Episode 40: Contemporary in Context

On this week’s episode of Slush Pile, the editors consider three poems by John Blair: “Degrees,”“Pink Noise,” and “The Giving Tree.” John Blair has published six books (most recently Playful Song Called Beautiful, University of Iowa Press, 2016) and several articles on the dangers of oak wilt in the Texas hill country. He is a professor… On this week’s episode of Slush Pile, the editors consider three poems by John Blair: “Degrees,”“Pink Noise,” and “The Giving Tree.” John Blair John Blair has published six books (most recently Playful Song Called Beautiful, University of Iowa Press, 2016) and several articles on the dangers of oak wilt in the Texas hill country.  He is a professor in the English Department at Texas State University, where he directs the undergraduate creative writing program. With three unique poems by John Blair, we find ourselves in a surprising discussion and rather spirited debate on widely varying topics. While at times syntax and structure left us feeling like we were on a slippery slope with “Degrees,” at others, we were simply impressed with the intellect that a poem could convey. (You can find the episode of Invisibilia, the source of Jason’s and Kathy’s heated debate over perception, here.) The same goes for Blair’s “Pink Noise,” what we read as an accurate portrayal of the frustrating wakefulness of insomnia and the distractions one might face in the pursuit of a peacefulsleep. (Once again, Kathy tells us how much she loves sleeping with Scooter from the Sleep With Me Podcast.) And, perhaps the most different of all, “The Giving Tree” sparked a debate on classic versus contemporary and the platform for paying homage to the former. Tune in for the conversation and the verdicts. And don’t forget to let us what you think about this episode on Facebook and Twitter using #70Percent!   Present at the Editorial Table: Kathleen Volk Miller Tim Fitts Marion Wrenn Sharee DeVose Jason Schneiderman   Engineering Producer: Amber Ferreira -----------------------------        Degrees They say there are just six              between any two of anyone for as far                               as random can reach which of course is everywhere             sincere to centigrade dolor to doctorate                             ad to infinitum.   So much of how much is              who’s looking. Here’s a small slice of lightness to lift                             a wave to touch every other wave wherever               there is water to well and cool and slide into                             green depths where the sunlight   fades in such slow degrees               you have to close your eyes to even know it’s gone.   Pink Noise Is just white noise with all                             the higher frequencies polished down like mountains                worn to humble or close enough to count sheer as                             wine-stains purpling the skin   of your sleepless going              on—it’s supposed to be soothing so you listen                             like you were good-boy told to do in the small wees               of waiting for your mind   to go on without you                             into dreaming but those little bumps are voices                and they are breathless with glee and the best you can                            do is listen and try   not to argue about                 your better self your good intentions all the ways                              you’ve managed so many years to sleep easily                 and well among the pale   beasts of worry who watch                             and wait neither blood nor snow but a mist of in-               between with teeth ground down to spindles to gnaw your                             nervy edges into   stubborn wakefulness like                a tree you’ve climbed to watch the other kids play blind                              to what’s coming what’s been what might in some other                 when matter and no one   notices your presence                             or your lucid absence or the pastel grumbling               of wind in the treetops or the boughs beginning                             like morning light to break.   The Giving Tree Doesn’t care for your gifts               or your attitude frankly               and wonders why you beg and grovel boy when all   she wants is to be left                the hell alone because                there are no apples here only thorns and her wood   is her own and she’s just                fine exactly where she                is and the woods are no place for the faithless likes   of you anyway which                is why they had to put                up that gate to keep you out and set a bouncer   with a burning ever-turning               sword to tell you you’re not               welcome in your fig leaves and weeping wounds. She’s here   for a reason but that               reason isn’t you and               the junk hidden in her trunk is just squirrels’ nests   and fairy bones and those               birds who loiter love her               in ways you never do so trust her when she tells   you she has no need for               a needy boy like you.