Dobbin. for Mike Ondaatje
We found dead animals in our sagebrush hills,
every day it seems now, deer, heads of
unimaginable elk. Or rattlesnake killed
by some kids we likely knew, upside down.
wrong coloured in the burnt couchgrass.
Nota bene: I don’t know where this poem comes from. Is Dobbin the poet? This is one of these times where I forgot to write down the book and page number, because I thought I would remember it.
TENTH NIGHT: THE SUNLESS SKY
The women’s prison
Smiles from under the snow
The women’s prison
Emerges running at daybreak.
Dirty, cracked and bleeding hands
Marked on the surface of white snow
A map of the women’s prison.
They don’t want to shed their tears
They just want to lift their heads
They just want to gaze at the sunless sky.
Their troubles, their yearning
Their nightmares and sleepless nights
They want to talk about it with someone on the
outside.
GÜLNISA IMIN GÜLKHAN (BORN 1976)
TRANSLATED BY AZIZ ISA ELKUN
Han China illegally occupied Uyghuristan in 1949. After a sham Court process the Han Chinese incarcerated Gülnisa Imin Gülkhan for around 19 years. If Gülnisa survives starvation and torture in Han Chinese prisons, she will come out a free woman once more in 1936.
From Uyghur Poems published by Everyman’s Library, edited by Aziz Isa Elkun, translated by Aziz Isa Elkun and others. 2023.
From Uyghur Poems published by Everyman’s Library, edited by Aziz Isa Elkun, translated by Aziz Isa Elkun and others.
Colonial power China (now 2026) has occupied the independent country Uyghuristan since 1949, with help of the Russian army. 2 million Uyghurs are behind bars in concentration camps, forced into becoming “Chinese”, forced into labour, forced to deny their Abrahamic religion, Islam. Women and young girls sa-ed by the prison guards.
Uyghur poetry lives.
Hazy (gungga) poetry by Ekhmetjan Osman:
Drum Dance
The wind of revelation casts God to the dirt
when the call to prayer sounds in the body mosque
Clay Oven
The wine chased out of the city blooms in gold –
it is the mind we have forgotten.
Evan Jones, “The Song of the Banana Man”
Touris, white man, wipin his face,
Met me in Golden Grove market place.
He looked at m’ol’ clothes brown wid stain ,
An soaked right through wid de Portlan rain,
He cas his eye, turn up his nose,
He says, ‘You’re a beggar man, I suppose?’
He says, ‘Boy, get some occupation,
Be of some value to your nation.’
I said, ‘By God and dis big right han
You mus recognize a banana man.
‘Up in de hills, where de streams are cool,
An mullet an janga swim in de pool,
I have ten acres of mountain side,
An a dainty-foot donkey dat I ride,
Four Gros Michel, an four Lacatan,
Some coconut trees, and some hills of yam,
An I pasture on dat very same lan
Five she-goats an a big black ram,
Dat, by God an dis big right han
Is de property of a banana man.
‘I leave m’yard early-mornin time
An set m’foot to de mountain climb,
I ben m’back to de hot-sun toil,
An m’cutlass rings on de stony soil,
Ploughin an weedin, diggin an plantin
Till Massa Sun drop back o John Crow mountain,
Den home again in cool evenin time,
Perhaps whistling dis likkle rhyme,
Praise God an m’big right han
I will live an die a banana man.
‘Banana day is my special day,
I cut my stems an I’m on m’way,
Load up de donkey, leave de lan
Head down de hill to banana stan,
When de truck comes roun I take a ride
All de way down to de harbour side—
Dat is de night, when you, touris man,
Would change your place wid a banana man.
Yes, by God, an m’big right han
I will live an die a banana man.
‘De bay is calm, an de moon is bright
De hills look black for de sky is light,
Down at de dock is an English ship,
Restin after her ocean trip,
While on de pier is a monstrous hustle,
Tallymen, carriers, all in a bustle,
Wid stems on deir heads in a long black snake
Some singin de sons dat banana men make,
Like, Praise God an m’big right han
I will live an die a banana man.
‘Den de payment comes, an we have some fun,
Me, Zekiel, Breda and Duppy Son.
Down at de bar near United Wharf
We knock back a white rum, bus a laugh,
Fill de empty bag for further toil
Wid saltfish, breadfruit, coconut oil.
Den head back home to m’yard to sleep,
A proper sleep dat is long an deep.
Yes, by God, an m’big right han
I will live an die a banana man.
