TRANSCRIPT

Major Jackson: Today we are bringing you a special episode: an evening of conversation, poetry, and some fun, taped live in Los Angeles at The Crawford, in partnership with our friends at LAist. We hope you enjoy The Slowdown Live.

Welcome to The Slowdown Live. Are you happy to be here? How are y'all doing? This is being recorded, so you have to be loud. Everybody’s good?

Audience: Yeah!

Major Jackson: Yeah. That's good to know. Fantastic. Look. This is gonna be an amazing night. This is gonna be one for the books. there's no, some of you are here for AWP. Can I see my AWP fans here? Good. Fantastic. And some of you are fans of LAist? Yeah. And I'm gonna bet all of you are fans of poetry. Two hands up on that. Thank you. Thank you. 

Okay. I will be joined tonight by some of my favorite poets and your favorite poets. And we are going to, well, slow down. We need some conversation right now. We need some being with each other right now. But most of all, we need fun. And poetry and fun, believe it or not, they do go together.

So, I'm gonna start off with a poem. And I'm feeling an enormous amount of gratitude right now. And so, I'm gonna read this poem. Anyone know the poem to express gratitude? The ode! O-D-E! 

So, I'm gonna read an ode. And a friend of mine, he told me, "Major, you haven't written any odes yet.” I was like, "you're right. You must write a ode." Now the thing with the ode is it has to be a ode to something that no one has thought before, right? So, like, you know, Pablo Neruda said, "I'm gonna write an ode to my socks." And he said, "while I'm at it, I'm gonna write an ode to my cat." And so, I sat and thought, and I was like, “what can I write a ode to?” I couldn't come up with anything. So, I said, “I'm gonna write a ode to everything.”

So, this is “Ode to Everything.”

Ode to Everything

Somehow I have never thought
to thank the ice cream cone
for building a paradise in my mouth,
and can you believe I have never
thought to thank the purple trout lily
for demonstrating its six-petaled dive
or the yellow circle in a traffic light
for illustrating patience. My bad.
In my life I have failed to praise
the postman whose loyalty is epic,
the laundress who treasures my skinny jeans
and other garments, and the auto repairman
who clangs a wrench inside my car tightening
her own music. Were my name called and I
were summoned on a brightly lit stage to accept
a little statuette, after staring in utter
disbelief, I would thank my dentist
as well as my neighbor who sits vigil
beside the dying far away from the lights,
and my fourth grade teacher who brought
down three-taped rulers on my hands
as punishment for daydreaming out a window
during an exam I already completed. Mea culpa.
Now that I know the value of the peaks
across from Flanders Hill, I will also perennially express
reverence for their green crowns.
I will never fail again to say small devotions for
the scar on a friend's face that lengthens
when I walk into a room.

Thank you.

Okay, let's bring out our guests tonight. Our first guest is Jason Schneiderman. He's the author of five Poetry Collections, actually six poetry collections. Most recently Self Portrait of Icarus as a Country on Fire from Red Hen Press. His book of essays I strongly recommend, called Nothingism: Poetry at the End of Print Culture was published by The University of Michigan Poets on Poetry series. He is a Professor of English at CUNY's Borough of Manhattan and teaches in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Please welcome Jason Schneiderman.

Jason, you are a poet, and I bet you have a poem to read. Could you read us a poem?

Jason Schneiderman: I will.

Major Jackson: Thank you.

Jason Schneiderman: You'll hear the parentheses in the title. Because when I do this, it's the parentheses.

In the End, You Get Everything Back (Liza Minnelli)

The afterlife is an infinity of custom shelving, where everything
you have ever loved has a perfect place, including things
that don't fit on shelves, like the weeping willow from
your parents' backyard, or an old boyfriend exactly as he was
in your second year of college, or an aria you love, but without
the rest of the opera you don't particularly care for.
My favorite joke: Q: You know who dies? A: Everyone!
Because it's true. But ask any doctor and they'll say that
prolonging a life is saving a life. Ask anyone who survives
their surgeries, and they'll say yes, to keep living is to be saved.
I do think there's a statute of limitations on grief, like, certainly,
how someone died can be sad forever, but who can be sad
simply about the fact that Shakespeare, say, is dead, or Sappho
or Judy Garland, or Rumi. There's a Twitter account called
LizaMinnelliOutlives, which put into the world a set of thoughts
I was having privately, but the twitter account is kinder than
I had been, tweeting things like "Liza Minnelli has outlived
the National Rifle Association, which has filed for bankruptcy."
And "Liza Minnelli has outlived Armie Hammer's career" to take 
the sting out of the really painful ones, like "Liza Minnelli
has outlived Jessica Walter" or "Liza Minnelli has outlived
George Michael" or "Liza Minnelli has outlived Prince."
In my own afterlife, the custom shelves are full of Liza Minnellis— 
Liza in Cabaret, Liza in Arrested Development, Liza singing
"Steam Heat" on The Judy Garland Christmas Special, Liza
on the Muppet Show. Liza in Liza's at the Palace, and because this is heaven,
Liza won't even know she's in my hall of loved objects,
just as I won't know that my fandom has been placed on her shelf
for when Liza Minnelli has outlived Jason Schneiderman,
waiting for Liza Minnelli when Liza Minnelli has outlived
Liza Minnelli, which is what fame is, and what fame is not,
and if Jason Schneiderman outlives Jason Schneiderman,
and your love of this poem waits for me on one of my shelves,
and will keep me company for eternity, thank you for that.
I promise to cherish your love in that well-lit infinity of forever.
In one theory of the mind, the psyche is just a grab bag of lost objects,
our wholeness lost when we leave the womb, when we discover
our own body and so on and so on, our wholeness lost and lost and lost,
as we find ourselves smaller and smaller, which is why heaven
is an endless, cozy warehouse, where nothing you loved is gone,
where you are whole because you get everything back, and by everything,
I mean you.

Major Jackson: Aw, yeah. Let's bring out – this is a great start, wonderful poem. 

Let's bring out our next two guests. Samiya Bashir is a poet and librettist whose work lives at the crossroads of sound, movement, memory, and Black imagination. Her fourth collection of poetry, I Hope This Helps, just came out from Nightboat Books. A Rome Prize winner, Samiya's work bends genre to hold rupture and joy, breath and resistance—rooted in Black, queer, and diasporic futures. Currently she serves as the June Jordan Visiting Scholar at Columbia University and lives in Harlem, USA. 

Please welcome Samiya Bashir.

Pádraig Ó Tuama is a poet with interests in language, violence, power, and religion. He is the fabulous host of On Being’s Poetry Unbound and has published volumes of poetry, essays, a memoir and theology. 2025 saw the publication of Kitchen Hymns, a volume of original poems, from CHEERIO and Copper Canyon Press, and the anthology 44 Poems on Being with Each Other; A Poetry Unbound Collection, from Canongate and WW Norton. Pádraig Ó Tuama lives in Belfast and New York City. 

Please welcome him. 

So how are we doing?

Samiya Bashir: Fabulous.

Major Jackson: Wonderful. And you know, past couple days we've been at a writer's conference. And even outside of a writer's conference, we live kind of busy lives. What do you do to slow down?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: The last couple of weeks I've been on an island – off an island off the west coast of Scotland and, that's been pretty nice to slow down.

Major Jackson: Okay. We can all go home now.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I was working, but I had to walk over a hill with sheep and an occasional dog and some cows, in order to get to the place where I was working. So, it was pretty nice.

Major Jackson: Wonderful.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: I drive, actually. I recently wrote a piece that's in the current Poets & Writers’ “Why I Drive”. And you know, the idea of highway poetics. And for me, home, more than any place on Earth, is on the American Highway. And it's where I get to slow down. It's where I get to turn the phone off. It's where I get to breathe. That's where I get to find poems in this, in the landscape. And yeah, absolutely. I drive.

