Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

I woke up recently with the rams. That’s what we called it in my youth when someone was angry for no reason and seemed to want to butt heads with everyone. On this particular morning I was salty. We ran out of coffee, which meant I had to make a quick run to the grocery store, which meant I had to spend thirty minutes or more in traffic, which meant my day would start later than desired. I had essays to grade and meetings with colleagues, and with Myka, my lovely producer, but none of that happens without caffeine. I grabbed my keys and slammed the door.

For some reason, every time I start my car, it plays “A Foggy Day (in London Town)” sung by Leslie Hutchinson, a 1920s singer I discovered by going down a rabbit hole. Every trip feels like Groundhog Day, the movie, which on this day really annoyed me.

I changed from Bluetooth to the radio; the morning commute DJs with their high-octane laughter annoyed me. The grocery store ran out of my favorite brand; that annoyed me. The store clerk peered on the shelf, reached his arm in the deep back and pulled out a bag. He cheerily handed it to me. His joy was annoying, slightly toxic.

At home, Didi noticed, and said, “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” and I said, “I hate that phrase.” Then, I apologized. “This isn’t me.” I said. She said, “Go ahead, live in your feelings.”

If you know me, I keep a container on any emotions close to rage. I am allergic to bad temperaments in others; so control it in myself. But recently, I’ve measured how the state of the world and its conflicts were affecting me. One of the great paradoxes in life is the presence of human suffering on the planet amidst prosperity. No religion can explain this other than point to some large cosmic plan. Sometimes it’s tough bearing witness and walking in a world where one feels debilitated, and silence around other people’s suffering feels like gaslighting.

Today’s poem invites us to rise to a place of gentleness, where memories of sublime encounters can help us reclaim an inner peace.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World
by Adam Zagajewski, translated by Clare Cavanagh

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles. 
You must praise the mutilated world. 
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world. 
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars. 
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost, 
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes 
and returns. 

“Try to Praise the Mutilated World” by Adam Zagajewski, translated by Clare Cavanaugh from WITHOUT END: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS by Adam Zagajewski, translated by several translators copyright © 2002 by Adam Zagajewski. Translation copyright © 2002 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.