We are each other's harvest; we are each other's business; we are each other's magnitude and bond. ― Gwendolyn Brooks
As we journey through political, economic, and global health crises, we turn to poetry to share truths that unearth underlying causes, illuminate impacts, and insist on transformative change. For many of us, today’s challenges are not new. The struggle of isolation, economic insecurity, inadequate medical care, deadly institutionalized negligence, governmental decisions that put Black, Brown, Indigenous, Asian, disabled, sick, and other structurally precarious people at greater risk are not new. Today, many more people are experiencing the vulnerability of these unrelenting issues. We recognize this opportunity for a heightened awareness of how our very survival depends on one another.
Poetry can help keep the flame of resilience, solidarity, and resistance alive in us. It can help us process and move through grief, anger, loneliness. Poetry can be a comfort when the most necessary actions are to rest and recover. It can remind us of what’s at stake, that our lives and legacy are worth the fight. As cultural workers, we know that culture shapes our political and social imagination at a foundational level. As poets, we can use poetry to map what is, what has been, and possibly, the way forward, including the reasons not to return to what does not honor and protect our lives, our communities, and our planet.
We asked poets to give us the words they chant to get out of bed, to raise their fists, to encourage their kin, to remind us, as this crisis does, that “we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” To read all of these poems, visit Split This Rock’s website.
***Make a Season of Me
By Naazneen Diwan
on some days I go for walks
completely inverted
my insides untucked
no protection.
and it suits me
my heart no longer
behind ribs but
the breast of a robin
calling its love home.
my breath
no longer a wheeze
caught
between
narrow strictures
but a dance
that frees
magnolia petals and prisoners
into a pond.
and I pull
yards off myself
generously
eagerly
until
I am the path
I walk on
and I match
the laziness of the river.
I loosen
what’s been
carved into me
in ribbons of bark
let the raw
materials of my hurt
be foraged
to build a nest
high
in a branch.
a perfect place
to sing
of coming
undone.
No comments:
Post a Comment