Major Jackson: That's wonderful.

Jason Schneiderman: I lift weights. It's really nice. I get to just be a body for a little bit.

Major Jackson: You have three choices here. You can go to the gym, you can go to an island off the coast of Scotland, or you can take a drive.

I'm thinking about the arc of The Slowdown since its first inception in 2018. We've seen a lot of political changes, and it seems like the social fabric of our lives is also changing. Do you also feel changes in the role of poetry in your life as a result?

Samiya Bashir: Absolutely, Major. I mean, I think one of the things that's critical about poets and poetry is that it's almost our job or what I would call our honor to provide language for what, that, is going on. You know, we're all experiencing these things, but how do we talk about it? How do we think about it? We need language to think even. And to be able to try to create a space to provide language for dealing with everything and understanding what's happening with us and to us and through us, I think is exponential.

Major Jackson: Thank you.

Jason Schneiderman: I mean, sort of yes and no. I mean, you have to write in the present, so you can't write in the past. Like you have to, like whatever happens is happening to you now. And so, you're writing into it and out of it. But then there's also something nice about, you know, like Gerard Manley Hopkins. Or, you know, going back into something which can feel so distant or so unchanging. That, you know, like when I go to, like, that work, it's the same as it was, and there's a kind of a space outside. So I feel like there's a yes and a no. That poetry kind of stays, that the sort of, there's a way in which it's both an anchor and a harbinger.

Samiya Bashir: But wouldn't you say Jason, that that's kind of the beauty and tragedy of history too?

Jason Schneiderman: Yes.

Samiya Bashir: You know, like there, like we can go back, and we can find Gerard Manley Hopkins, and it is absolutely as if it were written today. And is absolutely important and maybe imperative today.

Jason Schneiderman: Absolutely. Yeah.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I'm never sure what the purpose of a poem is. I think it is its own purpose. And, there can be value in writing about flowers during a time of war. And there can be value in writing about violence during a time of ease, if there is ever such a thing. And so, I suppose I'm always interested in how a poem can bear witness to itself, not just as an object of self-interest, but as an object and an experience, an event of noticing. Because that might be something that can help. To notice.

Major Jackson: I'm intrigued by all of what you said, and I'm thinking about the poems that, some of what I just heard is that sometimes the poems are written and maybe their relevance is not felt until maybe a confluence of events comes around and renders that poem maybe even more kind of resonant, relevant. You're all poets. Do you, I know you Jason, you just said "I write 'cause I'm in the moment." But I am thinking about poems that might be written today going forward, and what someone in the future might understand about this particular moment. Any thoughts about that? As writers, as poets?

Jason Schneiderman: I think that one of the, for me, the poem is so personal and there's an incredible intimacy that lasts beyond the moment of making. And that, obviously, you know, Gerard Manley Hopkins, for the example, or Shakespeare, have been dead for a very long time. But they didn't die, because they have this thing that persists in the world and that I can still engage and have an intimate relationship with. And I think that it's very hard to know in advance what intimacies you're going to need. And I would love to believe that in 200 years, the intimacy that someone needs in a particular moment is me. That would be, you know, that would fulfill my sort of, like, narcissistic, ego driven, personality.

But I don't know. It's so hard to know. And I think a lot about Kafka, and the way in which he was producing work that does and does not seem so inflected by the moment he was living in. And also, I love Kafka in part because during his life, he was very, very funny. Like when people listened to The Metamorphosis, like, they fell out of their chairs laughing. Which we don't do when we read The Metamorphosis, we're like, this is horrible.

Major Jackson: It's kind of a funny… right? A guy wakes up and he's a bug, right? That has some, a lot of humor to it.

Jason Schneiderman: You talk about it and it's funny. You're by yourself and like, "this is horrible!" And so, I don't know. I think that how those moments of intimacy interact is it's like two molecules that are having a completely unpredictable chemical reaction. And so, I am scared to, like, prognosticate what the future might need from us now. But I know that kind of human molecule encountering another human molecule that happens in a poem… you need different molecules at different times, right? You need different people at different times.

And I sort of know what I need. But I, particularly with like my students, I actually sent them into The Slowdown because I want them to have like a really huge archive so they can find what they need instead of what I think they need, or instead of what I think they're going to be drawn to or what, you know. That I can let them have that moment of human connection with a stranger that I think poetry provides that we need.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Absolutely. You know, Jason, I think it's interesting 'cause I feel like my current Kafka is a meme, a gif of, there's a furry white monkey that's just kind of gesturing wildly. Like, what are you talking about? What do you mean? And I feel like we're in our white monkey era right now. Where, what? Every day? What? And you know, I have to say, like the last year or so, finalizing this book, I Hope This Helps, it was my dream for it to not be relevant.

Major Jackson: Wow.

Samiya Bashir: You know? I mean, I wrote this through, from let's call it the first era, through the pandemic era, through the whatever is happening. And every moment I keep thinking "we can, we're gonna do better. We're gonna choose differently. We're gonna, we're gonna, we're gonna..." And that we keep deepening the white monkey era of it all is great for the book, I guess. But you know. It helps apparently. But not, you know, what does that mean for us?

And at least the whole thing about the idea of hoping it helps is that how do we provide a roadmap out of this? How do we provide, like, a psychospiritual roadmap out of this, and back to ourselves?

Major Jackson: Pádraig, did you have similar goals for your Kitchen Hymns?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: No, I didn't. I'm really very, very awkward about ever thinking about a purpose or a role for anybody's poem, because I think a poem is an event, an experience. But what I think is deeper than that is that when people will look back and look at the poems that are being written during this time now, one of the things that they'll see, whether or not they know the references, whether or not certain people are forgotten (I hope they are), is that they'll go "People were making."

And that, I think, is what is lasting. Is that in the midst of dismay people continue to make. And the vocation to make, to engage in the vulnerable risk of making something that's new when you make it, so it's small, it's breakable, but yet it's precious to you. That I think is a nurture. And it's really worthwhile nurturing that, even when it's small, even when it's hidden, even when nobody knows about it. 'Cause I hope that nurturing that might cause something to think, "what would it be like to make a society? What would it be like to make a neighborhood, a community, a friendship, a change, a repentance?” That those, too, are acts of making and acts of art that are public.

Major Jackson: That's beautiful. And it has me think about maybe, you know, some of what we're asking ourselves at this moment, which is what we've asked in the past, is what to do next. And I think, partly, this is what we do next. We come together around art, and we create space for art to be made, whether it's a poem or watercolor or a dance. And something about the testimonial of that as an, as someone's selfhood, someone existing at a time in which it gives texture to whatever history is going to be, or whatever words we're gonna lend to this particular moment.

Y'all know I can talk, right? That's what I do on The Slowdown. I do some talking. And on The Slowdown, we typically follow, we precede the poem with some talking and then the poem. And then the episode is over. But tonight, we're gonna do something special. We are going to have someone who's very dear to the show come out. And someone who's behind the scenes, I'm so happy that she's here today. Please welcome our lead producer, Myka Kielbon.

Myka Kielbon: Hello! It's such a pleasure to join you all on stage on my very tall stool. I'm usually a remote producer so people don't often also know that I am tall without the stool. And you know what the audience normally knows about The Slowdown, or Poetry Unbound, or the books, poems, projects that you all are working on is this kind of serious, solitary version that we send out into the world, the writer in their attic and looking out.

And what people don't know about the projects that we work on is they're often very silly when two people, when three people, when four people are collaborating. And as producer, that's kind of my job, is to keep things silly. We record, often on The Slowdown, 10 episodes at once. And they can be kind of heavy. And so, I'm coming in hot with jokes. I turn off the mute on Zoom and I'm just slinging silly things. And so I thought to the stage I would bring just as much silliness as I normally bring. 

