Poem-A-Day April 11: The tiger is out

The Tiger

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out






Hello Friends,

Today’s poem-a-day is a Meet Me in 811 first: We are featuring a poem by a 6-year-old.

Several of you may recognize today’s poem from Twitter or Instagram. It’s been enough years that a whole genre of short poems and poem snippets are now designed specifically for these social mediums. But that was not actually the case with today’s poem, which originated in the creative writing program at 826DC and appears in their first anthology You Will Be Able to Say a Thousand Words (2016).

Any of you who knew me in SF know I’m a huge 826 fan! If there’s any number that competes with 811, it might be 826. This non-profit started by Dave Eggers (McSweeney’s, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius) focuses on free access to writing, tutoring, and publishing for youth 6-18 in under-resourced communities, and each chapter has a storefront theme (The Pirate Supply Store, The Wicker Park Secret Agent Supply Co., Tivoli’s Astounding Magic Supply Co., The New Orleans Haunting Supply Co., Liberty Street Robot Supply & Repair, the Greater Boston Bigfoot Research Institute, and so on). I admit, for me, the 826 magic store in DC isn’t quite as magical as the original 826 pirate store in SF — but it did produce this poem, so I think they’re doing good work.

Nael (who was 6 at the time he wrote this poem, but is now 8) manages to say quite a lot with twelve words. What can you say with twelve words? Give it a try!

How is Nael dealing with his viral fame, write-ups and podcasts from famous authors, comparisons to Blake, fan requests to tattoo his poem on their bodies? Read more here.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 10: Glorious Outlaws

Love in the Margins

Come on, shapeshifter—
I can’t dance either.
But I want to hold

your shadowy body,
hum crooked tunes
in your abalone ear.

Out here on the edge,
desperadas don’t always
make good lovers.

Sometimes our scars
match too well; touch
is barbed wire and border.

I’ll try not to hide behind
my bruises if you’ll
give me the hard gray line

of your shoulder.
Can’t you hear
the cricket’s ebbing

daysong? Let me
tuck that tidal melody
into the wine-colored

strands of your hair,
braid your name
with horizon’s indigo

kiss. Glorious outlaws,
we’ve got nothing to lose
but this edge.





Hello Friends,

Just yesterday, I learned (maybe re-learned?) a really cool word from my friend and former roommate Ori (Thanks, Ori!): palimpsest. In less traditional usage, I like to think palimpsest could apply not just to old parchment being erased and reused but to any situation where layers upon layers are interacting with each other — such as (one of my particular interests) places where graffiti and murals and graffiti layer on top of each other, weather away, and layer again, over time. One of the thoughts I had learning/re-learning this word was that it sounds like something there would be poems about; it’s got a poetic quality to it.

So today — as sometimes happens when you are running a poem-a-day list and need to finalize your pick for today’s poem — I accidentally went down this totally separate crazy rabbit hole, jumping from poet to poet, poem to poem, with no thought of yesterday’s palimpsest (I was chasing after something else). And what do I find? A poem called “Palimpsest.”

Obviously this was a sign to stop going down the rabbit hole; I had arrived. But, surprise twist, today’s poem is not actually “Palimpsest.” It’s the poem that was right next to it, “Love in the Margins,” by Deborah A. Miranda. Why? Because it’s the one I was looking for, and I promised you April 2019 would include some tercets! Praise Lit Hub for featuring a New Poetry by Queer Indigenous Women series curated by Natalie Diaz (where you can also go read the “Palimpsest” poem if you’re curious!)

Remember with couplets we talked about how line breaks and stanza breaks can affect how you read a poem? Did you feel how the “horizon’s indigo” hangs in that space between the last two stanzas, like the last light lingers above the horizon at sunset, and then transforms into a “kiss”? Pretty cool, right? That’s poetry!

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 9: Emily D.

[952]

A Man may make a Remark —
In itself — a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature — lain —

Let us divide — with skill —
Let us discourse —with care —
Powder exists in Charcoal —
Before it exists in Fire —




Hello Friends,

Do you recognize this poet? Interesting internal capitalization, lots of dashes, doesn’t use titles (so publishers substitute a number and/or first line)…

Early editions of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, all published after her lifetime, did not reflect her unique use of capitalization and punctuation — in particular the long dash. But we now consider these key characteristics of Dickinsonian (yes, she gets her own adjective… not to be confused with Dickensian) poetics.

