Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

If you write poetry, you are likely to discover yourself, what you hear, believe, dream. Poetry is a transcription of your inner life. It is a magical place where you listen to your hidden thoughts to figure out who you are. Each pushed key, each written word on a yellow pad, unearths some part of you, possibly many parts of you — your goofy side, your political self, that part of you that longs for a cozy couch and a good book or a kiss. “Know thyself” goes the ancient maxim at Delphi.

In reading poetry, maybe more compellingly, we discover other human beings: their rituals and customs, their sympathies and affections. How they talk and the cadence of their breathing enter our bodies. In a democracy such as ours, made up of people from all walks of life and backgrounds, hearing the richness of our nation in artful speech proves indispensable in cultivating compassion.

As poet Elizabeth Alexander asks in one of my favorite poems, “Ars Poetica #100”: “and are we not of interest to each other?” While not its only function, for poetry also thrives beyond the affairs of societies, poetry deepens our appreciation for people. Their perspectives and life events take central stage. It’s as if they are with us, though not with us.

It can be terrifying hearing the intimate thoughts of one’s neighbors, one’s coworkers, and kin. And that’s just the beauty of it all; we are vulnerable in the face of a callous, impenetrable world. The softness of our thoughts, the warmth and closeness of our emotions, make us real to each other.

Today’s poem wonderfully celebrates one of poetry’s many powers.

The Presence in Absence
by Linda Gregg

Poetry is not made of words.
I can say it’s January when 
it’s August. I can say, “The scent 
of wisteria on the second floor 
of my grandmother’s house
with the door open onto the porch
in Petaluma,” while I’m living
an hour’s drive from the Mexican 
border town of Ojinaga.
It is possible to be with someone
who is gone. Like the silence which 
continues here in the desert while
the night train passes through Marfa
louder and louder, like the dogs whining
and barking after the train is gone. 

“The Presence in Absence” by Linda Gregg from IN THE MIDDLE DISTANCE © 2006 Linda Gregg . Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Graywolf Press.