We're gonna play some games. And Major, you know what I always say, and Jason's been a guest host on the show, so he knows I say this too, when it's time to get down to business...

Major Jackson: "Poem time."

Myka Kielbon: "It's poem time!"

Major Jackson: Poem time!

Myka Kielbon: Usually it's more like, "It's poem time!" My voice goes up an octave.

So, we're gonna play some games. These four poets are going to be competing for no prize whatsoever. But for that you to know… 

Jason Schneiderman: Yes!

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I'd like to have a word about that, no prizes.

Myka Kielbon: We can talk about it in the parking lot afterwards. Yeah. No, we'll figure something out. But it might be my firstborn 'cause I don't have much else to give. This is public radio, isn't it? Just kidding. We're well taken care of.

Anyways, don't let me get away from myself. Y'all feeling ready?

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: Yes.

Major Jackson: Let's do this.

Myka Kielbon: You have no idea what's coming.

Major Jackson: Let's do this.

Myka Kielbon: But you're ready.

Jason Schneiderman: We have no idea.

Myka Kielbon: No idea what's coming.

Jason Schneiderman: We are not prepared for this.

Myka Kielbon: Not prepared at all. I didn't even tell them we were doing this. That's the producer's job, is to keep secrets. Don't listen to me. This is not my school of producing. Alright, let's get started with the first game. This one is going to be "Trivia Onomatopoeia."

Sorry, I said that the wrong way. Trivia Onomatopoeia! And we don't have bells because this is a live podcast. And so, I think instead of a bell, you each are going to select your favorite onomatopoeia as your bell. We're playing a game, a short game of trivia. So, I will ask the question and whoever wants to answer first, you're gonna have to tell me that you want to answer with your onomatopoeia.

Alright, Major, gimme a sound!

Major Jackson: Screech!

Myka Kielbon: Alright, alright. You can vary a little bit. I think I'll know from your sound of your voice. alright, Jason?

Jason Schneiderman: Whisk.

Myka Kielbon: Ooh, that’s good.

Major Jackson: Ooh, nice.

Myka Kielbon: Samiya?

Samiya Bashir: Ppbtthh.

Myka Kielbon: Pádraig?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Plubbernick.

Myka Kielbon: Ooh, that sounds like a little character.

Alright, those are some amazing buzzers. Alright, here's our first question. Which modernist poets work about felines – 

Major Jackson: Screech! 

Jason Schneiderman: Whisk!

Myka Kielbon: I knew you were gonna get this one! I'll finish reading the question. Which modernist poet's work about felines inspired the hit eighties musical, Cats? 

Jason? Wait. I feel like I heard Whisk first.

Jason Schneiderman: Do you wanna say it together?

Major Jackson: Yeah. You ready?

Jason Schneiderman: Yeah. 

Major & Jason: T. S. Eliot.

Samiya Bashir: Eliot!

Myka Kielbon: Okay. You guys each get half a point.

Major Jackson: Yeah, that's fine.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. You get half a point.

Samiya Bashir: I'm just gonna argue for an honorable mention, I'm literally wearing a cat scarf right now.

Major Jackson: Yes!

Myka Kielbon: I'm in charge. I think you might get a quarter point for that.

Samiya Bashir: Thank you.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, alright. Quarter. Jason, do you know what the name of the book is called?

Jason Schneiderman: Old Possum's Book of Magical Cats.

Samiya Bashir: That’s right.

Myka Kielbon: Exactly. alright. alright. Hold on, let me just tally these scores up real quick. This is gonna be like a recipe. It's like all halves and quarters.

Alright, onto our next question.

Who faced controversy for fabricating accounts  –  

Samiya Bashir: Ppbtthh!

Myka Kielbon:  – of events in the 1980s? Was it Patricia Smith or Patti Smith?

Samiya Bashir: It was the dearest Patricia Smith.

Myka Kielbon: You are correct.

Major Jackson: The absolutely dearest.

Samiya Bashir: The dearest, most beautiful poet. Patricia Smith.

Major Jackson: Yes.

Myka Kielbon: I just think it's 'cause she's such a good writer.

Samiya Bashir: She's an amazing writer.

Myka Kielbon: Exactly. We love her. Yes. This is Patricia Smith love on this show. I wanna be very clear.

Alright, Samiya, that means you get one whole point. Onto our next question.

Which poet removed the Y from her name because she – 

Samiya Bashir: Ppbtthh!

Myka Kielbon:  – didn't like the way...

Samiya Bashir: I'm here to play people. I'm here to play.

Myka Kielbon: You're ready to play! …because she did not like the way the letter goes below the line?

Samiya Bashir: Audre Lorde.

Myka Kielbon: Yes, it is! Yeah. We are here to play. Usually, I'm silent, so no one can cut me off.

Major Jackson: That is an obscure fact about Audre.

Samiya Bashir: I know, but we love it!

Major Jackson: Way to do your research! 

Samiya Bashir: I love it.

Myka Kielbon: I have always wondered until we were researching for this, about the spelling.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Myka Kielbon: But I like how it is parallel. The two both end in E.

Samiya Bashir: That's so Audre Lorde.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Myka Kielbon: That's amazing. Well, you guys are killing it. 

Onto our next question. Which poet filled their fountain pen with signature green ink?

Jason Schneiderman: Whisk.

Myka Kielbon: Jason?

Jason Schneiderman: Do I lose points if I get it wrong? Am I allowed to guess? Like, do I have a penalty for guessing?

Myka Kielbon: No, you just don't get a guess again.

Jason Schneiderman: Oh, okay. Ezra Pound.

Major Jackson: Ever?

Myka Kielbon: No.

Samiya Bashir: Plath?

Myka Kielbon: No. Do we need a hint?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Yeah!

Jason Schneiderman: Now there's a hint.

Myka Kielbon: They wrote in Spanish.

Samiya Bashir: Lorca? No.

Myka Kielbon: No.

Samiya Bashir: You mean Neruda?

Myka Kielbon: Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Wow.

Major Jackson: Wow.

Myka Kielbon: Pablo Neruda wrote in green, which he called "The Color of Hope.”

Samiya Bashir: Aww.

Jason Schneiderman: My fountain pen is filled with an ink that is called "Writer's Blood."

Myka Kielbon: You know, my first thought was "The Blood of Children" was just the joke that was gonna come out of your mouth.

Jason Schneiderman: That is actually the name of the ink in my fountain pen. Right?

Major Jackson: I guess it doesn't write odes.

Jason Schneiderman: It does not.

Myka Kielbon: Screeds?

Jason Schneiderman: Sometimes.

Major Jackson: Elegies?

Jason Schneiderman: Elegies!

Myka Kielbon: Alright. Onto our last question of the trivia round. This is kind of a bonus round because it's not a trivia question, it's a spelling a word backwards with your eyes closed.

Alright. Onto our next question...

...oh, the word. Well, alright. We don't have the slide because we can't show you. Of course.

(simultaneously)

Jason Schneiderman: Oh, right, then we would spell it. Yeah. That’s, I see the wisdom of, yeah. Right.

Samiya Bashir: We’re not supposed to see it. Yeah, right. Got it. Yeah, that makes sense. Totally makes sense.

Major Jackson: Right, of course. Yeah, yeah, right. Of course. I was gonna take a wild guess.

Myka Kielbon: You don't have your eyes closed. Alright, we're gonna spell this one backwards, take a wild guess: "Saudade."

Pádraig Ó Tuama:  Plubbernick! E… 

Myka Kielbon: Pádraig?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: E-D-A-D-U-A-S.

Myka Kielbon: That is correct.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Woo!

Jason Schneiderman: He doesn't have to close his eyes if there's not a picture of it in front of you.

Myka Kielbon: That's why I was gonna have you guys close your eyes.

