Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

I have this strong belief: poetry dignifies lives, especially those whose existences are not centered in our imaginations. Many of my favorite poets do the work of seeing individuals who are invisible to us. Poems like William Wordsworth’s “The Old Cumberland Beggar” and Langston Hughes’ “Mother to Son” are classic examples.

But poets today also recognize those on the edges of society so that the record of our art inspires connection and empathy. Such poets even invite us to ponder why some human beings go unrecognized, for example, why we tend to turn away from the unhoused person begging for coins at an exit ramp or why we brush past the elderly in grocery store aisles.

I love hearing underrepresented people say, “I feel seen.” In those instances, people might experience empowerment or affirmation. Yet, representation is not the only criteria of art. We’ve the task of advancing the technology of poetry, too, so that it remains a vital means by which we cut through the noise and speak to each other daringly with vulnerability, as my colleague Hortense writes, “to enter the chain of significant differences.”

We are about to endure a season of political campaigning, a time when our differences will be used to divide us. Groups of people will be harmed by misleading statements and fraught language. More than ever, we might need poetry to heal us into an intentional compassion.

Today’s wonderful poem models a courageous leap beyond fear into a wholehearted kindness. The poem invites us to lean into each other with generosity so that we no longer flinch at the messy richness of our humanity.

Casual Labor
by Sandy Solomon

The man at the front door wants work,
any job. Hand on the knob, I start 
to turn him down, to swing the door’s weight
to, but then I consider my mother’s mother.
In Rock Island during the Depression, her daughters 
said, she shared the family’s meals with men
who daily knocked to ask for food or work,
her own husband jobless and looking, 
but the garden producing, the children usually fed
(stews from the broad beans beside their garage, 
the latticed tomatoes and peas down the back, 
and, out of black, turned ground, the potatoes, 
the carrots). Those who have the least will often
give the most, I tell myself, and shame 
on the rest of us, on me. So, I find a task—
trim the hedge—and shears, then watch the man
hack the honeysuckle back in awkward 
clumps, his serious face upturned; his arms 
reaching, closing frantically; his visible 
ribs laddering beneath his shirt. 
And he’s not alone. A slight woman in knock-off 
sneakers and long, black skirt watches, then drags 
brush to the curb; points out spots to clip—
sweep of her index finger, murmur of her voice. 
As I count my bills into his upturned palm, 
her eyes don’t leave the cash. Something urgent 
hangs on this day’s work.  Silently she nudges
and harries him away.  They must have kids,
I realize; some payment due tonight.
As they disappear behind the hacked hedge, 
her open hand circles the small of his back;
her head dips lightly against his shoulder.

"Casual Labor" by Sandy Solomon. Used by permission of the poet.