Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

I grew up in a home with an upright Steinway piano. It was beige and sat in the corner of the living room, silent until someone came along and tinkled its keys. My grandmother played every Saturday in preparation for Sunday morning church. She was “untrained” yet played old hymns by ear. We also gathered around her Christmas eve and sang holiday songs. I fiddled here and there. Nothing special.

Earlier this year, I started piano lessons. I have whole tunes and solos memorized in my ear: from Glenn Gould’s “Goldberg Variations” to McCoy Tyner’s “Peresina.” But, I discovered, I lack the lyricism of my favorite pianists. My teacher, Carla, is as patient as they come, walking me through whole and quarter notes, so that I can get the rhythm in my body, which of course, I believe is already there. I just need to practice. I hear my friend Ben laughing quietly to himself, if he’s listening right now to this episode. We both love Allen Iverson’s famous press conference, “Practice? Practice? We talkin’ about practice man! We ain’t talking about the game. We talkin’ about practice.”

There is no shortcut to virtuosity. Some say poetry is the most democratic art. You only need pencil, paper, and access to language and your heart. True . . . but . . . arriving at a level of intuitive composition in which the poem has us see the world anew requires hours of discipline and play and reading. Yet, I think it’s important not to have unrealistic expectations. Growth as a poet is glacial. To be a poet is to commit to being a lifelong student of the art and the realization that no poet or poem is perfect.

Today’s visceral poem points to the all-important fact that with any artistic activity or pursued talent, the quest is the reward.

Sword Swallowing Lessons
by Judy Kaber

i
Learn to inhabit your body,
try—tai chi, yoga, meditation—anything
that trains you to move beyond fear,
to stitch together mind-body connections.

ii
Begin with small items: drum stick,
wooden spoon, candle. With these you must 
dismantle the gag reflex, learn to tuck in your chin,
align your mouth and esophagus with your spine.

iii
Bend a coat hanger to the shape of a sword.
Coat it with oil. Go slow. Now you will
plough through your throat, keep
involuntary muscles in check, enter

iv
the red zone, a channel down
beside your lungs, the in-and-out of air,
the smell now of burnt feathers, of steel.
Remember the last time you

v
kissed someone, eyes closed, your heart
a flutter of leaves. The sword must be dull,
must have a guard to keep it from entering
too far. It’s important not to slip

vi
into the past, to try to fix all the rags
and roots of your misery. Eat a full meal or
drink water to stretch your stomach if
you intend to use a long blade.

vii
You must be serene on the stage,
let panic live in the blade, but remain
still. The sound of the audience will carry you
like a ship to the center of your storm.

"Sword Swallowing Lessons" by Judy Kaber. Originally appeared in The Bellingham Review. Used by permission of the poet.