Samiya Bashir: Yeah, close your eyes. We close our eyes.

Myka Kielbon: This is how it works on the show.

Major Jackson: That's how I write poems.

Myka Kielbon: We're scraping it together. That's how you write poems. Eyes closed. You close your eyes when you read poems.

Major Jackson: You're right. I do. Says the producer.

Myka Kielbon: I shouldn't have outed you like that, I'm sorry. Alright. 

At the end of our first round, I would like to update on scores. Major and Jason are both in the rear with half a point. Pádraig has one. And Samiya has three and a quarter.

Samiya Bashir: Get outta here! Come on.

Jason Schneiderman: You're a front runner!

Samiya Bashir: Poems! Poems! Poems! Poems! Poems! 

Myka Kielbon: Front runner! Alright, we are now onto our second game: Deluded Allusions. We all know what an allusion is in the room. Does anybody want a refresher? Can I ask one of our panelists?

Major Jackson: An allusion is a reference to a work of art, or another poem, or some mythological, biblical, pop cultural reference.

Myka Kielbon: And we're gonna allude to famous poets.

Major Jackson: Ooh.

Myka Kielbon: Alright so what we're gonna do is we are going to break into two teams. We'll just do it based on the side that you're on. So, we'll have Major and Jason, Samiya and Pádraig.

One team member will be blindfolded. And if you don't wanna wear this, you can just cover your eyes or take your glasses off if you're really, if that really does it for you.

Jason Schneiderman: I want to wear the blindfold.

Myka Kielbon: Okay, good. You can wear it on this side too if you don't want to be all leopard print. For the audience at home, podcast: we have a beautiful sleeping blindfold that is a little leopard print.

Alright. The rules are simple. You will have 60 seconds to guess as, so your partner, the blindfolded partner will be guessing and the other partner will be giving hints to the poet without naming any of their work.

No books, no lines, just descriptors… 

Jason Schneiderman: like biographical events?

Myka Kielbon: You could also say what they look like, what egregious things they did, the names of their cats. I think you, I think, they're not that hard, I promise.

And Major, Jason, I'm much more comfortable telling you both what to do. So, you're gonna go first.

Jason Schneiderman: Okay.

Major Jackson: Let's do this.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. Who wants to be blindfolded? I guess Major? Jason, you want to wear the blindfold.

Major Jackson: You mentioned it.

Jason Schneiderman: I mean, I said before I knew what the blindfolding was, but yeah. 

Myka Kielbon: I'll come bring it down to you.

Jason Schneiderman: No, I'll stay committed. 

Samiya Bashir: Leopard print, please.

Major Jackson: I was getting ready to say.

Jason Schneiderman: Leopard print out, yes.

Major Jackson: I'm testing my knowledge here. Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: Oh this works. This is, I should use this on the airplane.

Myka Kielbon: We can maybe work out if you win, that that could be your prize.

Jason Schneiderman: Okay. I'm gonna be so sad when I lose the blindfold.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, team one. Are you ready?

Jason Schneiderman: We are ready.

Major Jackson: Ready! Let's do it.

Myka Kielbon: 60 seconds starts now.

Major Jackson: This person is from California and – 

Jason Schneiderman: Frank Bidart. Dana Gioia.

Major Jackson: Has a cover that is red… 

Myka Kielbon: You can give personal…  

Major Jackson: Oh, give personal? It's our current poet laureate.

Jason Schneiderman: Oh, Ada Limón.

Major Jackson: Yes. This person wrote a book called – 

Myka Kielbon:  – no, you can't do that part!

Major Jackson: This person...

Myka Kielbon: It's the one thing you can't do!

Major Jackson: Okay. This person, if they were a baseball going outta the field, you would call them…?

Jason Schneiderman: Out.

Major Jackson: They're standing at, on the baseball field and they are at which base?

Myka Kielbon: It was a really long time ago!

Jason Schneiderman: At the Diamond? Neil Diamond?

Major Jackson: Not first, second, third, but…?

Jason Schneiderman: …third, fourth…? Home! 

Major Jackson: Home! And if you turn that person to a poet named…?

Jason Schneiderman: …home?

Major Jackson: Keep going!

Jason Schneiderman: Home. Homer?

Major Jackson: Yes! Thank you. Yes.

Jason Schneiderman: Okay.

Major Jackson: Okay. We were just talking in the back room about little blue people.

Jason Schneiderman: Oh, yes! Smurfs!

Major Jackson: Yes. And what are you? You wrote a book and you are a…? 

Jason Schneiderman: A short person?

Major Jackson: You don't write fiction. You write…? 

Jason Schneiderman: Poetry.

Major Jackson:  And thus, you are a…? 

Jason Schneiderman: Poet.

Major Jackson: And the blue people?

Jason Schneiderman: Smurf?

Major Jackson: Poet Smurf!

Jason Schneiderman: Poet Smurf.

Major Jackson: Yes.

Myka Kielbon: Major, you said it first.

Major Jackson: Oh, I did? Oh. Next!

Myka Kielbon: And we were out of time.

Since we're – alright. A round of applause for Major and Jason!

Major Jackson: I like the diamond. You're not first, second or third – you're fourth.

Jason Schneiderman: When I played Little League – this is true. When I played Little League, the other second graders put together a committee to ask me to leave the team.

Myka Kielbon: As we're giving out quarter points, you get one quarter point for Poet Smurf, as you did say both words.

Jason Schneiderman: Thank you.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. Jason, would you so kindly pass the blindfold down to team two? Who wants the blindfold?

Samiya Bashir: I think I'm gonna wear a blindfold mostly just 'cause I keep talking about the leopard print.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, so we have Samiya with the blindfold. Pádraig is going to be giving the best clues ever.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Oh, God.

Samiya Bashir: Best clues ever, Pádraig. The best. 

Myka Kielbon: You only have two and a quarter points to go up against. I think you got this.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: That's a very biased adjudicator.

Samiya Bashir: Challenge accepted.

Myka Kielbon: I support any team that's winning.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Okay.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, team two. Are you ready?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: No.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. Well, we're gonna – well we're gonna continue anyways.

Samiya Bashir: Marginally.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, team two 60 seconds starts now.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Okay. So… there, this is a poet who lived in Provincetown and then – 

Samiya Bashir: Mary Oliver.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Okay. I don't know who this poet is.

Audience: Oh...

Pádraig Ó Tuama: This is also not a poet, but has recently released an album that referenced poets.

Samiya Bashir: Oh. Oh, Taylor Swift.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: This is a, a… poet from China?

Myka Kielbon: No.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: No. Different. I dunno. Next.

Myka Kielbon: You don't just get next.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: What's that?

Myka Kielbon: I don't think you get next.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Oh, don't we?

Samiya Bashir: Is the name alliterative in any way?

Myka Kielbon: Let's take it back to the previous one.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Okay.

Myka Kielbon: I believe in you.

Samiya Bashir: How many words are in their name?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Oh, so there's five letters and…

Major Jackson: Good.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: We… 

Samiya Bashir: Five letters. You mean like, like, like Bashō or something?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Yeah! Boom.

Samiya Bashir: Boom.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Okay. So, the first name of this poet is the opposite of old.

Myka Kielbon: This, that was it. That was 60 seconds.

Samiya Bashir: We still dropped the mic. And that was amazing.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: How did you get Bashō? That's amazing.

Myka Kielbon: I was gonna say there's also a form that they write in that has something to do with fives. Ah. 

Samiya Bashir: Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

Myka Kielbon: Bashō, a Japanese poet, wrote haikus. 

Samiya Bashir: Yes, they did.

Myka Kielbon: Alright! Well, another round of applause for team two!

Audience, what do we think – do we think that we got Bashō before the time ran out? I need a little… Yes? Alright, alright. So Samiya and Pádraig, you get three points each.

