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There Is No Going Back – Wendell Berry
No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are
that possibility you were.
More and more you have become
those lives and deaths
that have belonged to you.
You have become a sort of grave
containing much that was
and is no more in time, beloved
then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree
standing over a grave.
Now more than ever you can be
generous toward each day
that comes, young, to disappear
forever, and yet remain
unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason
not to give yourself away.
Poetry
For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet – Joy Harjo
Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.
Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.
Open the door, then close it behind you.
Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.
Give it back with gratitude.
If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.
Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.
Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.
Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.
Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.
Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.
The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.
Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.
Do not hold regrets.
When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.
You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.
Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.
Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.
Ask for forgiveness.
Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.
Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.
You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.
Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.
Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.
Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.
Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.
Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.
***
Joy Harjo was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1951, and is a member of the Mvskoke/Creek Nation. She is the author of several books of poetry, including An American Sunrise, and Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings. She was the United States poet laureate from 2019-22 the dark.
Poetry
Dismiss Whatever Insults Your Own Soul – Walt Whitman
This is what you shall do;
Love the earth and sun and the animals,
despise riches,
give alms to every one that asks,
stand up for the stupid and crazy,
devote your income and labor to others,
hate tyrants,
argue not concerning God,
have patience and indulgence toward the people,
take off your hat to nothing known
or unknown
or to any man or number of men,
go freely with powerful uneducated persons
and with the young
and with the mothers of families,
read these leaves in the open air every season
of every year of your life,
re-examine all you have been told
at school or church or in any book,
dismiss whatever insults your own soul,
and your very flesh shall be a great poem
and have the richest fluency not only in its words
but in the silent lines of its lips and face
and between the lashes of your eyes
and in every motion and joint of your body.
Poetry
Small Stack of Books – Blake Nelson
The night my father died
I sat in my office
And looked at the stack
Of books
I had authored, which I had poured
My life’s spirit into, but which
Would mean little to me during
My last hours
Just a stack of objects, one on top
Of another, easily removed
Biodegradable
Family was the one thing you could
Leave behind, which would grow
And prosper without you,
Not the thoughts
You had once, the stories you
Told, your particular point of view
Still, once my father
Was buried, I did not seek out a wife and
Produce the children who would save
Me from oblivion, I kept
Scribbling and typing and building small
Worlds in my mind
Which brought me
Momentary peace, it was all
I was capable of, by habit, by inclination
Now I suspect that either way, the result is
The same, you come into the world
And then pass out again, does the world need
More books or does it need more children?
The turning earth remains neutral
On the question
Poetry
Combat Primer – Charles Bukowski
they called Céline a Nazi
they called Pound a fascist
they called Hamsun a Nazi and a fascist
they put Dostoevsky in front of a firing
squad
and they shot Lorca
gave Hemingway electric shock treatments
(and you know he shot himself)
and they ran Villon out of town (Paris)
and Mayakovsky
disillusioned with the regime
and after a lover’s quarrel,
well,
he shot himself too.
Chatterton took rat poison
and it worked.
and some say Malcom Lowry died
choking on his own vomit
while drunk.
Crane went the way of the boat
propellor or the sharks.
Harry Crosby’s sun was black.
Berryman preferred the bridge.
Plath didnt light the oven.
Seneca cut his wrists in the
bathtub (it’s best that way:
in warm water).
Thomas and Behan drank themselves
to death and
there are many others.
and you want to be a
writer?
it’s that kind of war:
creation kills,
many go mad,
some lose their way and
can’t do it
anymore.
a few make it to old age.
a few make money.
some starve (like Vallejo).
it’s that kind of war:
casualties everywhere.
all right, go ahead
do it
but when they sandbag you
from the blind side
don’t come to me with your
regrets.
now I’m going to smoke a cigarette
in the bathtub
and then I’m going to
sleep.
Poetry
The War Works Hard – Dunya Mikhail
How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins…
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing…
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire)…
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures
builds new houses
for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader’s face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.
