Poems, Prose, Photos & the Art of Being Human
OBRIGADA
What if the first word we learned
in another language
was not toilet, how much,
or even where, but instead
thank you;
would we see past lines of experience,
the stumbling of innocence,
broken teeth, exquisite eyes,
to each person’s essence,
the miracle of existence,
and be grateful for a form
that could say gracias, dhanyavaad,
tak, xìe xìe, spasibo, danke, shokran?
Thank you to the editors of Marin Poetry Center Anthology VI for first publishing “Obrigada.”
The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love - whether
we call it friendship or family or romance - is the work of
mirroring and magnifying each other's light.
Gentle work.
Steadfast work.
Life-saving work in those moments when life and shame and sorrow occlude our own light from our view, but there is still a clear-eyed loving person to beam it back. In our best moments,
we are that person.
James Baldwin
This isn't the end of fascism.
No. This
evil
will visit and incubate
in another
nation.
Carl Jung
(at the end of WWII)
Post title from the final line of
"First They Came" by
Pastor Martin Niemöller.
If I had an hour to solve a problem and my life depended on the solution, I would spend the first 55 minutes determining the proper question to ask, for once I know the proper question, I could solve the problem in less than five minutes.
CHURCH VISITS
We brought you this poinsettia—
would you like it in your room?
Your drawl rich as poppies
introduces you and your children to my mom
who smiles, tries to remember if she knows you,
dementia shredding whole stands of friends each night.
Where would you like me to put it?
No directive in your mist of questions,
knowing Alzheimer’s has already clear-cut her choices.
You sit beside Mom’s bed and talk
with a comfort never shared in our family—
your husband in the reserve, children,
teens really, open as sky beside you.
But when you say your surname, Church, I cringe,
expecting Mom’s grooved tirade against religion
yet it builds a temple pointing to the majesty of blue
through which our planet spins within its womb of stars.
You are the woman I refused to be—
soft-bodied, eyes averted, submissive to spouse and god—
while I’m independent, direct, decisive,
yet am weary of my strength, worn
from years of keeping myself and others alive.
In fact I’m drowning in competence, longing to shed my life and slip into your rose-glow skin reflecting your life’s devotion to faith, service, listening presence, as you teach your children this steadfast path to kindness. Within your sphere of serenity, I pray: Throw me a rope, please, over and o–
Thank you to the editors of Melancholy Hyperbole for first publishing this poem.
SIMULTANEITY When you touch me—I am breath rather than a woman breathing. One thousand wings, a single beat, split sky with summer rain. Breath rather than breathing fills the empty glass. Split sky with summer rain reveals horses carved in stone. Fill the empty glass with wine of roses, lilac, heather; reveal horses carved in stone but not hands that formed their symmetry. With wine of roses, lilac, heather, toast grass that fractures concrete blocks but not hands that formed the symmetry of streets concealing streams. Toast grass that fractures concrete blocks beside the woman reaching toward you; on streets concealing streams she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp. There is a woman reaching toward you; her face is old, possessions few, as she begs for food, shelter beyond grasp, and I see you, I see myself within her mask. Her face is old, possessions few; she came to laugh—she came to love, and I see you, I see myself within her mask reflecting how the earth breathes. We came to laugh—we came to love; one thousand wings, a single beat reflecting how the earth breathes when you touch me.
Thank you to the editors at Scribendi for first publishing this poem.
They are a heartless nation, that is certain. They have made some of their people servants — yes, slaves!
We have never believed in keeping slaves, but it seems that the white people do! It is our belief that they painted their servants black a long time ago, to tell them from the rest — and now the slaves have children born to them of the same color!
The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire possessions — to be rich. They desire to possess the whole world. For thirty years they tried to entice us to sell our land to them. Finally, their soldiers took it by force, and we have been driven away from our beautiful country.
-Ohiyesa's uncle, Santee Sioux
Ohiyesa
The dragon lives in the sky, ocean,
marshes, and mountains; and the
mountains are also its cranium.
It's voice thunders and jingles like
copper pans. It breathes fire and
water; and sometimes the dragon
is one, sometimes many.
Maxine Hong Kingston
LIVING ON THE STREETS I never chose to be here Amid concrete and cheap booze— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. I hear the wailing ricochet of children Held within this hell of rolling veins. No, they never, never chose to be here. Limbs stiffened from cold sidewalks trap me As pustules grow and lice feed on my skin— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. Violence is not televised on streets; instead, it jeers at battered Skulls and broken bones—we’re easy prey for kids. No, I never chose to be here. Whiskey holds back cold and memories that leer of oboe played Amidst the smoke, thighs wrapping mine through dawn. Now, I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years. With deafened ears and eyes averted, you comment on My stench as you dart into the restaurant; I never chose to be here— I’d sooner die but bodies carry on for years.
Thank you to the editors of Mediphors: A Literary Journal of the Health Professions for first publishing this poem.
IF NOT FOR SILENCE
In their mad Sufi dance words whirl off tongues
loose as hot snakes as we struggle to speak with rudiments—
mostly we quarrel, walk away, but sometimes manage
to weave them like a lovers’ embrace beneath that open-voweled moon,
which vacillates between the startled suck of air through pursed lips
and a night so long that, shy, she slips beyond the sun’s unerring watch.
Words electrify nerves till air feels like a panther lapping our luminous skin,
but it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,
silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness
of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.
Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES 2 for first publishing this poem.
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 