Major Jackson: Where's your loyalty?

Jason Schneiderman: Where, hi! Yeah!

Myka Kielbon: Loyalty schmoyalty.

Samiya Bashir: Yeah.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. We just have one more game. This is a little bit of a bonus round. It's time for the last game of the evening, and this game is called "Misquote… or, Improvement?" 

We record a lot of episodes of The Slowdown, and what I've found is that sometimes, it's really easy to mess up someone else's poem because people write differently from each other. And we will sometimes say what we were thinking, or what maybe the speaker we think of was thinking, or just move around words to our natural way of speaking.

My favorite incidence of this was one time we were recording with Major and the word in the poem was "forebears" and Major said "four beers." It was at the end of the session, and we were tired and we all turned on our mics and just said, "Four beers! Here!" And I think it was right. So I have… 

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Four beers?

(simultaneously) 

Jason Schneiderman: There are four of us.

Major Jackson: There's four of us. We’re the four beers, yeah.

Samiya Bashir: We're sitting right here. Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: Right, that would be welcome.

Myka Kielbon: What about me? I don't get one?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: We'll share.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, alright. We can, yeah, we can stretch it. So, I just have one classic line that I think we can all improve upon. And so, I'm gonna give you each the chance to improve upon this classic line of poetry.

One of you can maybe explain to me how Tennyson's poems are named, but we're not gonna get there today, but this is a classic line by Tennyson.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.

I'm sure we've all heard this misquoted frequently. I didn't actually know this was a Tennyson quote until yesterday.

Major Jackson: Uh-huh.

Myka Kielbon: And so I did my best at riffing on this. I think I have something better.

Samiya Bashir: Okay.

Myka Kielbon: 'Tis better to have frolicked and fallen than never to have frolicked at all.

So, I think each of you can think of something better. So, we're going to, again, start with Major, 'cause you're the leader.

Major Jackson: Ooh.

Myka Kielbon: And you know the way we're gonna judge this is the audience is gonna help us judge. So, we're gonna read, everyone's gonna say their improvement and then I'm gonna ask y'all to clap loudly at the end for whoever you think is the best. So, we'll hold your applause until the end here. But you know, take notes, take good notes. Alright, Major, what do you got?

Major Jackson: So, can I see your first slide, your improvement?

'Tis better to have frolicked and fallen than never to have frolicked at all. 

So I have to come up with something.

Myka Kielbon: It's pretty bad.

Major Jackson: Something bad. You want something bad?

Myka Kielbon: Mine, well, mine is bad.

Major Jackson: Oh, okay. It's better to…

Myka Kielbon: ’Tis? 

Major Jackson: Oh yeah. 'Tis better to have texted. No, it's better, 'Tis better to have phoned and called than never to have texted at all.

Myka Kielbon: Sounds like you're talking to your kid.

Major Jackson: That's the space I'm in right now.

Myka Kielbon: Alright Jason, what do we got?

Jason Schneiderman: Alright. Well, since you put fictional poets in my head, the best I've got is 'Tis better to have smurfed and un-smurfed than never to have smurfed at all.

Samiya Bashir: Well done, sir.

Myka Kielbon: How do you unsmurf?

Jason Schneiderman: It's not smurfy… when you unsmurf.

Myka Kielbon: Any other panelists have ideas about what smurfing is? 

Samiya Bashir: So many ideas.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: It's a multipurpose word.

Myka Kielbon: I see… Samiya?

Samiya Bashir: Well, so I, my brain is stuck in this old, was it seventies or eighties TV show, the Newlywed Game? And you know, they would talk about “makin' whoopee!" And, so I feel like: 'Tis better to have whoopee'd and been bored than never to have whoopee'd at all.

But here's the thing is I realize, I don't know that I agree with myself. I don’t know if I agree with myself.

Myka Kielbon: That might be a question for another podcast.

Jason Schneiderman: It's one of those things where you're like, you can't do it wrong, but actually, if you're bored? Yeah. You're doing it wrong. Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Set you up just right, Pádraig.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Yeah.

Myka Kielbon: Ready for you.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I am gonna bring the tone right down. 'Tis better to have lived and died than never to have lived at all.

Major Jackson: Yeah. Wow.

Myka Kielbon: We're getting really mortality based up here.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: We are.

Samiya Bashir: And whoopee. Don’t forget the whoopee.

Myka Kielbon: A little behind-the-scenes Slowdown moment: I remember Ada told me once, which is classic, that all poems are about death, and I'm sure that's quoted from somebody else, but Ada Limón was the person who told me that first. And I put it in some copy one time, and our former editor made me take it out because she said it was a little too macabre and I was like, "it's poetry, please!" And it didn't make it past.

Alright. So I have… I'm not gonna tell you the scores before we get the audience input. So, audience, I'd like to hear – and I'm just gonna judge this based off of my very, you know, authoritative ear on who is clapping the loudest.

Alright, what do we think about – Major, can you repeat yours really quickly?

Major Jackson: 'Tis better to have phoned and… called – thank you audience – than not to have texted at all.

Myka Kielbon: Alright. What do we think about Major's?

Audience: Woo!

Myka Kielbon: Alright. Jason, you repeat your quickly?.

Major Jackson: At least I got a clap! Thank you.

Jason Schneiderman: 'Tis better to have smurfed and unsmurfed than never to have smurfed at all.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, crowd:

Audience: [cheers]

Myka Kielbon: Samiya?

Samiya Bashir: 'Tis better to have whoopee'd and been bored than never to have whoopee'd at all.

Audience: [applause]

Myka Kielbon: And Pádraig, could you repeat yours?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Just better to have lived and died than never to have lived at all.

Audience: [applause]

Myka Kielbon: There was a clear winner there, and I'm gonna give

Pádraig Ó Tuama: It's death.

Myka Kielbon: It's death! It is in fact the winner!

Major Jackson: Wins again.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Yup.

Myka Kielbon: And you're gonna get two points for that.

Major Jackson: Any runner ups?

Myka Kielbon: I'll go in order. Alright. Are we excited to hear who won our game tonight?

Samiya Bashir: Yes.

Audience: Woo!

Myka Kielbon: One moment please. alright. That is our game and the winner is, well let me tell you first in fourth place and – well tied for third – in a tie for third, I have our former guest host and our current host of The Slowdown, Major Jackson and Jason Schneiderman. Two and three quarters points.

Two and three quarters points, but you guys stayed together, and I think that's really important.

Major Jackson: Long time friends.

Myka Kielbon: Alright, in third place, the host of our competitor podcast, Poetry Unbound, six Points. It's Pádraig Ó Tuama

Audience: woo.

Myka Kielbon: And in first place, if any producers are listening, let's get this person a podcast with six and a quarter points.

Samiya Bashir: Yeaaaaa!

Myka Kielbon: Samiya Bashir!

Samiya Bashir: Come on poems! Yes. Poems! Poems! Poems! Poems!

Myka Kielbon: Well, thank you all so much for playing. Thank you so much, audience, for your beautiful applause and your participation. I'm gonna pass it back to Major to maybe "slow things down" a little bit.

Major Jackson: Yes.

Myka Kielbon: After all of that high energy activity

Major Jackson: All that whoopee!

Myka Kielbon: I don't think that's how you use that word.

Major Jackson: Whoopee is like jawn.

Samiya Bashir: Oh my God. I was literally about to say that.

Major Jackson: Right?

Samiya Bashir: It's exactly that, yeah.

Major Jackson: Whoopee is like jawn. Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Excuse us, we're having a moment.

Major Jackson: We're having a moment.

Samiya, congratulations. How does it feel to win your first poetry game?

Samiya Bashir: I am ecstatic, let me tell you.

Major Jackson: Yes.