‘So when you see dese ol clothes brown wid stain,
An soaked right through wid de Portlan rain,
Don’t cas your eye nor turn your nose,
Don’t judge a man by his patchy clothes,
I’m a strong man, a proud man, an I’m free,
Free as dese mountains, free as dis sea,
I know myself, an I know my ways,
An will sing wid pride to de end o my days
Praise God an m’big right han
I will live an die a banana man.’
http://www.favoritepoem.org/poems/the-song-of-the-banana-man/, from The Penguin Book of Caribbean Verse in English Copyright © 1986.
Painting by Dusabe King Christian from Kigali, Rwanda. https://komezart.com/collections/dusabe-king-christian
generally I try hard
Not to lose my temper
Even when people piss me off and do mean or shady things I’ll barely respond
But I once taught a class full of guys
All cis hetero that challenged every word I said
Smirked when I tried to give feedback and instructions
They banded together in their disrespect
Then they were all absent going to the protests to stop the genocide in Gaza
One wrote, I encourage you to bring our colleagues during this historic moment
Pamela Sneed
Pamela Sneed is a poet, writer, visual artist, and spoken word & musical performer (Big Mama Thornton). She is the author of Funeral Diva (2020), Imagine Being More Afraid of Freedom than Slavery (1998) and many more. She is a painter, a political artist, and an assemblage and collage artist.
Teaching: She teaches online for the low-residency MFA program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is a visiting artist in the summer MFA program. She is an adjunct assistant professor at the Columbia University School of the Arts.
https://publictheater.org/productions/joes-pub/2024/p/pamela-sneed/
https://www.mrqd.org/events-2024/sneed
The Hive | Carol Ann Duffy
All day we leave and arrive at the hive, concelebrants. The hive is love, what we serve, preserve, avowed in Latin murmurs as we come and go, skydive, freighted with light, to where we thrive, us, in time’s hum, on history’s breath,
industrious, identical…
there suck we, alchemical, nectar-slurred, pollen-furred, the world’s mantra us, our blurry sound along the thousand scented miles to the hive, haven, where we unpack our foragers; or heaven-stare, drone-eyed, for a queen’s star; or nurse or build in milky, waxy caves, the hive, alive, us – how we behave.
Carol Ann Duffy is Scottish born, she is openly gay (bi/lesbian), lives with another poetess and together they raise a daughter. Her parents were Glasgow working-class radicals.
Laurie Uttich
TO MY STUDENT WITH THE DIME-SIZED BRUISES ON THE BACK OF HER ARMS WHO’S STILL ON HER CELLPHONE
Oh honey, you can text him, you can like his meme, you can
follow him on Twitter and to Target, you can ride shotgun, hold
his anger on your lap, pet his pride, be his ride or die. You can
wear those jeans he likes. You can discover Victoria’s
secret, buy a bra with a mind of its own. You can
recite I’m sorry like it’s a Bible verse and Snapchat the shit out
of those purple roses he bought you at Publix. You can try
every one of Cosmo’s 30 Ways to Give an Ultimate Blowjob.
You can remember the name of his mother, his best friend
in 2nd grade, the lunchroom lady who gave him extra
chicken strips on Tuesdays. You can grow out your bangs, toss
your hometown over your shoulder, sleep facing north
with your cheek in his back.
You can strip yourself for parts. But, baby,
it still won’t be enough. You can love him, but you can’t pull
his story out of the dark and slide your arms into it. You can’t
wash it and lay it flat in the sun to soften. You can’t
hold his face in both of your palms and watch tomorrow
bloom from the sheer wanting and waiting of it. It doesn’t
matter if his daddy talked with his hands or his bloodline
is marinated in booze or his mama loved his brother best.
You can’t fix what somebody else broke.
So, girl, put down your phone and pick up
your pen. Take a piece of the dark and put it on a page.
Sylvia Plath waits to wash your feet. And look,
Virginia Woolf has built you another room and painted
it pink. There’s a place for you at the table. Sit next to me;
I got here late. Oh, baby, don’t you feel it? You were knit
for wonder in your mother’s womb.
You were born for the driver’s seat.
—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020
Tribute to Service Workers
https://www.laurieuttich.com/ is the website of author Laurie Uttich. You can buy her poetry here: https://riotinyourthroat.com/product/somewhere-a-woman-lowers-the-hem-of-her-skirt-by-laurie-rachkus-uttich/
And follow her on instagram https://www.instagram.com/laurieuttich/
Another poem on rattle.com https://www.rattle.com/my-88-year-old-mother-in-law-decides-to-make-new-years-resolutions-by-laurie-uttich/
Claire Askew
You will not need kindling.
I think I’ll go up quick
as summer timber, my anger
big and dry as a plantation
that dreams of being paper:
the updraft already made
in the canopy, and heading down.
