Hello Friends,
It’s the end of poetry month! Thank you so much for joining me this month. I hope you encountered a poem or two that spoke to you. I have one last piece for you by Camonghne Felix to conclude 30 days, 30 poems, 30 poets.
Enjoy.
Ællen
It’s the end of poetry month! Thank you so much for joining me this month. I hope you encountered a poem or two that spoke to you. I have one last piece for you by Camonghne Felix to conclude 30 days, 30 poems, 30 poets.
Enjoy.
Ællen
Born. Living. Will. Die.
for my favorite auntie, Jeanette
Sometimes I think I’m never going to write a poem
again
and then there’s a full moon.
I miss being in love but I miss
myself most when I’m gone.
In the salty wet air of my ancestry
my auntie peels a mango with her teeth
and I’m no longer
writing political poems; because there are
mangoes and my favorite memory is still alive.
I’m digging for meaning but haunted by purpose
and it’s an insufficient approach.
What’s the margin of loss on words not spent today?
I’m getting older. I’m buying smaller images to travel light.
I wake up, I light up, I tidy, and it’s all over now.
■
for my favorite auntie, Jeanette
Sometimes I think I’m never going to write a poem
again
and then there’s a full moon.
I miss being in love but I miss
myself most when I’m gone.
In the salty wet air of my ancestry
my auntie peels a mango with her teeth
and I’m no longer
writing political poems; because there are
mangoes and my favorite memory is still alive.
I’m digging for meaning but haunted by purpose
and it’s an insufficient approach.
What’s the margin of loss on words not spent today?
I’m getting older. I’m buying smaller images to travel light.
I wake up, I light up, I tidy, and it’s all over now.
■
Poem-A-Day April 29: An Exchange of Gifts
An Exchange of Gifts
As long as you read this poem
I will be writing it.
I am writing it here and now
before your eyes,
although you can’t see me.
Perhaps you’ll dismiss this
as a verbal trick,
the joke is you’re wrong;
the real trick
is your pretending
this is something
fixed and solid,
external to us both.
I tell you better:
I will keep on
writing this poem for you
even after I’m dead.
■
As long as you read this poem
I will be writing it.
I am writing it here and now
before your eyes,
although you can’t see me.
Perhaps you’ll dismiss this
as a verbal trick,
the joke is you’re wrong;
the real trick
is your pretending
this is something
fixed and solid,
external to us both.
I tell you better:
I will keep on
writing this poem for you
even after I’m dead.
■
“An Exchange of Gifts” appears in Alden Nowlan’s 1985 collection An Exchange of Gifts: Poems New and Selected. This Canadian poet, novelist, and playwright died in 1983.
Poem-A-Day April 28: Never Again
Never Again
At the end of every Holocaust film I’ve seen and
there are not many
they show real life survivors and say the words
Never Again
Some of us like me/stare into these films
down the long tunnels of history wondering
how it could have ever happened at all
that a leader and his minions could be so toxic, poisonous
you’d turn against your neighbors
you could be so oblivious, brainwashed, scared
desperate to be a superior or to survive
you’d do anything, or almost.
They say never again
but it is again
as I look at the deportations
round-ups
I’m reminded of Idi Amin when he cast out foreigners
and Forest Whitaker in the film The Last King of Scotland, when he played him.
And to see it is again
at rallies, at protests, they show the coat hangers and crude instruments
women were forced to use in back alley abortions
We say never again but taking away women’s choice
and Planned Parenthood, it is again.
Today started out in an argument with someone
who didn’t understand why I mentioned race so much
in my new book
and that white man is not the first/a Black woman
asked too.
I wanted to scream HELLO haven’t you seen the news
Didn’t you see what happened to Stephon Clark
unarmed and shot in the back six times by police
And who even cares what happens to women
Black lesbians, lesbians of color
There’s no public outcry.
A student once wrote to me in an academic paper
that a parent forced her to stop playing sports
because they said sports made her more of a dyke
It killed my student inside because she was an athlete
So the white guy I argued with about my book
said he was just giving me some good advice
from his experience as an empath
I said I don’t need your advice
I have reasons for talking about race and gender in the interpersonal
He said he was just trying to help me.