Samiya Bashir: Poems and poetry is already a win for me.

Major Jackson: Right?

Samiya Bashir: I find poems to be just winning. And so, to win and poems, it's like whaaaaaa?

Major Jackson: Pádraig and Jason, how do you feel? She edged you out by a quarter!

Jason Schneiderman: This is my second time losing at poetry games. I also lost the poetry Olympics at the Brooklyn Brewery in Brooklyn in 2001. Yeah.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: And you still feel this, pain.

Jason Schneiderman: I – the shame of my public poetry game losses continues to accrue.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: And in the car on the way over here, Jason was telling me that we were gonna be playing something like celebrity… what's, the?

Jason Schneiderman: Literary Death Match.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Literary Death Match. And so, I'm just relieved that we're alive.

Samiya Bashir: And I'm just gonna hold somebody to this leopard print blindfold. Just saying

Jason Schneiderman: It's a really nice blindfold.

Major Jackson: It really is. That was fun. And I want to thank our Game Master, Myka Kielbon. Which kind of leads me to this question about, poetry and humor and joy. How do we cultivate more of this?

Samiya Bashir: You know, I tell my students, for instance, like, "don't forget, this is fun." Like, this is fun. You get to make – play with language and make wor – and like do stuff like, it's exciting. It's new, it's… yes, it's like writing you, you get used to this idea of like, you're alone and you're blah, blah, blah. It's really hard to be dark or whatever.

But also, like even the darkness, I've liked to instead to have moments where I go, "heeheeheehee!" You know? It's the Easter eggs of poetry, these lines, these moments, these whatever, that just levitate you a little bit.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: I think humor doesn't get valued enough, or it doesn't get valued in the right ways. Like it sort of needs all these, like, apologies for it. But for me, I always go back to the idea that like in, psychoanalysis, humor is often that which touches the unconscious… that all this kind of like really deep subterranean stuff that we don't have access to in our conscious brains, the joke is the thing that pulls it up. And I know, like in, for me, in analysis – which I've been in – I'm in Lacanian analysis. I know it's a shock to everyone – but when I have a breakthrough, I laugh. Like whatever I discover is so funny. And that's kind of how I know something has come up.

So I… I think that if we can kind of also think about humor as discovery – that like the, laugh isn't just kind of, you know, a feel-good moment that passes, but the laugh is a discovery – then we can find kind of more space for humor in our poetry and our work.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I think I have two ideas about how to, cultivate joy and humor in your poetry.

Is first is to read Chen Chen. Chen Chen is extraordinary, and I, anytime it is been a long time since I've heard anybody put humor down because, like, it's difficult to be funny in poems. And Chen Chen just keeps on doing it. I think sometimes intentionally and sometimes not. And there's another poet, Amanda Quaid, who's got a book coming out soon. And Amanda went through a terrible health diagnosis and chose to – wrote about some of those diagnoses in limericks and, like, we should all write limericks! And it is funny and serious and like, I, can you do that? She did. So, there it is. Right in front of you. So, I think writing a limerick is a great idea too.

Major Jackson: Yeah. It has me think of one of your poems, Pádraig, that I might request when we come around to your reading. So, I want to just say that the joy that you've been bringing to me in your poems has been steady throughout and this is why I admire your work.

The other side of that, of course, is that I was thinking about this poem we just featured on The Slowdown that hasn't aired yet. And one of the lines from the poet, Kate Daniels, is that life will bring you to your knees and if you're lucky you survive through it. And in a way, poetry allows us to do that too. It allows us to laugh, but also to kind of capture these moments.

I'm thinking about poetry as savior. Poetry as healing. Poetry as hope. Is there one book of yours or poem that you can pinpoint that you needed to write in order to be who you are, and where you are, at this present moment?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I think there's a small book called Feed the Beast, which is with Broken Sleep Books. And yeah, when I was a teenager, in my early twenties, I got put through exorcisms and reparative therapies for "getting rid of the gay in me.” Deliciously unsuccessful. All the gay devils are alive and well, and making more gay devils.

And many years later I… the first thing that came to my mind was a sequence called "Seven Deadly Sonnets", a bit of a play on seven deadly sins. And that book is written with something like rage, but without the rage controlling me. It's written with, like, creative rage. And it was so enjoyable to write it and cathartic to celebrate and to take, you know, abusive language that was put upon a teenager, and to turn it around and go, "You think your language was bad? Watch what I can do." And it felt like such a celebration.

It took almost 20 years before I could think about that. And it's not like I was burdened. Mostly, I spent most of my time trying to forget those idiots. But it was nice, when I was far enough from it, to be able to look back without a sense of revenge, but with a deep sense of making. So that's the book, I think, that helped. Yeah.

Major Jackson: Thank you for those books. Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Yes? I have to say I'm stuck on something that I don't know that I would've thought would be my answer. But it's a poem from my second book "Gospel" called "Topographic Shifts," and that's maybe one of my quietest book. But, you know, random factoid: I and my little sister both were born with six fingers and six toes. So you know, you're welcome for evolving. But you know, obviously they dealt with that as infants. 

Major Jackson: Right.

Samiya Bashir: Right? And so, there's a, you know, there's a line in there that's something about the necessity to like, remake the body and the image of a body. And something about wrestling with that, I think, has had a lot to do with opening space for other things I've been able to write.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: When I was, when I started writing poems, when I was young, you know, like 12, 14, 15, I was doing it in a very heavily coded way so that I could have something that was my own, that no one else could understand that I needed. I felt so incomprehensible, that leaning into incomprehensibility kind of made me intelligible to myself.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Jason Schneiderman: And so, sort of, just embracing that was really important for the beginning of my development as a writer. But then there came a moment when I really had to be able to talk about myself directly. And, when I was in graduate school, like I, for most of my undergraduate years, I could, you know, I was very… it was no longer coded, but it was highly elusive. That there was, like, a lot of mythology, there was a lot of allegory. And I could only speak about myself allegorically.

And then, when I was in graduate school, I was working. Just sonnets were, like, all over me. And I was working – I was Phyllis Levin's assistant on "The Penguin Book of the Sonnet." And so, I was spending, you know, every day like, working on these sonnets. And I was taking a Pushkin class; I was reading Eugene Onegin in Russian – not very well, but in this graduate seminar. And I went to this reading by Sharon Olds, and she said that there's a kind of magic you can do with a poem where, if you're really afraid of something, write the poem where it happens, and nine times out of ten, it won't happen.

And so, I did that. I was really afraid of something. And I wrote very directly about my experience in this particular sonnet. And it's called "The Disease Collector." It's in my first collection. It's the first poem in my first collection, and it's the last poem in "The Penguin Book of the Sonnet." And that was a really powerful breakthrough for me. That was the poem that kind of, like, turned something inside me where I could speak directly in the ways that I needed to. And I could be seen and show myself, like, to others and to myself in that kind of way that let me release that training wheel set of coding.

Major Jackson: Yeah, I'm tempted to ask, to respond, but I wanted to get to the poems. But I'm gonna ask maybe a audience member to ask this question about vulnerability because there's something quite beautiful about all of this. All of what you're saying touches at the edge of the unsayable, and where that puts us in relationship to our work and to each other, and the healing work of community.

But Samiya, let's hear a poem!

Samiya Bashir: Yes! alright. We will hear a poem, darlings.

So, I'm thrilled to. So in the middle of this new book called "I Hope This Helps" is a poem that is also in a new collection called "Invisible Strings," where they asked a number of us poets to write in response to a Taylor Swift song. Which is literally how I knew about that, hello. Winning poems!

But. And as not a Taylor Swift fan, it was fascinating to me to see what everybody did and to find a poem, a song, that actually really just drove me to poetry. And so, in the middle of this book is this, it's called "Wabenzi Walks." Wabenzi is an African term. I suggest you look it up. Because it's kind of a thing.

