I'm Major Jackson and this is the Slowdown.

April is National Poetry Mupp.

It is the time of year I pack my bag sometimes twice a week to travel to a community in the

United States that values poetry, towns where libraries, art centers and schools, program

readings, hang broadsides and store windows and host local contests.

I'm not just talking about big cities, but remote towns that require connecting flights

followed by an hour or more of car travel.

I once flew to Omaha, Nebraska and at the airport expected my host to meet me at the baggage

carousel.

After nearly an hour, I learned the car rental had been made in my name at Hertz.

Turned out, my destination was Karni, Nebraska, a pleasant three hour drive west along I-80,

full of all the smells of cattle.

On another occasion, I drove from Denver to Laramie, Wyoming and saw tumbleweed for the

first time.

There, I served as the feature poet for an open mic, then listened to very talented cowboy

poets, queer poets, nature poets.

When I travel before my arrival, I read the online local newspaper to acquaint myself with

the prevailing issues of that community.

However, I read the local poets to tell me how they feel about those issues.

I listened to hear their collective dignity, and thus I feel utterly connected to poets

across the United States, poets from Mancato, Minnesota to Miami.

I feel kinship with the root one poets in New Jersey, and poets in Farmington, Maine.

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