I’ll offer this nonsequitur
Winne Mandela died a few years ago
She had a great impact on me
I read she was nobility
But then the difference between her and how Princess Diana was treated
Everyone accepted and loved Diana’s silent/passive status
She was allowed to be gorgeous
No one ever associated her with that colonial stain
There are moments in the recent Winne Mandela documentary
that stand out to me
where she buried her face in her hands and screamed out
I’ve been betrayed
the other moment was went she said she was
the only ANC member brought to TRC
and made to testify
Nelson Mandela forgave a nation
but he could never forgive her.
What was done to Winnie is done to other Black women
and working artists
Black women fighting to give language/resistance
but it only matters when a celebrity says or does it.
At Cape Coast Castle in Ghana after you’ve passed
The Door of No Return
there is a plaque donated to the Castle by Black tribal elders
It reads:
May we never sell ourselves into slavery again
But it is Again.
■
At the end of every Holocaust film I’ve seen and
there are not many
they show real life survivors and say the words
Never Again
Some of us like me/stare into these films
down the long tunnels of history wondering
how it could have ever happened at all
that a leader and his minions could be so toxic, poisonous
you’d turn against your neighbors
you could be so oblivious, brainwashed, scared
desperate to be a superior or to survive
you’d do anything, or almost.
They say never again
but it is again
as I look at the deportations
round-ups
I’m reminded of Idi Amin when he cast out foreigners
and Forest Whitaker in the film The Last King of Scotland, when he played him.
And to see it is again
at rallies, at protests, they show the coat hangers and crude instruments
women were forced to use in back alley abortions
We say never again but taking away women’s choice
and Planned Parenthood, it is again.
Today started out in an argument with someone
who didn’t understand why I mentioned race so much
in my new book
and that white man is not the first/a Black woman
asked too.
I wanted to scream HELLO haven’t you seen the news
Didn’t you see what happened to Stephon Clark
unarmed and shot in the back six times by police
And who even cares what happens to women
Black lesbians, lesbians of color
There’s no public outcry.
A student once wrote to me in an academic paper
that a parent forced her to stop playing sports
because they said sports made her more of a dyke
It killed my student inside because she was an athlete
So the white guy I argued with about my book
said he was just giving me some good advice
from his experience as an empath
I said I don’t need your advice
I have reasons for talking about race and gender in the interpersonal
He said he was just trying to help me.
I’ll offer this nonsequitur
Winne Mandela died a few years ago
She had a great impact on me
I read she was nobility
But then the difference between her and how Princess Diana was treated
Everyone accepted and loved Diana’s silent/passive status
She was allowed to be gorgeous
No one ever associated her with that colonial stain
There are moments in the recent Winne Mandela documentary
that stand out to me
where she buried her face in her hands and screamed out
I’ve been betrayed
the other moment was went she said she was
the only ANC member brought to TRC
and made to testify
Nelson Mandela forgave a nation
but he could never forgive her.
What was done to Winnie is done to other Black women
and working artists
Black women fighting to give language/resistance
but it only matters when a celebrity says or does it.
At Cape Coast Castle in Ghana after you’ve passed
The Door of No Return
there is a plaque donated to the Castle by Black tribal elders
It reads:
May we never sell ourselves into slavery again
But it is Again.
■
“Never Again” appears in poet and performer Pamela Sneed’s 2020 collection Funeral Diva.
Poem-A-Day April 27: I do not exaggerate
After All Is Said and Done
Maybe you thought I would forget
about the sunrise
how the moon stayed in the morning
time a lower lip
your partly open partly spoken
mouth
Maybe you thought I would exaggerate
the fire of the stars
the fire of the wet wood burning by
the waterside
the fire of the fuck the sudden move
you made me make
to meet you
(fire)
BABY
I do not exaggerate and
if
I could
I would.
■
Maybe you thought I would forget
about the sunrise
how the moon stayed in the morning
time a lower lip
your partly open partly spoken
mouth
Maybe you thought I would exaggerate
the fire of the stars
the fire of the wet wood burning by
the waterside
the fire of the fuck the sudden move
you made me make
to meet you
(fire)
BABY
I do not exaggerate and
if
I could
I would.