Wabenzi Walks

Wabenzi Walks
because voices
like bodies shadow

linger and
are torn apart
and linger

are torn
apart and
linger like

the thousand eyes of night:
a scorpion
a Cuyahoga
a river
burns awake

cries that were the mom
not the kid but —wait—
(we are) not a fairy tale

even fairies
fail our families
some times
some wheres

WHY DID YOU LEAVE?
years ago, Metric’s
Combat Baby was all over
my facefeed—at the time
it was right on
time and all I wanted was to remain
unlooked at     even today  sort of
just like other people.     Here’s
the thing:

I don’t want to hold on to
you, dear          I don’t
even want to hold you

why should I?
HAVE YOU SEEN ME?!?
lucky, lucky

though I hope you are held
 —well—just—also— 

POINT OF PRIVILEGE!
says the board of directors
directing all the women
how to brush their hair
in mirrors on film

WHY DIDN’T YOU LEAVE?

low-priced
luxury goods

[click like]
but—wait—
no kings
no horses

—ideally— 
no men

[fire emoji]
we eat ourselves

until we’re gone
well I do—how

’bout you?
[fire emoji]

and the colored girls click
like      like like      like like      like            like like
like      like like      like like      like            like like
like      like like      like like      like            like like
like      like like      like like      like            like like
like
[frowny face emoji]

see me
I’m listening
here
you are
(yes you)
here

a night flight lit
(from) my fire

asleep while
I need
to dance

look at you
[fire emoji]

you
here you
*cut “are”
hear me?

sssssshhhhh—
listen
(repeat)

[footsteps]

sssssshhhhh—
listen
(repeat)

Thank you.

Major Jackson: Thank you, Samiya. Pádraig, could you take us out tonight with one of your poems?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Sure.

I think most of us have conversations with the dead, and so here are… here's a little litany of thanks to my dead friends. It's called The Long Table.

The Long Table

                             the dead seemed more alive to me than the living

                                                                     Marie Howe

Today I get up early because Mags said it's the best time of the day. She wore 
yellow   trousers   and  oxblood  boots  and  died  when  she  was  twenty.  And 
Georgie told me to be thankful when I'm busy. Relish everything you're doing, 
she said to  me that Saturday.  Dead by Friday.  So I make time, in demands, to 
remember.  And  when I  read  a  book,  I place  my  hand  on it and honor Glenn 
who worshipped words and friendship. He packed three times love into half a 
life.  And  when  I  swear,  I  swear  from  my  gut,  breathing  out  the  words  like 
smoke, just like Cathal said I should.  I saw his mother at his grave a few years 
ago.   She   smiled   and   said,   You   come   here  too.  Not   a   question,  just  a 
statement.   I   say    what   I   need   to   say   because   of   Graham    faithful  as
foundations,  and  as  hidden.   And   though  I  never  met  him,   I  think  about 
Ignatius  every  day  down  by  my prayer tree. Gerry said A lot can be achieved 
with precision and a bit of patience.  He sang songs to rivers.  I listened for his 
voice. Eugene cut logs into his nineties and lit lovely, lively fires; I light candles 
when  I  can.  Dan  made  handmade  gifts, so  I  do  too.  Bridget  wrote  a  letter 
every  day.   I  managed  two  last  year.    Brendan  tried  to  mediate  all  things, 
singing  kitchen  hymns  every  morning  no matter  where  he  was.  I  hear  his 
sweet humming as I pick up my guitar and strum.

Major Jackson: Oof.

These poems honor us in so many different ways, and I think to sum up a line: I take time to remember. It's a beautiful sentiment that we all do in our poems.

We are going to move to the Q&A now. So, audience members, we have a mic that will come around to you. We'll ask you to speak into the mic. Thank you for bringing up the lights. Questions?

Myka Kielbon: We got any questions in the house? Well, I can ask you to speak to… Major, you wanted to talk about vulnerability. Shall we take it away on stage while the questions ruminate in the crowd, and continue to talk a little bit?

Major Jackson: Sure. I'm wondering if… Some would argue that vulnerability is a prerequisite to engaging the imagination, and engaging language, and putting those two together as an expression of selfhood, or maybe even as, I think you and I talked about this once, Pádraig, writing ourselves in the way that we discover who we are. And I think that's another kind of vulnerability. But I'm wondering if that's a word that operates in how you see yourselves as writers, as artists?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Well, I think it's a vulnerable thing to make. Because it's always embarrassing. I think in a certain sense, maybe not, maybe "embarrassing" is the wrong word, but it's always vulnerable.

I used to work with young people in conflict mediation in West Belfast. And one time we got a bunch of young people with some air drying clay each to make the shape of anger. And this one guy made something. It just was a small round shape like a football, but out of it, he had what looked like these jagged leaves. They were paper thin. It was extraordinary. It's just on a Friday night in West Belfast.

And when everybody was sharing what they were making, he said, "it's a bomb." And one of the fellas next to him just slammed it down.

Major Jackson: Wow.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: And 'cause it was beautiful. Like, it, really was a stunning piece that he'd made in 10 minutes. And there was something unfortunately so true about the way within which he was so vulnerable and somebody else just shut it down, slammed it, literally. Broke what he'd made. And I felt like there were layers and layers in that interaction. That there was something too true about the art that he'd made, and somebody else felt the need to break it. And I think that's the point of vulnerability in art. And it's important to me to bring myself there, whether you're using allusion – to go back to our games, or mythology, or all kinds of other forms; that somehow, something in me has got to that edge where I'm making something and at the edge of breaking it as well.

Jason Schneiderman: Yeah. Being vulnerable means that someone can hurt you. That you're putting yourself in a position where someone has the power to hurt you, and you're offering that to them and hoping that they won't. And I think that has, that in the poem… it's, not vulnerability in the same way that it is in, like, a relationship.

But yeah, you have to… you have to expose yourself in a way that if you don't, the poem won't have the power that it needs. But it does mean that there's that kind of risk in there that you can… I don't, I mean, I try so hard to not be vulnerable in very large parts of my life. But in the poem, there's… you can't avoid. When you've done it, you know you've done it right. And so, I don't know if I'm being coherent right now. But, yeah, it's a little bit scary, you do put yourself out there.

Major Jackson: You're making a lot of sense to me.

Jason Schneiderman: Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: Well, I think that's also, that goes back to why humor is so important, you know? I mean, I think, you know, the class clown is usually like one of the most vulnerable kids in the room. You know?

Major Jackson: Mm. Wow.

Samiya Bashir: And there's a way that when we're dealing with just rawing ourselves, showing our entrails and putting them out there for someone else to judge. And even that idea that I'm putting it out there for you to judge rather than to see, like, "Oh, we all have entrails. You're like me." You know?

Major Jackson: Mm.

Samiya Bashir: Is where humor kind of can save us, you know, allow us to kind of be vulnerable in a way that like, you know, as a poet, like I'm like a person like who's like, "I love fun!" et cetera, et cetera. But I'm also a very serious person. And to be able to meditate and work through that seriousness requires being able to have humor and not take oneself so seriously, so that the vulnerability doesn't destroy us.

Major Jackson: Yes! We have a question right here. I'm gonna wait, ask you to wait for the mic. Thanks.

Martine: Hi, I'm Martine. So, I know we all lean into poetry for various reasons. And the tenderness that you all share is this portal that you've all spoken about in your work. And I was thinking about… I'm paraphrasing, but Bhanu Kapil, an amazing writer, wrote to me once about the ability that we need to dream and grieve at once.

Samiya Bashir: Yes.

Martine: And it was this prompt that really helped me through a difficult time. And I wondered if there was a prompt or advice that you all have received in your writing in tender moments. Because I come back to that passage from Bhanu often. Thank you.

