Tag: poem

The Poetry Corner – 9 March 2021

Eli Neumann 1 Comment

[To read an introduction to this column, please see the first paragraph of the previous post here]

 

This week I would like to share a poem I found recently from the Nigerian poet Gbenga Adesina. The following poem I discovered in the Fall 2020 issue of Narrative magazine. It is titled “Across the Sea: A Sequence”:

 

 

 

 

 

                        Across the Sea: A Sequence                       

                        Gbenga Adesina            

 

 

 

1.
Across the Sea

 

The bottom of the sea is cruel. — Hart Crane.

 

i
On the sea, your prayer is not to the whorl scarf
of waves. Your prayer is to the fitful sleep of the dead.
Look at them, their bodies curve darkly without intention
and arrow down into the water. What do you call a body
of water made of death and silence? The sea murmurs
on the pages of this book. There are bones buried in the water
under these lines. Do you hear them, do you smell them?

 

ii
In the panic of drowning, there are hands lifting babies
up in the air, out of the water, for breath. A chorus
of still pictures brought this news to me, to us. Because we do
not see the bodies sinking, because we do not see their mouths
already touching water, the hands lifting up the babies look almost
ordinary. Like the Greeks lifting their newborns unto the sky.
What is the failure of dead? That they sink?
Or that they sink with what is in their hands?

 

The children of God are upon frightened waters,
And God being hunger, God being the secret grief of salt
moves among his people and does not spare them.
The children of God are upon frightened waters.

 

iii
There is a child whose protest is of eyes.
She has crossed the water with her mother,
they are shivering, waiting for her father, two days now, they are
waiting,
shivering for a father the mother knows would never arrive.
The mother holds the child, she says to her, gently:
“It’s a brief death. Your father has gone on a brief death.
He’ll soon be back.”

 

v
A man is bent on his knees, wailing at the waters.
He slaps his hand on the wet sand and rough-cut stones
the way one might fight a brother.
He grabs the shirt of the sand as though they are in a tussle.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them.
A landlocked grief. They say the man was a newlywed.
Now his vows are inside the water.
He claws at the sand. He wails: “Ocean,
you owe me a body. Ocean, give me back my lover.”

 

vi
Think of the boats. The timber comes from Egypt.
They are cut into diagonals and made pretty. They
are polished by hands. Their saplings are watered by the Nile.
The White Nile flows through Khartoum
before it puts its teeth into the Mediterranean.
The waters and the trees eat bodies.

 

The children of God are upon frightened waters,
And God being hunger, God being the secret grief of salt
moves among his people and does not spare them.
The children of God are upon frightened waters.

 

2.
Coma

The silence is a prairie country. The silence
is the silence of hospital sheets.
The silence is of IV tubes, veins, quiet siren of ghosts.
The silence is the silence of what
is dappled invisibly by a body
that is no longer human but not yet a ghost. The silence in your
body has lodged in my throat.
Silence, can you hear me? The silence is of lime,
and kraal stones. The silence is not shadow
but the light of a body buried under a mound of rough stones.
The silence is the silence
of hands. Hands, wire-vine hands, can you hear me?
The silence is the silence of broken ribs.
The silence is the silence of the head,
shorn and shaven. The silence is silence of a bandage wrapped
tight around what is sunken, what is fallen in the gait of the head.
Head,
can you hear me?
The silence is silence of blood,
seething through filament of bandage.
Blood, can you hear me?
Father, blood, Father can you hear me?

 

 

 

 

 

I have read this poem multiple times and every time I discover something new about it. Each section is a separate scene, but they are all connected by themes of water, death, and the struggle for connection and survival. The language, images, rhythm, line breaks, and everything is so striking to me, by the end I’m left speechless. What do you see in it? I would love to read your thoughts in the comments below!

the rose vine – “Ophelia”

Ezra Rose (she/ they) Leave a comment

“Ophelia”

femininity the existence

or femininity the institution

which do I oppose? 

existing in my natural state

is to be subpar.

           unladylike.

                      masculine.

