I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. Thus slow down.

Here's another craft episode, but perhaps more of an instigation. I don't want to complain about what is missing in contemporary poetry.

I want to talk about the extended conceit. It is one of the

finest tools in poetry. It not only entertains the reader by way of wit and cleverness, but also sharpens the mind of a poet

as they work to render legible their feelings, which, let's admit, lies in obscurity without the press of language.

Everyone's feelings lie in obscurity without some communication, written or otherwise.

A conversation last winter written or otherwise.

A conversation last winter with a friend let us down the path to a point of disagreement.

Metaphore making is deceptive and superfluous on par with lying, he said.

One thing is not like another thing.

On the surface I agreed. But how wondrous to imagine a world absent of division,

and how wondrous for a poet to disentangle the chaotic bits of existence into an instance of lucid

meaning to bring to light a world in an elegant relationship with itself.

If the simile is a layup in a basketball game

and a metaphor is a jump shot from the foul line,

then the extended conceit is a half-court attempt to win the game.

You have options on any court, other players orbiting around you, but control of the conceit is paramount.

That is, orchestrating the entire buzz and of course not letting the ball go out of bounds

keeping it in play all passes must be crisp and accurate and the final shot is the result of an cumulative strategy, one of dazzling the reader

until the ball drops through the hoop.

I enjoyed today's poem immensely for how it makes its opening comparison

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