Poem of the Week: Kenji C. Liu

So, that you are always sir, dear sir

for the 43 Ayotzinapa normalistas and all disappeared

I.

Ask me again why I am here

with this pine, this wild oyamel,

their great succulence of reason

You, machine lyric

and State, every state,

maker of rules and so outside them

You, hard blue evenings

with mass emergencies buried

inside them, like me

Your answers endlessly insufficient-

the mayor and his wife, smiling

waving pinkies, waving dollar bills

Sweet water pouring

into the mind of a cardboard box

The verification of empty

II.

Dear sir, the angle of civilization

the angle of your civilization is too steep

I am speaking certain words and not others

Light rises along my spine

This mountain is a white bone

This republic, a one-note instrument

The president-like a president-deciding

is this one as human?

A forest of marigolds between our knees

"Mexicanos, ¿Cuando piensas arder?

¿Cuando el desaparecido salga de tu casa?"

Our altars coated with sugar

no place outside the economy of war

When the pan is all gone we will take leave

a parade of ripples with a snake's purpose

This last remittance will cover the cost

if not I will send more, tied to an eagle

The earth is filled with exceptions-

43, a number, so many numbers

I feel around my dark hold

in search of light switch and decomposition

"Ayotzinapa vive

el estado ha muerto"

Bring back the fire

In the bow of our ship, an entrance

a bullet

  

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Used with permission.

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Kenji C. Liu is a 1.5-generation immigrant from New Jersey. His writing appears or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Asian American Literary Review, The Rumpus, Barrow Street Journal, CURA, RHINO, and the anthologies Dismantle (Thread Makes Blanket Press) and Orangelandia (Inlandia Institute). A recipient of fellowships from VONA/Voices, Djerassi Resident Artist Program, and the Community of Writers at SV, he holds an MA in Cultural Anthropology and Social Transformation. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is a graphic designer. He served on the Board of Directors for Kearny Street Workshop from 2011 to 2012. www.kenjiliu.com

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Poem of the Week: Karen Skolfield

Art Project: Earth

Balloon, then papier mâché.

Gray paint, blue and turquoise, green,

a clouded world with fishing line attached

to an old light, original to the house, faux brass

chipping, discolored, an ugly thing. What must

the people of this planet think, the ground

knobby and dry, the oceans blue powder,

the farmland stiff and carefully maintained.

Sometimes they spin one direction,

then back again. How the coyotes howl.

How the people learn to love, regardless.

The majesty of their own towering hearts.

The mountains, which they agree are beautiful.

And the turquoise – never has there been

such a color, breaking into precious

and semi-precious stones. They build houses

from them, grand places of worship,

and there is much to worship. Look up,

for instance. Six suns. The wonder of it.

First one, then the next, eclipsing
the possibility that their world hangs by a thread.

***

Used with permission.

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Karen Skolfield’s book Frost in the Low Areas won the 2014 PEN New England Award in poetry and the First Book Award from Zone 3 Press. She is a 2014 Massachusetts Cultural Council fellow and the winner of the 2014 Split This Rock poetry prize. Skolfield is the poetry editor for Amherst Live and an associate editor at Sundress Publications; she teaches writing to engineers at the University of Massachusetts - Amherst, where she earned her Master of Fine Arts.

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Poem of the Week: Pages Matam

  

register now for freedom

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so loud it leaves Jericho shakin' in its overpriced boots

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so late the rest of the world still wanna catch up to its wind

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so wet it makes the hydrants bow in a glimmering reverence

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so coarse a thick forest grows in its name

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so bright it could photosynthesize a heart

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so heavy done turned gravity into a tattle tell

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so fast it got enough horsepower to chariot the sun

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so agile it got its own two step, gave jazz a run for its money

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so dark make all of the brown mamas weep a gospel

ever seen the smile of a brown child
so luminous turns tragedy into a cluster of praise

ever seen the smile of a brown child
make you wanna write a poem

about it not being taken away? 

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Used with permission.

Photo by Yveka Pierre.

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Pages Matam is a multidimensional touring artist, residing in the D.C. metropolitan area, but originally from Cameroon, Africa. He is author of Heart of a Comet (Write Bloody, 2014), a playwright, a 2014 National Poetry Slam champion and holds various other awards. His passions are in the field of education, violence and abuse trauma work, and youth advocacy. As a teaching artist with the national poetry non-profit Split This Rock, Pages is a coach for the DC Youth Slam Team. Pages is a proud gummy bear elitist, bowtie enthusiast, professional hugger and anime fanatic. When he takes stage -- as a performer, educator, or activist -- be prepared to be taken on an experience of cultural, socially conscious, and personal discovery unapologetic in its silly yet visceral and beautifully honest in its storytelling.  pagesmatam.com

Poem of the Week: Jody Bolz

  

BLACK SITE

"It's one of the most sophisticated, refined programs of torture ever," an outside expert familiar with the protocol said. --The New Yorker

First, take away light.

Leave time-but make it dark,
disordered. Make it sleepless.
Not day, not night.

Leave space-but make it small.
Make it dark,
a place that is no place.

Leave time-but make it sleepless.
Make it dark and hourless.
Not life, not death.

Leave space-but make it cold.
Keep it small, comfortless.
Make it dark. Bury it.

Leave time-but make it senseless.
Make it cold and sleepless.
No guilt, no innocence.

Leave space, place that is no place,
then bury the evidence, the implements
of torture. Bury the horror--

but don't bury it here.

***

Used with permission.

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Jody Bolz was born in Washington, DC, and attended Cornell University, where she studied with A.R. Ammons. After receiving her MFA, she worked as a journalist and editor for two major conservation organizations (The Wilderness Society and The Nature Conservancy) and taught creative writing for more than 20 years at George Washington University. Her poems have appeared widely in such magazines as The American Scholar, Indiana Review,North American Review, Ploughshares, Poetry East, Prairie Schooner, Southern Poetry Review, and the Women's Review of Books-and in many literary anthologies. Among her honors is a Rona Jaffe Foundation writer's award and an individual artist's grant from the Maryland State Arts Council. She edits the journal Poet Lore, founded in 1889, and is the author of A Lesson in Narrative Time (Gihon Books, 2004) and the novella-in-verse Shadow Play(Turning Point, 2014).

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