Am I Allowed

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Rohingya women,

torn at night,

rise in the tattered morning light

and place one foot in front of the next?

Am I allowed

to be happy

while the Congalese's idea

of a brokered-peace

is almost as dangerous

as the war itself?

To be happy

while walls are built

and borders constructed

As the world edges

closer to a steep and rocky precipice?

Am I allowed

While my daughter labors alone

And while my mother waits

for some small invisible spark

to light her last days?

Of my womb scars, my history

you have pardoned me

Telling me to it's ok

to put them down

to lay down

to even dance.

But you aren't

my god

my memory

my conscience.

These things

burn and sear

leaving me

unable to sleep

or to wake

Reminding me

That I don’t have free will

And that the choice

to be happy

is not

without consequences

nor without burden.

Material Witness

The radio reports

there is a genocide happening.

For real and right now.

What am I doing?

Matching socks:

a heap of wool and cotton,

black heel to black heel

rolling, tossing and piling.

And again.

Someone was matching socks

while my family was heaving

worn brown luggage

down le rue.

Did we take a right or a left?

Toward or away from the setting sun?

I know of piles:

eyeglasses, teeth, shoes, souls—

the weight of war.

We forget

what we most need to remember:

how fragile the body

how damaged the spirit

how ragged the socks.

Imprint

i

it overwhelms me, an instant of ocean,

delayed grief for the lost years

ii

i dream you back into existence

i dream you back into

i dream you back

i dream you

i dream

iii

i follow you to an unknowable past, mama

each detail of the journey becoming a magnified ignorance

it's taken this long to find that a solitary walk can result in a headful of light;

returning, i step into my footprints, a kind of retrieval...

cradled in a closed palm, the plaited ring of light

iv

i write until my fingers bleed, I write out my sorrow,

i write into the terror of forgetting

v.

listening to leaves settle, like the drift of a gown on ceramic tiles,

telling you: i think of you, sometimes,

the sky is infinite, maybe

INSHALLAH

While Daniel Johnson couldn’t make it to the party this year, he happened to send an email with a poem on the very same day that we were inviting poems into the living room for P&S. The universe was clearly calling for his poetry to grace our event in some way, and so I’m reposting it here! This poem is from Daniel’s forthcoming book.

INSHALLAH

When it was over,

though it would never be over,

his mom sent a gift

to our house,

a chrome lamp and candles,

a tornado lantern

or hurricane lamp. It depends

what you call

that black wall of water,

skirling and rising,

that takes what it wants:

cars, refrigerators,

cows, wedding

photos, birth records—

inshallah—

your firstborn son.

When it was over,

though it would never be over,

as it would never be

before again, only after,

as the rains, the rains

would never be the same

rains or lashing waves—

I struck a match

against the flooding dusk,

then again,

and hung the lamp.

Atlantis

Being set on the idea

Of getting to Atlantis,

You have discovered of course

Only the Ship of Fools is

Making the voyage this year,

As gales of abnormal force

Are predicted, and that you

Must therefore be ready to

Behave absurdly enough

To pass for one of The Boys,

At least appearing to love

Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

Should storms, as may well happen,

Drive you to anchor a week

In some old harbour-city

Of Ionia, then speak

With her witty sholars, men

Who have proved there cannot be

Such a place as Atlantis:

Learn their logic, but notice

How its subtlety betrays

Their enormous simple grief;

Thus they shall teach you the ways

To doubt that you may believe.

If, later, you run aground

Among the headlands of Thrace,

Where with torches all night long

A naked barbaric race

Leaps frenziedly to the sound

Of conch and dissonant gong:

On that stony savage shore

Strip off your clothes and dance, for

Unless you are capable

Of forgetting completely

About Atlantis, you will

Never finish your journey.

Again, should you come to gay

Carthage or Corinth, take part

In their endless gaiety;

And if in some bar a tart,

As she strokes your hair, should say

"This is Atlantis, dearie,"

Listen with attentiveness

To her life-story: unless

You become acquainted now

With each refuge that tries to

Counterfeit Atlantis, how

Will you recognise the true?

Assuming you beach at last

Near Atlantis, and begin

That terrible trek inland

Through squalid woods and frozen

Thundras where all are soon lost;

If, forsaken then, you stand,

Dismissal everywhere,

Stone and now, silence and air,

O remember the great dead

And honour the fate you are,

Travelling and tormented,

Dialectic and bizarre.

Stagger onward rejoicing;

And even then if, perhaps

Having actually got

To the last col, you collapse

With all Atlantis shining

Below you yet you cannot

Descend, you should still be proud

Even to have been allowed

Just to peep at Atlantis

In a poetic vision:

Give thanks and lie down in peace,

Having seen your salvation.

All the little household gods

Have started crying, but say

Good-bye now, and put to sea.

Farewell, my dear, farewell: may

Hermes, master of the roads,

And the four dwarf Kabiri,

Protect and serve you always;

And may the Ancient of Days

Provide for all you must do

His invisible guidance,

Lifting up, dear, upon you

The light of His countenance.

Ithaka

As you set out for Ithaka

hope your road is a long one,

full of adventure, full of discovery.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:

you’ll never find things like that on your way

as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,

as long as a rare excitement

stirs your spirit and your body.

Laistrygonians, Cyclops,

wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them

unless you bring them along inside your soul,

unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.

May there be many summer mornings when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you enter harbors you’re seeing for the first time;

may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

to buy fine things,

mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

sensual perfume of every kind—

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

and may you visit many Egyptian cities

to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.

Arriving there is what you’re destined for.

But don’t hurry the journey at all.

Better if it lasts for years,

so you’re old by the time you reach the island,

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,

not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

Without her you wouldn't have set out.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

Storm, passing

All kinds of things are happening to me.

Skin’s becoming scaly, forehead a terrain of anthills,

and my feet are stiffening as though belonging to a corpse.

Hair’s falling out of course. And there’s my mind.

I try to read, but words swirl

in little whirlwinds on the page;

even when they’re behaving, I feel

I’m gazing at some complicated log of random numbers.

Enough of this I say aloud, take to the beach –

perhaps it’s distance my eyes are seeking.

But there I find fish tumbling from the sky,

myself face up in a clump of seaweed

foamy wavelets eddying about me.

Almost blinding,

the light is different from what I’m used to.

and I wonder if I’m dreaming,

back in the southern hemisphere,

if this sinking will have a rising too.

The next cat out the bag’s

a female, fifteen or so,

standing, mouth ajar,

saying nothing.

A mackerel on my belly, flapping.

I see her stare,

want to reach a hand, see if I can touch her

but suddenly she’s not there, and I come to,

still lying in damp sand like a heavy log.

There’s nothing for it but to roll over,

watch the water gouge

a groove where my body’s been.

Back home, I make a cup of tea.

The kettle boils. I lift  a green mug from a hook

pour, and squeeze a lemon in.

So far, so good. I wash pots and plates, utensils.

Stare out at laundry, ponder.

The light is dimming and a rush of heat comes over me.

A massive bank of thunderclouds controls the sky.

I put on my headphones, turn up the volume,

dance until my body feels fifteen.

Rain pounds against the window. I close the blinds.