 

no wonder I would want to be rid of the whole,

but the latter question remains.

           I don’t have an answer.

I love my body but intrinsically don’t

                    as all girls are trained

to love their bodies when men do

and men love what they love.

                                 the bitter taste on my tongue…

 

but what makes a woman a woman?

                      and what could make me not?

setting women up for a lifetime of use 

                                                                  and discard.

to place their value on desire

the red of her lip, the curve in her hip

the way the volume of her chest attracts more

that the words of a woman ever could.

 

and I want to answer there is something more.

           an essence of an essence, 

                                 quintessential othering

“be true to yourself” mantra 

           I followed from birth.

I want to say I knew I was different from the other girls

when I was five and liked science 

                                                       but girls like science.

or when I was fourteen and hated my chest 

                                                                  but truthfully?

for a while I thought it was all I was worth. 

 

and sometimes I fear all my love is narcissistic.

that my love of men is love 

                                            of who I wish I was 

and my love of women is fetishized envy

love of those who effortlessly embody what I struggle

                                 to perform.

 

           but not entirely.

 

there are moments in the dead of night

           and the break of dawn

when someone is being unequivocally

                                                                  themselves.

that is what I love the most

                                 the one thing I know 

I can never be.

 

The Poetry Corner – 2 March 2021

Eli Neumann 1 Comment

My vision for this column is for it to showcase poetry from around the world to let people see the beautiful and important work poets are doing in our time. This means I will mostly show contemporary poetry, but there may also be poems from the past if I find them particularly relevant or beneficial to show at a certain time. Being an arts column in English, all the poems I show will be in English, but some may have been translated from other languages. I will try to show originals alongside the translations if possible. As English speakers I find that we so often forget about or ignore literature in other languages. To counter this, I hope to show that beautiful work is being done in other languages and that by reading that work we can gain deeper insight into our common humanity.

 

For my first post, I want to show you one of my absolute favorite poems from one of my absolute favorite poets, Ocean Vuong. This poem is titled “Seventh Circle of Earth.” Read it below:

Read More

the rose vine – “Mountains”

Ezra Rose (she/ they) Leave a comment

“Mountains”

My feet dangle above the earth

my hair blows in the wind.

I can see for what feels like miles away.

My heart skips a beat as I look below

but I feel safe.

 

His shoulders felt like mountains to climb

and I did. As often as he would allow.

When my short legs got tired on the long walk home.

When I needed a better view of what lied ahead.

Until I got too big and he got too old.

 

Time passes and I help him to bed and get him his lunch

The days I sat on those mountains now long gone.

The days I felt as high as the eagles we sought.

And then he’s gone.

Mountains buried six feet underground.

 

And part of my childhood dies with him.

I am no longer the little girl 

who could forget her troubles on her papa’s shoulders.

I am grown, or so it appears. I stand alone, 

my mile-long view replaced with a blurry haze.

 

Sorrow fills every inch of my feeble body

and I know I would give everything 

to climb those mountains once again,

to just feel safe in the world again,

to get back the peace that died with him.

 

the rose vine – “Eternity, for Men”

Ezra Rose (she/ they) 1 Comment

“Eternity, For Men”

I can’t explain who I am without the stuff

I own. The space I inhibit in this room,

the full length mirror and the floor camouflaged

in boy-jeans and flowing dresses

silent yet screaming at me, “boy or girl?

Boy or girl? 

BOY OR GIRL?”

 

I glance at my closet, for a moment finding silence 

in the cologne I spent entirely too much 

on because I thought it would make me happy

and it did, for a time. Every inhale brought euphoria

that never seemed enough. I need more

to prove who I am to me, to you.

 

I inhale, the one symbol of masculinity uninhibited 

by my mother’s curves

or the chest still unmapped.

It smelled of leather and fire,

the ex-boyfriend’s garage 

before I knew wanting 

to be someone and with someone weren’t the same thing.

 

Of course I knew. 

The way I crossed my arms 

and bound my chest before it developed

before I learned 

no one wants an it.