Did any one read Power in Powder? What other spark, fire, or charcoal poems does this remind you of? Any favorites? I feel like a lot of writers have written their own version of this particular poem, across centuries, across cultures — humans seem to return again and again to an association between fire and the divine, the soul, and/or the gift of thinking and language.

Emily Dickinson has been featured many times before for poem-a-day, including Poem-A-Day April 13, 2014, Poem-A-Day April 25, 2010, Poem-A-Day April 25, 2009, and Poem-A-Day April 29, 2008. I am a little bit fascinated with her. Two of my favorite poetry books (of any kind — but these both happen to be about Emily Dickinson) are The Gorgeous Nothings and Open Me Carefully, if you want to learn more about this poet than what you may have been taught in grade school.

Love,
Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 8: For Keeps.

Hello Friends,

Do you ever feel like the birds are singing the sky into place? Today’s poem by Joy Harjo is for Amanda and Chase, who got engaged over the weekend; and for everyone else who has found their “for keeps” — whatever forms that might take.

Love,
Ellen




For Keeps

Sun makes the day new.
Tiny green plants emerge from the earth.
Birds are singing the sky into place.
There is nowhere else I want to be but here.
I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will take us.
We gallop into a warm, southern wind.
I link my legs to yours and we ride together,
Toward the ancient encampment of our relatives.
Where have you been? they ask.
And what has taken you so long?
That night after eating, singing, and dancing
We lay together under the stars.
We know ourselves to be part of the mystery.
It is unspeakable.
It is everlasting.
It is for keeps.



Poem-A-Day April 7: other girls

A content warning: This poem describes violence against women and uses a slur. I think these are important issues for poetry to address, but if that sounds like too much for you today, skip it! And if you ever need support for any reason, one option is to text HOME to 741741 to reach a trained volunteer crisis counselor.




More than one man has reached up my skirt

I’ve stopped asking:
                                                       ¿Why?
             I’ve let a man whistle
                           from the table for more beer,
& brought it to him
                           with a smile. I’ve slapped
a man & ran
                           while he laughed—
             atrevida.
I’ve had a miscarriage. I’ve let a man
                                       kiss me
after an abortion
                                       & comforted his hot tears.
I’ve done these things,
                                                       while other girls
work in maquilas
                           piecing together
Dell computer boards,
                                       while other girls
work in brothels,
                           & cake foundation across
their bruised arms,
                                       while other girls
                           ride the bus home alone
             at night, every night,
while other girls are found
             wearing clothes
                           that don’t belong to them, or no
clothes at all. I’ve done all of this
                                       while other girls are found
                           with puta
                                       written in blood across
their broken bellies.
             My mother used to cover
my eyes
                           when we’d walk by girls
working the corner,
             & say:
                                       See how lucky you are,
not to have to work
                           like they do? I have been
             muy puta,
                                       have been called puta.
Yes, I’d say, very lucky.





Hello Friends,

Yesterday’s poem used indentation and italics to indicate two different speakers. Today’s poem by Natalie Scenters-Zapico uses these formal elements in a little less straightforward ways — what does the shape of this poem convey to you? What is the poet’s relationship to other girls?

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 6: Yes, Darling, the Patriarchy IS a dinosaur.

Hello Friends,

Yesterday’s poem was very old, in strict form, in translation, and came with lots of explanation. So today we’re going to do a very recent poem, in free verse, in English, with little explanation. Although, it is still about a princess of sorts.

If you have trouble viewing the formatting of this poem, particularly on a mobile device, try this version in Google Books.


HALLOWEEN SHOPPING WITH MY NIECE

Do you want to be a kitty cat?

                    No.

A princess?

                    I’m already a princess.

Of course you are.
Oh look, you could be a slice of pizza!

                    Nahh …

Do you want to be Doc McStuffins?!

                    I want to be something super scary!

But, Doc McStuffins is terrifying to the Patriarchy.

            What’s a patriarchy? Sounds like a kind of dinosaur?

Yes, Darling, the Patriarchy IS a dinosaur.

          Is it a very big dinosaur? Cause I could be a bigger one.
               I could be a dinosaur that eats a patriarchy.



“Halloween Shopping With My Niece” appears in Rachel Wiley’s 2018 collection Nothing Is Okay, published by Button Poetry. Buy a copy here!

In my memory this poem ends, “eats the patriarchy for breakfast.” But it turns out a patriarchy is for any meal!