Poetry
Sleeping in the Forest – Mary Oliver
I thought the earth remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
Poetry
Ode to Those Who Block Tunnels and Bridges – Sam Sax
teach us there can be movement
in stillness. in every broken syllable
of traffic a syllabus that says
while you are suffering we are all
going to be unwell—let us
instead distill business as usual
down to the speed of a tree eating
light. as usual, business is built
from freight trains and warships
even when ‘it’s just coffee.’
these bridges should only connect
the living, so when the living turn
again toward death worship
it’s time to still the delivery of plastics
and red meats to the galas of venture
capital. to reject our gods if they are
not the gods who teach us all that comes
from dirt returns to it holy—
the holiest word i know is no.
no more money for the endless
throat of money. no more
syllogisms that permission
endless suffering. no more.
and on the eighth day of a holiday
meant to represent a people
fighting occupation my teachers
who stretch a drop of oil into a week
of light take each other’s arms
across eight bridges of this settler colony
singing prayers older than any country
as the chevron burns in the distance.
o stilted vernacular of life—
o pedagogs of the godly pausing—
what mycelia spreads its speaking
limbs beneath the floors of our cities.
the only holy land i know
is where life is. in the story
i was taught alongside my first
language it takes god six days
to make the terrible world
and on seventh day he rested
and on the eighth we blocked traffic.
Poetry
Meeting the Dead Poet
I meet the dead poet for our rendezvous, as planned.
He looks good, even if dead,
and wants very much to know
how things are going.
I began by describing his memorial service,
Trying to tell him who was there
Though I knew far less than half of them,
To describe the poems that were read,
alhough I didn’t understand any of them,
Except for one of his poems,
Read by the woman who led the labyrinth walk,
The woman with the seven-year-old boy
Permanently attached to her side
The boy I played chess with
While others ate and schmoozed.
I’m not very good at chess.
The boy was worse.
I made sure all games ended in a draw.
The best poem was the poet’s own poem,
Read by the woman from the spiritual center
About a time when the poet and his very Jewish father
Went to the local Catholic Church,
Something shocking all in itself,
To help the priest untangle and string the Christmas lights.
I don’t recall the specifics of the poem
But it was very dead poet-like
And involved allusions to light
And color
And Prometheus,
who stole fire from the gods
and gave it to humanity.
It was a lovely poem.
I even called it brilliant
Which, of course, the poet liked.
Afterwards, we found ourselves sitting at a table
In a Serbian café drinking kava,
Charming the young waitresses,
And drawing the attention of other patrons
Who were amazed that foreigners were among them
And wouldn’t believe the poet when he told them
He was dead
Although they promptly brought him
A tray of peeled garlic cloves
And conveyed numerous facts
About the garlic’s healing properties
And how easy they were to propagate,
Which inspired the dead poet
To put one of the cloves in his pocket
For planting when he got home.
We were next in a hotel lobby
Where a poetess was giving a reading
That was impossible to hear
Over the din of the crowd.
So the poet moved as close to her as he could
While I went off to find a new pen
With which to write the amazing poem
I knew was within me
About my encounter with a dead poet,
who I knew well.
You cannot imagine
How hard it is to find a good pen
With just the right sharpness
To create a good poem
No matter how many stores you visit.
POETRY
Harriet Wilson
In 1825, Harriet E. Wilson was born in Milford, New Hampshire, to a white mother and a Black father. After her mother’s death, she was given away as an indentured servant, spending her childhood in labor and hardship instead of school or play.
As an adult, abandoned by her husband and left to care for her sick child, Harriet worked as a seamstress, cleaner, and domestic servant. Poverty followed her, but she refused to be silenced.
In 1859, she accomplished something extraordinary: she published Our Nig; or, Sketches from the Life of a Free Black. It was the first novel ever published by an African American woman in the United States. With unflinching honesty, Harriet exposed that racism and exploitation existed not only in the South but also in the so-called “free” North.
The book sold poorly, and Harriet’s hope that it might provide for her son was never fulfilled. After his death, she moved to Boston, where she became a spiritualist and reformer, offering help to others even as her own name faded into obscurity.
When Harriet Wilson died in 1900, she was buried without recognition. But in 1982, scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. rediscovered her book, restoring her place as a pioneer of American literature.
Her voice, once forgotten, now rings out again. Harriet Wilson’s story is one of resilience, courage, and proof that even if the world forgets, words can rise again to be remembered.”
RACIAL AWARENESS
