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Major Jackson (1:30)

Hey, it's me, Major Jackson. We're reaching into the archive to bring you some of our favorites. Here's one from Ada Limone's tenure as host. Her thoughtfulness and deep love of poetry made her time on the show very special. I hope you enjoy this selection from the archives.

Ada Limon (1:57)

I'm Ada Limon, and this is the Slowdown. Have you ever heard poets talk about voice? Or use the phrase I just need to find my voice or something? Something like that. It's a concept that's talked a lot about in graduate programs and in craft seminars. Although I've heard about it throughout my life as a poet, I still sometimes wonder what it means. For me, the voice of a poem is the voice underneath whatever the speaker is saying. The place that is both the writer and not the writer. That's the only way I can describe it because the that's how it happens to me when I am really writing, really working on poems, which is often as alive as I ever feel, as present as I ever feel. I am not just speaking to the world, I am listening to it. Listening to my body, my blood, my ever changing pulse that slows and quickens depending on the emotionality of the subject. Once I was working so intensely on a poem that I forgot to eat. I got up and made myself something to eat quickly. Something like a piece of toast with peanut butter on it. Something for sustenance and not necessarily pleasure. And when I returned to my office I couldn't remember what I was listening to. I looked at my phone and tried to figure out if I'd been listening to the radio or a podcast. I checked my computer to see what windows were open and where the sound had been coming from before I broke for lunch. It was then that I realized the voice I had been hearing, the thing that I could swear, was so loud that it was being played on my mid sized speaker in my office. The voice I could hear as loudly as if it belonged to someone else, was my own. It was a shocking revelation. I didn't think I'd had the experience before, yet it also felt familiar that maybe this was the first time I had fully recognized the way I write all the time. It is a listening. It is a listening for what we might call a voice. Today's poem is an exploration of the self, or maybe what we'd call the soul and what it is to recognize our own presence on the page and in the world. Song by Sharif Shanahan I wait each night for a self. I say the mist, I say the strange tumble of leaves. I say a motor in the distance But I mean a self and a self and a self. A small cold wind coils and uncoils in the corner of every room A vagrant in the dream. I gather my life in bundles and stand at the edge of a field of snow. It is a field I know but have never seen. It is nowhere and always new. What about the lives of I might have lived as who? And who will be accountable for this regret? I see no way to avoid a core or husk. I need to learn not how to speak but from where. Do you understand? I say name but I mean a conduit from me to me. I mean a net. I mean an awning of stars.