I'm Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

O'Captain Mike Captain, our fearful trip is done, begins Walt Whitman's famous poem.

I enjoy what are called apostrophes, poems that are spoken to a specific person.

They are so dramatic, so performative.

They make us feel as if we are eavesdropping or suddenly in a theater of the mind.

If you've ever accidentally received an email, meant for someone else, or read a postcard,

not addressed to you.

Times of address play on conditions you're familiar with.

Many poems presume an audience of imagined readers, that is you and me, who overhear the

speaker emoting and thinking.

Yet, if a poem is addressed specifically to a you, it breaks the fourth wall in acknowledging

our presence.

And that happens.

I look over my shoulder, then back at the page and ask, you talking to me?

Poetry is full of speeches to a specific someone, but that's not enough.

The poet must find the language and music to engage readers in the drama of what is shared.

I learned that the hard way.

I've written many failed love poems and discovered, surprisingly, people are best case,

mildly interested in hearing someone else's romantic words.

Unless the poem contains such a fire of expression that it becomes difficult not to be swept

up in a blaze of swooning.

And thus, I am a poor man's Pablo Neruda.

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