■
“After All Is Said and Done” appears in poet June Jordan’s 1974 collection New Days: Poems of Exile and Return.
Poem-A-Day April 26: Heartbeats
Hello Friends,
Poet Melvin Dixon was a professor of literature who wrote extensively about the complexities of being a gay Black man in his poems, short stories, novels, essays, and more. Dixon and his partner Richard Horovitz both died of complications from AIDS, and this poem was published posthumously in the 1995 collection Love’s Instruments.
— Ællen
Poet Melvin Dixon was a professor of literature who wrote extensively about the complexities of being a gay Black man in his poems, short stories, novels, essays, and more. Dixon and his partner Richard Horovitz both died of complications from AIDS, and this poem was published posthumously in the 1995 collection Love’s Instruments.
— Ællen
Heartbeats
Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.
Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.
Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.
Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.
Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.
Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.
Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.
Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.
Don’t cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.
Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.
Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.
Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.
Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.
No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.
Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.
Six months? Three weeks?
Can’t eat. No air.
Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.
Sweet heart. Don’t stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
■
Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.
Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.
Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.
Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.
Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.
Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.
Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.
Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.
Don’t cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.
Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.
Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.
Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.
Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.
No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.
Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.
Six months? Three weeks?
Can’t eat. No air.
Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.
Sweet heart. Don’t stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
■
Poem-A-Day April 25: To take us Lands away
Hello Friends,
For today’s poem, it’s helpful to know that in Emily Dickinson’s time a “frigate” meant a sailing ship built for speed and maneuverability, and “coursers” were swift horses.
For today’s poem, it’s helpful to know that in Emily Dickinson’s time a “frigate” meant a sailing ship built for speed and maneuverability, and “coursers” were swift horses.
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry —
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll —
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul —
■
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry —
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll —
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul —
■
Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) wrote her poems on little scraps of paper that have been carefully archived. Here is what the original “There is no Frigate like a Book” looks like:
You can view more of Emily Dickinson’s poems in their original form in a book called The Gorgeous Nothings (2013) and online at EDickinson.org/.
Enjoy.
Ællen
You can view more of Emily Dickinson’s poems in their original form in a book called The Gorgeous Nothings (2013) and online at EDickinson.org/.
Enjoy.
Ællen
Poem-A-Day April 24: Elsewhere here.
Book X
The cypresses reached the clouds. The clouds ran
like stockings. The cypresses seemed
to woodfeather the roof
of my mouth when I was elsewhere
benerved. What I called my pleasure:
Elsewhere here. Her mouth
on me: tangerine pulp. Words came
as ants synapsing to syrup. Each,
inadequate. Each, everything. She gave me
her tongue. She gave me a way
to refuse and a way to yes the world
in brisk barter. She gave me the sweetmeats
of power surrendered
and power offered. The Garden was prolific
in wild invasives. Yes, in knowledge —
I made a kudzu rope
to bind my wrists
to my desire
and to unbind my future
from a pluperfect past. The tense
present in I am without I am.
I believe in God as a knot
that knows how to untie itself.
From this knowledge, a secret fruited
known as a bruise
to thumb the touch apparent.
■
The cypresses reached the clouds. The clouds ran
like stockings. The cypresses seemed
to woodfeather the roof
of my mouth when I was elsewhere
benerved. What I called my pleasure:
Elsewhere here. Her mouth
on me: tangerine pulp. Words came
as ants synapsing to syrup. Each,
inadequate. Each, everything. She gave me
her tongue. She gave me a way
to refuse and a way to yes the world
in brisk barter. She gave me the sweetmeats
of power surrendered
and power offered. The Garden was prolific
in wild invasives. Yes, in knowledge —
I made a kudzu rope
to bind my wrists
to my desire
and to unbind my future
from a pluperfect past. The tense
present in I am without I am.
I believe in God as a knot
that knows how to untie itself.
From this knowledge, a secret fruited
known as a bruise
to thumb the touch apparent.
■
“Book X” by Emilia Phillips appears in The Adroit Journal issue 38 (August 2021). Phillips (they/she) is a faculty member in the MFA Writing Program and the Department of English and cross-appointed faculty in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Program at UNC Greensboro.
