I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

And this is the slowdown. Walking down commercial street in Provincetown, I ran into a poet friend.

She was licking an ice cream cone, which was a delight.

Who doesn't love running into a friend in a resort town with its tourists and cottages awash and light. I was quite young, just

starting out, at last comfortable with even calling myself a poet.

And here was someone whose poetry was instructive.

Yet more, her presence bespoke decorum in order.

I admired her firm take on things, her presumed authority.

She seemed to affect a seriousness about poetry, one that I wish for myself.

Near McMillan's pair, we exchanged some words about a mutual friend.

Then she asked, have you read his latest book? I hadn't, I said, what do you make of it?

After a moment of pondering, she proclaimed,

I'm less interested in poems of Paradise, yet infinitely intrigued by poems that

chart our journey out of hell. She was speaking metaphorically of course. By this

time the ice cream was dripping down her hand.

Her fascinating dichotomy conveyed attention about poetry written today.

If a poet does not address some personal strife, achieve

some social relevance, or convey political urgency, then somehow their poems fail to capture our attention.

Some believe a hierarchy of subject matter exist in art,

and that success as a poet, wide readership, prizes, and recognition is contingent upon how close

one hues to the drama of existence rather than its serenity.

Though young and thus impressionable, I did not readily agree.

...