Enjoy.
— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 5: torn green dress

     See how the budding flower,
Emerging fair from out her torn green dress,
Is beauteous in the garden for her hour,
As Yusuf in his youthful loveliness.

     Go, breeze of spring,
Haste to tell Yakub, blinded by his tears,
The tidings that shall end his sorrowing
And lift the darkness from his troubled years.



Hello Friends,

Could you tell that today’s poem excerpt was a translation as you were reading it? We have very few translations of the princess and poet Zeb-un-Nissa’s work from Persian to English; this 1913 translation is by Magan Lal and Jessica Duncan Westbrook, and the style of the translation has a lot more in common with 1900s English poetry than the 1600s Persian poetry of the original. To give you an example of how translations can differ, the same excerpt has also more recently been translated by Lisa Sarasohn as:


Budding, the flower tears through her dress of green.
Blooming, her beauty makes the garden beautiful.
Like Joseph, her loveliness perfumes the air.

Spring breezes, go. Take the news to Jacob, end his sorrow
for the loss of son, wipe darkness from his eyes,
lift the troubles that have weighed upon his spine.



As you can see, it’s very difficult to capture both the poetic form and a poem’s meaning from another language. But key images, like the flower bud tearing through a green dress, persist from the original author. (I’ll let you in on a little secret: Sometimes one image is so good I will pick a poem to share with you just for that one image — today’s torn green dress is one of those.)

What you are largely missing here in translation is Zeb-un-Nissa’s use of form. The ghazal is a difficult poetic form with roots in seventh-century Arabia. Each couplet in a traditional ghazal is its own self-contained poem. The first couplet establishes an end-rhyme, and the second lines of all the succeeding couplets continue this rhyme. The last couplet traditionally contains a reference to the poet’s name — it’s a signature of sorts; Zeb-un-Nissa used the pen name Makhfi or “Hidden One” to reference herself.

As if the ghazal form weren’t difficult enough, a diwan is a sequence of ghazals, ordered according to their rhyme. Sarasohn explains, “The first group of ghazals rhymes with the first letter of the alphabet, the second group rhymes with the alphabet’s second letter, and on down the line.” The excerpt above, ghazal XIV, is from The Diwan of Zeb-un-Nissa.

One of the sad facts of literature is that you pretty much have to have been a princess or a queen for your writing to have survived from the 1600s if you were female. Zeb-un-Nissa is one of those figures whose words have made it to us — a princess from a time when the Mughal or Mogul Empire ruled the Indian subcontinent. A few details from her biography that may be relevant to understanding her as a poet: Zeb-un-Nissa became a Hafiza — meaning “guardian” or “memorizer” — at age seven, meaning at seven years old she had memorized and could recite the entire Quran (114 chapters made up of over 6,000 verses). She was deeply influenced by Islam and the Quran, and nearly all her poetry is religious in content. She never married — some say because she was married to Allah, some say she had affairs with mortal men. Lastly, for reasons that are still debated, Zeb-un-Nissa’s own father (the emperor) imprisoned her for the last 20 years of her life. It is believed that these ghazal were written during those years of imprisonment.

That was a lot of me writing for just a little bit of Zeb-un-Nissa! Apologies if I got a little too carried away in explanations here. But I hope you maybe still got something out of it.

— Ellen

P.S. For a very different interpretation of the ghazal form (in contemporary English, rather than seventeenth century Persian) — and one of my favorite poems of all time — see “Ghazal” by Emily Moore.

Poem-A-Day April 4: On the edge of tomorrow

Rhapsody

I am glad daylong for the gift of song,
     For time and change and sorrow;
For the sunset wings and the world-end things
     Which hang on the edge of to-morrow.
I am glad for my heart whose gates apart
     Are the entrance-place of wonders,
Where dreams come in from the rush and din
     Like sheep from the rains and thunders.



Hello Friends,

I apologize for falling a little behind on the poem-a-days! The trip back from Austin really wore me out. But I’m back in DC now and catching up.

Our poem-a-day for April 4 comes from William Stanley Braithwaite, a self-educated African-American writer who self-published his first poetry collection Lyrics of Love and Life (containing this poem) in 1904. Among his many accomplishments, Braithwaite was a well-known literary critic, founded his own publishing firm, and was a professor of creative writing at Atlanta University.

