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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
To Diego with Love – Frida Kalko
I’m not asking you to give me a kiss,
not to apologize to me when I think you’ve made a mistake,
I won’t even ask you to hug me when I need it most,
I’m not asking you to tell me how beautiful I am even if it’s a lie,
or to write me anything nice.
I’m not even going to ask you to call me
to tell me how your day was,
or to tell me you miss me.
I’m not going to ask you to thank me for everything I do for you,
or to worry about me when I’m down,
and of course, I’m not going to ask you to support me in my decisions,
or even to listen when I have a thousand stories to tell you.
I’m not going to ask you to do anything, not even to be by my side forever.
Because if I have to ask you, then I don’t want it anymore.
Poetry
Flautist – inspired by George and Ira Gerswin
I say flautist
And she says flutist
She says well dressed
And I say nudist
Flautist
Or flutist
Well dressed
Or nudist
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
She likes the high notes
And I say play low
She wants more rhythm
And I want more show
High notes
Or low notes
Rhythmic
Or slow
She’ll take her clothes I know
She likes being well draped
And I like her bare
She is socially nervous
And I couldn’t care
Well draped
Or bare skinned
Socially nervous
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
She lives in a small town
Her needs are quite few
She was perfectly happy
Until she met you
Small town
Or needy
Self conscious
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see
I say it’s Paris
And she says Pari
She says, it’s no go
And I say we’ll see
Paris or Pari
Le no go
Or oui
She’ll take her clothes off for me
She plays the classics
And then plays the blues
She is red headed
And there go her shoes
Classics
Or blue notes
Red headed
Or gray
She takes her clothes off … hooray.
POETRY
Two-bloods – Rolando Kattan
| I am a descendent of stillness and sailors still in motion, a brew of saltpeter and blackbird song. In just one bloody wound collide impatience and calm. If I fall silent and words ripen it’s the voice of an olive tree in its quiet seed. I am the hesitation between hideout and sword, the yellow in all the world’s traffic lights. In the future I’ll serve you coffee and worship you—like an icon—in a picture frame. A dos sangres Vengo de una ascendencia de quietud y marineros todavía en movimiento; mezclo el salitre del mar con el canto de un mirlo. En una sola herida de sangre colisiona la serenidad y el desasosiego. Si enmudezco y maduran las palabras es la voz de un olivo en su callada semilla. Soy la incertidumbre entre el escondite o la espada, luz amarillenta en los semáforos del mundo, quiero servir tu café en el futuro o adorarte —como a un icono—en un portarretrato. |
Rolando Kattan
Poetry
blood
blood, blood, irrational blood flowing through my gates
down my thighs useless and hysterical.
what shall we do with this blood
are we in control or are the fates?
here, i shall paint your face with my blood,
draw blessed archaic symbols
on the walls of your arms and legs
remind us of the hunt, the sustenance we need.
i call upon you to taste me
as we smooth the way
for your
dna
to come inside me
when the blood is flowing
and it is safe to welcome these eager explorers,
this advance party of terrestrial observers
who shall all die in their service to the queen.
yes, i shall conspire with you
to send forth another party of your henchmen
your visionaries
inside the road to the sacred city
I shall welcome them passed these holy gates
to meet my ancestors and my future
to become the entire history of our species
to merge, to reemerge
potential bearing potential being potential
and for some while,
for the first time in a quarter of a century,
all this blood shall cease.
POETRY