 

Before that boyfriend called me Eric and laughed.

Before I knew laughter as the consequence of sincerity.

Before I accepted laughter and abandoned sincerity.

 

 

Art Biz with Liz: Amanda Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb”

Elizabeth S Leave a comment

At President Joe Biden’s inauguration on January 20th, 2021, 22-year-old Amanda Gorman delivered her poem, “The Hill We Climb.” The Los Angeles resident made history as the youngest known inaugural poet, sparking admiration and conversation the following weeks.

The poem isn’t without criticism, however. People have taken to the comment sections in newspapers like The Hill to voice their opinions. Check out Reddit’s r/Poetry subreddit, a place to share and discuss published poetry, and you’ll find similar sentiments. One user said, “The meter is all over the place. The wordplay is inane. It’s full of patriotic platitudes and contains nothing new or surprising. It wouldn’t inspire anyone at any time except Americans, today.”

I’m not qualified to judge what makes good poetry and what doesn’t. I’ve heard various people commend the artist yet criticize the poem for things such as “cliches” and “frustrating meter.” Additionally, some praise “The Hill We Climb” for its messages and pacing but question whether it is “technically strong.” Regardless, I think that there is great merit in the work as a piece of art. Art and creativity can be important tools in inspiring people, and Ms. Gorman utilizes them to do just that. A Forbes article says, “Gorman has produced poetry and studied sociology, so in combining complex social science into an art form, she has developed a unique offering in both fields.” I’d have to agree.

Rewatching her performance, I hear rhythms and repetitions that remind me of Hamilton. There are two references to the musical within the poem, in addition to commentary on current events. Journalists, teachers, and Youtubers alike have begun analyzing Gorman’s piece, noting references to the bible and other poets’ work, as well. The significance? Gorman is purposeful in her words and presentation. One thing that I believe is incredible about her piece is its accessibility, which is somewhat indifferent to the “technicality” of it as poem. There is still value that can be measured in the conciseness of words and density of thought within Gorman’s piece, but its reach to the general masses could be considered invaluable. The outbursts in feelings it evoked in countless people, if only for a moment, have been monumental (just check out the positivity related to #AmandaGorman on Twitter). Gorman’s position as an inaugural poet gave her a platform to send a message in a moving way, reaching to those who previously wouldn’t have given poetry a second thought. I think this is one area that she succeeds, not just in her poem, but in her touching yet empowering performance.

Gorman’s presence exudes strength, but her poem also reflects pain. Poignant words remind young Americans–not unlike Gorman–that our work is not done. We must strive for progress in a society that is fast-paced and continuously evolving. Accommodating changing times also means acknowledging the dark that remains. In doing so, perhaps we might “raise this wounded world into a wondrous one,” as Gorman states in “The Hill We Climb.” Will the poem be remembered and recited for years to come? I don’t know, but I don’t believe that its relevance to the “now” detracts from the message it has to tell. If anything, the call for light and unity is one that we needed.

Look below for a video of Gorman reciting “The Hill We Climb”  (courtesy of The New York Times) and a full transcript of the poem.

Transcript of the poem:

When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade.
We’ve braved the belly of the beast,
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions
of what just is
isn’t always just-ice.
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken,
but simply unfinished.
We the successors of a country and a time
where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one.
And yes we are far from polished.
Far from pristine.
But that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge a union with purpose,
to compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man.
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us,
but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true,
that even as we grieved, we grew,
that even as we hurt, we hoped,
that even as we tired, we tried,
that we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat,
but because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time,
then victory won’t lie in the blade.
But in all the bridges we’ve made,
that is the promise to glade,
the hill we climb.
If only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth,
in this faith we trust.
For while we have our eyes on the future,
history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption
we feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter.
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert,
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was,
but move to what shall be.
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free.
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation,
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain,
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy,
and change our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with.
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west.
We will rise from the windswept northeast,
where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states.
We will rise from the sunbaked south.
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover.
And every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful.
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid,
the new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.