lottery Representative (0:33)
In the summer, all of Oregon is our playground thanks to our incredible park system. That's why it's so cool that Oregon Lottery gameplay like video lottery or cash pop helps support tons of parks projects statewide like accessible trails at Silver Falls State park or upgrades to your favorite dog park in Newburgh. It's just one way a little lottery play for many Oregonians can add up to a lot of good the Oregon Lottery Together we do good things. Lottery games are based on chance and should be played for entertainment only. Must be 18 or older to play.
Major (1:04)
Hi, it's Major. The slowdown is on a break right now, but we'll be back soon with a new host. In the meantime, we're bringing you some of the best episodes from our archives. Today we revisit an episode from Tracy K. Smith's time at the helm. Enjoy.
Tracy K. Smith (1:29)
Tracy K. Smith and this is the slowdown we are living through. What I want to believe is an awakening. Many people who have never given an injustice like racism much thought are beginning to think about it. They're beginning to recognize that it's not a thought, theoretical abstraction affecting faceless, faraway strangers. Now they see it. Now they believe. Those of us who have been saying we can see and feel and smell it all this time. Now what? What are those who are awake to this reality, willing to give up change, renounce, replace, in order to begin righting age old wrongs? And what's next? What must we do in light of all the other systems of injustice in which you and I are implicated? Transphobia, ableism, sexism, nationalism. The list is long and close to home. Today's poem is the Feeling by Ari Banyas. Each spring a cloud travels up from the south to an island in the Aegean. The red cloud is coming, the townspeople say, or the red cloud has been here. What cloud? My mother asks. Since when? The red cloud covers the buildings, the cars, in a fine red film of dust from elsewhere that we imagine we cannot feel. The wars is an American feeling that we cannot see them, that we say they are somewhere else, but someone pays the police. We do that. We are meant to believe. The poem can say moon, but not government. Both have flags attached and can make a body howl beyond its will. They punctuate existence. Even if I believe, I can't feel them. They legislate, they leak. The moon, which is always here, even if it cannot be seen. The inmates and the detainees and correctional facilities in jails and prisons in maximum and minimum security, in solitary cannot see the moon. Or they can. The inmates who are here always, even if I cannot see them, who cannot speak to me or who do. But am I listening? Are we listening to poems? Not much. Therefore I can say anything. No. I can say moon and tree and fox and river, or me and you, or love and stutter. But I can mean corporation. I can mean police, I can mean surveillance, or that the moon is a prison. It is daytime, and in daytime nearly no one sees the moon. And the tree is a television where the president appears in the form of a finch. He sings gorgeously. People swoon. We learn that finches eat mostly seeds, small and harmless. So when the tree flowers in spring, we forget the moon and its mute armaments. How drunk we become on blossoms. We don't ask what kind of seeds or where they're from. We hum along with the finches, with the sirens, with the rivers, with the police, a harmony whose falling droplets we can't feel. And meanwhile a law ushered through, noiselessly mandating seeds. This is not our poem. The poem has been privatized. Its flag will be a red feeling. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation.
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