poem for poet: Warsan Shire

drink


her voice, delicious, spiced rum
her intellect, clear, Russian vodka
her truth, painful, white lightning
her beauty, full, Mourvèdre
her medicine, holy, mezcal

intoxicated and wrecked

you will drown willingly
soberly denouncing air,
pulled into the depths of her luminous current


and for women, womxn, womyn, womqn – who are difficult to love, click & hear

this


have mercy, also hear Warsan Shire here, and here.



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poem for poet: Joy Harjo


The First Time I Saw Joy Harjo /Chicago 2017


long, midnight, blue-black hair,
unmistakably hers,
melding into her pitch black jacket
an uninterrupted flowing velvet river
she, a radiant silhouette, like the haloed total solar eclipse that would occur later that year

her regal face is unseen, sustaining the mystery

then she rises like a sun to speak and i am in orbit

her first words: “i feel The Lake so very present in me.” / her voice weighted by the very earth in her throat

later,
my glisteny eyes meet her glisteny eyes,
i memorize her face / and her hands tattooed in black ink/ she is dignity embodied/

she inscribes a protocol for me
in my book of hers, made of trees, and i think why am i, who am i, here

I give her a necklace
suspending glass vials of seed
watermelon, corn, clover and milkweed made by my hands on these forced-treaty lands

my symbolic reciprocity / for her poems that seeded me, collaterally

her poems are a well that
still water my thoughts and words

although i am not sure i am deserving of the drink/

god, i never want to be just another culture thief


Protocol,
from How We Became Human
New & Selected Poems 1975-2001
Joy Harjo

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poem for poet: Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

[ The Lethal Salinity of The Truth ]

Her words are not for me
not about me
Her words are not for me
not about me
Repeat

am i allowed
To float Her words aloud
To sink them in my mind
To lap them from the page

i accidentally swallow,
then gulp down Her Salt words/
like when the surf breaks
and surprises an exhilarated, Great Lakes girl
with a mouthful of seawater
during her first swim in the Ocean

Her words were not meant for me
Her words were not meant for me
Repeat

but

they quenched then drowned me anyway

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holy ghosts: a statement


“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.”

Frida Kahlo

in the end, we are all just holy ghosts

lone, holy, haunted ghosts who sometimes want to feel, to be seen or felt by others who occupy our realms

if anyone were to have thoughts or draw conclusions about this particular ghost, about my collection of words, photos, ephemera, art, altars, or the microcosmic worlds i’ve built — now, or when i’m dead

— in the end, and at the beginning,
it is and was,
for me to better understand

my Self for myself by my self

as well, to understand my relationship to others, to the world, to the Earth – the pain and beauty of it all – and my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating, and to existence itSelf

/ no one else is essential to interact with,
interpret, interrogate or validate any of it, ever – yet they are welcomed to do so/

the imperative in my work and my art is not to be known or understood by another — even though, even when, that exquisitely rare experience occurs – it may conjure deep feelings of true homecoming or true love

further, being seen or felt – as creative, evocative, provocative, nouveau, derivative, debased or talentless – by someone is wholly different than being truly known and understood by another human being

and although communion, consummation, and collaboration in experiencing, creating, or releasing art can be gratifying, challenging, inspiring and evolutionary,

i must always remember:

all my collaborators are ghosts; i am my own, lone, Earthly muse; i Am my holy and whole audience of one

everyone else is collateral advantage

“in the end, you will find [only] yourself at the beginning”


ghosts: me, Frida Kahlo, Agave & The Moon

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explanation

she was never really glad to be here

here, as in, born

not really, no

still,

she paced herself
bided, abided the days which turned into decades
in the city

she moved out of the city

she moved out to the country

she paced her herself
bided, abided the days which turned into months and years
in the country

one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/
one more/

one more/

until she could not
one more
anymore