For me, one of the important things about this poem is that Braithwaite is ‘glad’ not only for more traditionally happy things like “song” and “sunset” but also gives equal weight to “sorrow” and “world-end things.” The second quatrain could be read as showing that we only really experience “wonders” when a heart and dreams have experienced “rush and din” or “rains and thunders.”

Did you notice “Rhapsody” is not only about “the gift of song” but has a sing-song rhythm? This poem also makes me wonder how far back the literary association between sleep and sheep goes — does anyone know? I’m not convinced by any of the initial Wikipedia-type answers. Anyway, I love this image of sheep as dreams, and sleep as the shelter for those sheep; I’ve never heard that expressed quite how Braithwaite puts it in this poem.

— Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 3: On the last day of the world

Hello Friends!

We lost several giants of the poetry world in the past few months, one of whom was the remarkable and prolific W.S. Merwin. One of the most striking features of Merwin’s work is that he has written volumes and volumes of poetry using no punctuation whatsoever — it’s hard for me to even fathom or convey to you the mastery of language it takes to achieve that.

The poem below, “Place,” appears in his 1988 collection The Rain in the Trees.


Place

On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree

What for
not the fruit

the tree that bears the fruit
is not the one that was planted

I want the tree that stands
in the earth for the first time

with the sun already
going down

and the water
touching its roots

in the earth full of the dead
and the clouds passing

one by one
over its leaves





W.S. Merwin was a person of both quality and quantity — publishing an astounding more than 20 books of his own poetry; translating nearly another 20 books of poetry from multiple languages into English; and publishing some plays, prose, and memoirs for a total of more than 50 books in his lifetime. Among a bizillion other awards, he won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry twice and served as Poet Laureate of the United States twice. Well-known as an anti-war and environmental activist, he was also a longtime resident of Maui and a practicing Buddhist. When he wasn’t writing one of his 50 books, Merwin managed to raise more than 2,000 trees at his Maui home, a former pineapple plantation restored as a rainforest, which is set aside as The Merwin Conservancy.

If you’re interested in reading more Merwin, he has been featured for many poem-a-days in previous years that you can visit here.

Enjoy.
Ellen

Poem-A-Day April 2: Derrida ate my homework.

Hello Friends!

I am in Austin, Texas for work, so we’re going to feature the poet Carrie Fountain today — who is the 2019 Poet Laureate of Texas, resides in Austin, and received her MFA from the amazing program at UT Austin.

This is not actually a particularly Texas poem, just a favorite of mine by Fountain.

One thing to think about when reading any poem — but which may be particularly pronounced when the poet has chosen couplets (groups of two lines each) — is how the line breaks and stanza breaks affect the flow and meaning of the poem as it is read. It may also be helpful to remember that poetry’s origins are oral, not written, so line breaks can be about how a poem sounds when it’s read as much as what it looks like on a page.

The Student

I wish I were as talented
at anything as he is

at pulling Derrida into
a conversation, any

conversation, no matter
what we’re discussing:

Derrida. Even once
when he was telling me

why he didn’t have
the assignment, even then

after a long and aerobic
journey we arrived

at Derrida, his white
hair and elegant European

ideas, and it felt good—
I admit in felt good to finally

arrive there—ah bonjour
Monsieur Derrida!—

because at least I knew
then where I was, even

if it wasn’t where
I wanted to be. To pretend,

Derrida said, I actually
do the thing: I have therefore

only pretended to pretend.
I pretend sometimes. Other

times all I do is pretend.
I’ve created gods this way

and on occasion I’ve tied
those gods together

like they do bed sheets
in a movie, and I’ve escaped

the high tower of myself
this way, I’ve made it

to solid ground this way,
landed on the earth.

And each time I’ve been sure
I’ve actually done the thing,

but then I look up
and the gods are gone.



If you’re interested in a deeper dive on line breaks, check out an excerpt by the poet Alberto Ríos from A Broken Thing: Poets on the Line (2011) here.

A special shout-out to all the teachers out there who have dealt with this student, and a Happy Tuesday to all!

— Ellen

P.S. You may have noticed today’s poem-a-day came from ellen@meetmein811.org instead of meetmein811@gmail.com. It’s still me, I promise! I’m just having a little email deliverability problem, and MailChimp strongly prefers non-Gmail type domains for “from” email addresses, so I’ve upgraded to an email address on the domain I already own for the poem-a-day blog. That is all!