Bring your axe to split me
into parts that you can stack
over the dry leaves, over the coals:
my old coat and my bedding box,
the things given to me by women.
You’ve heard of spontaneous human
combustion. They say it’s fat:
once lit, it flares so white-hot fast
the bones give in.
Make your touch-paper long.
Spread the word that the crowd
who will gather should stand
well back. I am coated
in the accelerant of men:
my craving for their good necks,
their bodies in button-downs
crisp as a new book.
As you douse the embers
I will smell like ground elder
choking the cemetery —
roots looping up
out of dead women’s mouths,
a problem thing
you’ll never get cleared.
Make the stake thick, the bonds
stiff on my innocent wrists.
Burn me the same way
you burned her: do it
because we took the plain
thoughts from our own heads
into the square, and spoke.
From How to burn a woman (pub. Bloodaxe, 2021)
After the horrendous anti-women hatred from Donald and his cult and anyone who voted for him, this poem is raw and fits perfectly in this evening of motors revving dying away and leafs smacking the window.
Mental innit
I got a fork stuck in the dishwasher
And now I cant stop crying
Whoever said depression was glamorous
Had clearly never considered dying
Over a peanut butter covered utensil
And that’s not the worst of all
The wet clothes hanger fell over
So I punched my fist into a wall
I’d rather smell than have a shower
The thought of socialising’s scary
I can’t even binge on chocolate
Because happy me cut out dairy
This is boring, I feel knackered
All I wanted was some toast
But if I can’t even handle that
Then I’m obviously going to die alone.
Charly Cox, 21, true story.
Great poem that is build out of depression and peanut covered forks and toast.
By Tuhin Das
Translated from Bengali by Arunava Sinha
1.
I am a writer,
the light burns late
into the night in my room.
My friend cycles past my house on his way to work
at Casey Industrial Park at 4 AM.
When we meet he asks whether I could not
sleep last night because of thoughts of homeland.2.
In the album on the bookshelf was a photo of
my father and me together,
beside a yellow taxi.
Behind us, the departure terminal
of Dhaka International Airport.
A friend said,
‘‘Where’s your mother? You don’t exist without her.’’3.
It is the rainy season in Bangladesh now.
Three out of four parts of my country
are under water.
Outside the City Council Building
I saw the other day a teenager holding,
all by herself,
an environmental placard.
She’s our representative.
She wants a world everyone can live in.
Come, let’s all go stand next to her.
From the publisher:
Calling Down the Sky is a poetry collection that describes deep personal experiences and post-generational effects of the Canadian Aboriginal Residential School confinements in the 1960’s when thousands of First Nations, Métis, and Inuit children were placed in these schools against their parents’ wishes.
Many were forbidden to speak their language and practice their own culture. Rosanna Deerchild exposes how the Residential Schools systematically undermined Aboriginal culture across Canada and disrupted families for generations, severing the ties through which Aboriginal culture is taught and sustained, and contributing to a general loss of language and culture.
The devastating effects of the residential schools are far-reaching and continue to have significant impact on Aboriginal communities.
rosanna deerchild, calling down the sky
people ask me all the time
about residential schools
as if it’s their business or something
ever since that white guy
nete in ottawa said he was sorry
as if
he knows anything about those places
he wasn’t there
he doesn’t know
he wasn’t there
when i needed comfort
when i cried
he doesn’t know
what that priest did
what those nuns did
you can’t say sorry
for those things
for what happened there
he’s got no right
share your story he says
what does that even mean
boy these misti-gu-su
and their fancy talk
share your story
as if it’s that easy
anyway
it was a long time ago
fifty years since those days
fifty years i said nothing
the words
they get caught right here
in my throat
where the nuns would grab
when we spoke Cree
as if grabbing a dead duck’s neck
haul us up in front of that class
stand there so long,
we pissed ourselves
you learn pretty quickly
to stay quiet after that boy
no
we never talk about it
not back home
not with each other
not even when it was happening,
you just tried to forget about it
leave it behind
some of us did
some of us are still trying
it always finds you though
drags you back
don’t make up stories
that’s what they told us kids
when we went back home
told them what was going on
in those schools
still got sent back
every year
less of us came home
still they said nothing
until we were nothing
just empty skins
full of broken english
ruler broken bones
bible broken spirits
and back home
became a broken dream
no damage done
for all but five years
that’s what it said in the letter
about my residential school story
dear claimant
no records
no proof
sorry
nine years
that’s how long
they kept me in there
i was just a baby
when they came for me
father died on the trapline
mother in the tb sanatorium
didn’t even get to say goodbye
never saw them again
nine years
you know what i got for that
deaf in one ear
blind in one eye
scars all over my head
my legs don’t work
arthritis
diabetes
from what we ate there
you know i never once saw fruit
can’t get no damn sleep
the dead keep me awake eh
ask me for forgiveness
but you can’t forgive and forget
the unnameable
there is no word for what they did
in our language
to speak it is to become torn
from the choking
money got no cure for that
now
i’m almost seventy
and you want me to
share my story
ok then
here it is
here in the unwritten
here in the broken lines
of my body that can never forget
There’s a light, a certain
kind of light that has never
shone on me—
Nina’s version.