Major Jackson: That's a great question. Thank you, Martine.

Samiya Bashir: Absolutely. I go back to… my previous book, "Field Theories" was in the making, and I was sitting and having lunch with the poet Claudia Rankine. And she had read some of the poems and was reflecting back what I was doing. But, you know, it was a hard, it was hard work. And I quote this in further work. It is so simple. It's just "Keep going." Keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going.

Major Jackson: One of my favorite exercises for students is to write a self-portrait poem. Write a poem to yourself. This emerges in various ways. Some people will write a letter to their younger self in this kind of consoling, beautiful, heart-rending way that really is them writing a letter to who they are now. The other self-portrait poem, I think, has to do with giving your, you know, Whitman said we contain multitudes. And I think that's a great exercise for any writer to imagine the various parts of themselves that don't show up in their day-to-day interaction.

And that has been really radically, a very radical pedagogical tool for me with students who are not allowed to be themselves in their day-to-day lives. And what emerges out of that is some very powerful words that all of us in the room together can acknowledge and say, "Welcome into the world." And it's been just a gorgeous… I've been teaching the self-portrait poem for almost a decade and a half now. It's one of the most powerful, I think, assignments you can give to yourself. In America, we, there was a editor, who gave this assignment to writers after Borges, the great Argentinian writer who first… I shouldn't say first, but he popularized it by writing a piece called "Borges and I," yeah.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: Marie Howe has a great prompt that she gives which is to say, "you know, that thing you want to write about, that event; what happened next door? Or what about the next day?" To just expand time and space in very tangible ways. Marie has this book about her, one of her, her second-youngest brother who died of HIV related complications in 1989, I think, or 1990.

And I asked her once, I said, "What happened right after?"

And she said one of the siblings – there's nine siblings. And one of the siblings said, "I'll make sandwiches for everybody."

And then when the sandwiches were made, somebody said, "You know I hate ham!"

Somebody else said, "gimme the ham, gimme the ham, gimme the ham..."

And she said, while that was happening, we heard a body bag being closed. And so much is there. And it's about the room next door. So, and I think that's a very tangible way to expand these seemingly abstract concepts of time and space. To literally look at next door or right before or right after.

Jason Schneiderman: I think that, for me, the poem is kind of this journey to coherence. And that when I get to the other side of the poem, when the poem is finished, I make sense in the poem. And the poem makes sense in a way that I don't feel like I do on a day-to-day basis. And, the poem is smarter than I am. Like, the poem knows more than I do. And the exercise that I often give people, and that I use myself, is to write the poem, and turn the page and write the poem again, and turn the page and write the poem again. And you don't realize how many different versions and how many different tangents happen when you do that. And then, as you kind of put them all together, then that kind of coherence can come out of that process.

Major Jackson: Wow. We have two questions up here, Myka.

Audience member: Hi. My question is about how you decide where to direct your vision? 'Cause a lot of poetry can vary. The eyes are turning back onto your own experience, as opposed to turning your eyes outward to somewhere else. And how does that… How do you weigh that? How does that come about for each of you or any of you?

Major Jackson: I… one of the most important evolutions in my writing life occurred when I decided that I was going to turn the gaze inward. I had been a political poet, I'd been an activist on campus. My inheritance of poets like Amiri Baraka and Sonia Sanchez was to speak to the realities of injustice.

That made for an important poem and an important utterance. But I started to read poets – some of them actually appeared on screen – for whom it was as radical to turn the gaze towards the self. And in fact, I realized to some extent, the rage that I was expressing was because it was not systematic or structural, but it was very, very local.

Now, there's a relationship of course, but it has allowed me to be comfortable with – which not all poets are – to be comfortable with, and this is maybe a bias as a reader too, with folks who are going to lay bare and be vulnerable and give us both the political edges of our reality but also those edges of ourselves that we shut down. And I am ever grateful because I know these poems were written out of circumstances that were quite acute, in some instances. The pressures were emotionally high. But there's a certain kind of courage, I think.

Now I write about the natural world. I write about family. I write about, much to the chagrin of my family, some of the, what's happened in our lives. But I so believe we throw it all in. The music we listen to, the movies that we see; it all finds a way and has a space. The poets that we read, the philosophers that we encounter. My barber shows up in my poem.

I think it's a great way of pushing yourself, I think, away from the solipsism that can happen when you also gaze outward. And there's this dance, I think, in between the two. Maybe dependent upon the poem that's being written at that time.

Jason Schneiderman: I wish I could control my obsessions. I wish I were in charge of what it is that keeps churning through me and that needs to, kind of, come out in the poems, and that I need the poem to make sense of. And so, what I don't know that worries me, that kind of pushes itself to the surface, is to some extent out of my control. Which sounds silly, but that's… I'm not a mystic, and yet it does often feel like that travels through me in a way that I can't decide on. And sometimes, you know, the poems are, I don't show them to anyone, 'cause I think they might hurt someone, because I think that they… I just don't wanna send them into the world. But those obsessions are not under my control.

Samiya Bashir: You know, I think a lot about pronouns just as I'm a writer, right. You know. And for, but for me as a person, I realize clearly, like the only pronoun that really makes sense for me is the Jamaican "I and I." Right? I and I. All of we are one. And so, and then I also trace back to, I moved to L.A. when I was like 19 and studied with this crazy old vaudevillian. And he had this phrase, Dr. Desmond, called "Awareness is the chief motivation to art." And he forced us to kind of say this again and again. And for me, that idea of awareness is outside and inside, is the I that is you and the I that is me. And so, I really must be engaged with both.

Major Jackson: Yeah.

Samiya Bashir: I can't be lost in myself because it's easy to then forget that myself is also yourself.

Pádraig Ó Tuama: I think for me, the intuition for me when writing a poem is towards sound and feeling. And often I'm choosing language that is based on an intuitive approach to sound and feeling that's in response to something that's drawing me out. And that can often be a music that I'm trying to tune myself into rather than something that I feel like I'm composing. What I can do is to try to see. The Irish word for poet is file, which comes from the same root word as "to see."

And so therefore I'm interested in the midst of sound and feeling to place furniture into the space of the poem that is demonstrating that – whether I'm looking out or looking in, that I'm trying to see something. And I'm hesitant ever to say that there is a morality to writing, but that is where I try to put a morality to my imagination, to make sure that I'm not just seeing something that's convenient for me.

Major Jackson: That's wonderful. I want to honor someone's hand. We're running outta time, but maybe one of us could – the young lady right here. Yeah.

Audience member: Mine's, kind of less depressing, if that makes you feel any better.

Oh, okay. Hi. Sorry. I normally wouldn't ask this question, but I had this conversation in the car, so I was just curious. I've been kind of writing poems since I was 15 and I'm 27 now, so I have a lot of files of poems that I believe are truly terrible. And I hoard them. And I write titles like "Horrible Poem that I Think Will Never See the Light of Day" or "Sucky Thing that I Don't Know Why I Wrote This."

And I just keep them there and I don't know if I keep them there for humility, or if I think that I'll find inspiration in them one day, or what? And I just wanna know: am I the only one who has a weird poem hoarding problem for things that you truly believe are bad that you have written?

Samiya Bashir: I think you're doing it right.

Jason Schneiderman: There's a giant yellow binder, and I know, I mean, I'm older than you are, so it was, you know, they're all on actual loose leaf paper in a yellow binder – yes. And I know exactly where they are… And if ever, I think that I, you know… If ever I think that a poem is so bad that I don't think a poet has a future, it's right there. And I can check. Right? Yeah.

Major Jackson: Well, we are out of time, and I want to thank our guests Pádraig, Samiya and Jason!

Myka Kielbon: And a round of applause, a round of applause for our host, Major Jackson as well!

Major Jackson: 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 at arts.gov.

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