Poem-A-Day April 23: A Blank White Page
A Blank White Page
is a meadow
after a snowfall
that a poem
hopes to cross
■
is a meadow
after a snowfall
that a poem
hopes to cross
■
Hello Friends,
Today’s poem appears in poet Francisco X. Alarcón’s 2001 collection Iguanas in the Snow and Other Winter Poems. For other blank page poems, see “The Thought-Fox” by Ted Hughes and “How the mind works still to be sure” by Jennifer Denrow.
I hope you’re enjoying poetry month!
— Ællen
Today’s poem appears in poet Francisco X. Alarcón’s 2001 collection Iguanas in the Snow and Other Winter Poems. For other blank page poems, see “The Thought-Fox” by Ted Hughes and “How the mind works still to be sure” by Jennifer Denrow.
I hope you’re enjoying poetry month!
— Ællen
Poem-A-Day April 22: a tree inside a tree
From a Window
Incurable and unbelieving
in any truth but the truth of grieving,
I saw a tree inside a tree
rise kaleidoscopically
as if the leaves had livelier ghosts.
I pressed my face as close
to the pane as I could get
to watch that fitful, fluent spirit
that seemed a single being undefined
or countless beings of one mind
haul its strange cohesion
beyond the limits of my vision
over the house heavenwards.
Of course I knew those leaves were birds.
Of course that old tree stood
exactly as it had and would
(but why should it seem fuller now?)
and though a man’s mind might endow
even a tree with some excess
of life to which a man seems witness,
that life is not the life of men.
And that is where the joy came in.
■
Incurable and unbelieving
in any truth but the truth of grieving,
I saw a tree inside a tree
rise kaleidoscopically
as if the leaves had livelier ghosts.
I pressed my face as close
to the pane as I could get
to watch that fitful, fluent spirit
that seemed a single being undefined
or countless beings of one mind
haul its strange cohesion
beyond the limits of my vision
over the house heavenwards.
Of course I knew those leaves were birds.
Of course that old tree stood
exactly as it had and would
(but why should it seem fuller now?)
and though a man’s mind might endow
even a tree with some excess
of life to which a man seems witness,
that life is not the life of men.
And that is where the joy came in.
■
Happy Earth Day, Friends. “From A Window” appears in poet Christian Wiman’s 2011 collection Every Riven Thing. This poem is written in rhyming couplets.
Poem-A-Day April 21: Each Other
Looking At Each Other
Yes, we were looking at each other
Yes, we knew each other very well
Yes, we had made love with each other many times
Yes, we had heard music together
Yes, we had gone to the sea together
Yes, we had cooked and eaten together
Yes, we had laughed often day and night
Yes, we fought violence and knew violence
Yes, we hated the inner and outer oppression
Yes, that day we were looking at each other
Yes, we saw the sunlight pouring down
Yes, the corner of the table was between us
Yes, bread and flowers were on the table
Yes, our eyes saw each other’s eyes
Yes, our mouths saw each other’s mouth
Yes, our breasts saw each other’s breasts
Yes, our bodies entire saw each other
Yes, it was beginning in each
Yes, it threw waves across our lives
Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong
Yes, the beating became very delicate
Yes, the calling the arousal
Yes, the arriving the coming
Yes, there it was for both entire
Yes, we were looking at each other
■
Yes, we were looking at each other
Yes, we knew each other very well
Yes, we had made love with each other many times
Yes, we had heard music together
Yes, we had gone to the sea together
Yes, we had cooked and eaten together
Yes, we had laughed often day and night
Yes, we fought violence and knew violence
Yes, we hated the inner and outer oppression
Yes, that day we were looking at each other
Yes, we saw the sunlight pouring down
Yes, the corner of the table was between us
Yes, bread and flowers were on the table
Yes, our eyes saw each other’s eyes
Yes, our mouths saw each other’s mouth
Yes, our breasts saw each other’s breasts
Yes, our bodies entire saw each other
Yes, it was beginning in each
Yes, it threw waves across our lives
Yes, the pulses were becoming very strong
Yes, the beating became very delicate
Yes, the calling the arousal
Yes, the arriving the coming
Yes, there it was for both entire
Yes, we were looking at each other
■
“Looking At Each Other” by Muriel Rukeyser first appeared in The New York Quarterly in 1985.