Not the Bee Gees
or even Janis Joplin,
but the way Nina
sings it, almost a plea.
Not the studio
version either. No, her
performance in Antibes.
Her earrings
dangling their own mute
musics, her silk headwrap
an aureole of sorts.
The sheen of her face
a thesis in Black glamor
sui generis.
I want to be glamorous
in the way she was
glamorous. The way
women I knew growing
up were glamorous: campy,
yes, but regal.
If I knew of Nina then
I would have drawn
her. Drawing being
how I coped
with the expurgated chorus
of my girlchildhood.
I drew women then
because I could not be
one. Nina knew
a life of could-nots
too. Little girl blue rejected
from music school.
Aye, I knew the blues; still do.
My godmother Pat whupped
my ass when she caught
a glimpse of me at her vanity
tracing my mouth with her
carmine matte lipstick
blues. I’m still afraid to touch
my face with shade #309 blues.
The same hue of blues
that would make someone want
to cry, I’m a woman. . .Can’t you see
what I am? I live & I breathe
for you! But Nina?
Oh Nina—
the way she sings it.
I imagine myself singing
the same way to the deferred girl
at the vanity, assuring her:
Baby, you don’t know
what it’s like to love somebody,
to love somebody—I ain’t finished—
to love somebody,
oh, to love somebody,
to love somebody
the way that I love you.
Follow the poetess https://www.jadarenee.com/
Laurie Uttich
TO MY STUDENT WITH THE DIME-SIZED BRUISES ON THE BACK OF HER ARMS WHO’S STILL ON HER CELLPHONE
Oh honey, you can text him, you can like his meme, you can
follow him on Twitter and to Target, you can ride shotgun, hold
his anger on your lap, pet his pride, be his ride or die. You can
wear those jeans he likes. You can discover Victoria’s
secret, buy a bra with a mind of its own. You can
recite I’m sorry like it’s a Bible verse and Snapchat the shit out
of those purple roses he bought you at Publix. You can try
every one of Cosmo’s 30 Ways to Give an Ultimate Blowjob.
You can remember the name of his mother, his best friend
in 2nd grade, the lunchroom lady who gave him extra
chicken strips on Tuesdays. You can grow out your bangs, toss
your hometown over your shoulder, sleep facing north
with your cheek in his back.
You can strip yourself for parts. But, baby,
it still won’t be enough. You can love him, but you can’t pull
his story out of the dark and slide your arms into it. You can’t
wash it and lay it flat in the sun to soften. You can’t
hold his face in both of your palms and watch tomorrow
bloom from the sheer wanting and waiting of it. It doesn’t
matter if his daddy talked with his hands or his bloodline
is marinated in booze or his mama loved his brother best.
You can’t fix what somebody else broke.
So, girl, put down your phone and pick up
your pen. Take a piece of the dark and put it on a page.
Sylvia Plath waits to wash your feet. And look,
Virginia Woolf has built you another room and painted
it pink. There’s a place for you at the table. Sit next to me;
I got here late. Oh, baby, don’t you feel it? You were knit
for wonder in your mother’s womb.
You were born for the driver’s seat.
—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020
Tribute to Service Workers
niyaWhen the stranger bumps his shoulder into me, hard, without an ounce of concern, I can feel the fire bubbling inside of me. The heat from the concrete rising up, through my feet, reverberating like electricity about to erupt magma through every orifice of my body. Lava that will oxidize every atom and molecule of his body on contact. The city as embodied trauma. The trauma of settlement. I spin around to yell after him, letting the anger fully consume my spirit as it has so many times before. I don’t know where the empowerment ends and the dissolution begins anymore.
Lindsay Nixon, “niya” from “Toxic Masculinities” in Nîtisânak. Text licensed under Creative Commons NY-NC-ND 4.0 2018 by Lindsay Nixon. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Source: Nîtisânak (Metonymy Press, 2018)
Poem published on https://www.poetryinvoice.com/poems/niya
Photo by Jackson Ezra
Awesome poetry from all over. 