I’ve wanted to say a lot lately, and I have been, I guess. But my tongue is often tied. And when that happens, it is poetry I turn to - that I write more of, read constantly, share with people.
Below is a poem I wrote, and a couple from other writers. I hope they bring you something useful.
A Poem That I Can’t Find The Words To Title By Chloe Laws And we will watch the news from our pink velvet sofas and say how awful On the anniversary of a historic tragedy everyone you know shares an infographic and captions it with a breaking heart At the local deli a man and woman talk of their digital detox; shutting off for a weekend because it’s all too much right now Another ‘the revolution will be live streamed’ tweet goes viral and our emojis clap in quotes though that has not happened yet / i have only seen the live stream of genocide on my screen one day our children will walk around a sterile museum and ask how and then what will you say?
Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying By Noor Hindi Colonizers write about flowers. I tell you about children throwing rocks at Israeli tanks seconds before becoming daisies. I want to be like those poets who care about the moon. Palestinians don’t see the moon from jail cells and prisons. It’s so beautiful, the moon. They’re so beautiful, the flowers. I pick flowers for my dead father when I’m sad. He watches Al Jazeera all day. I wish Jessica would stop texting me Happy Ramadan. I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies. Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound. When I die, I promise to haunt you forever. One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.
We Lived Happily During the War By Ilya Kaminsky And when they bombed other people’s houses, we protested but not enough, we opposed them but not enough. I was in my bed, around my bed America was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house. I took a chair outside and watched the sun. In the sixth month of a disastrous reign in the house of money in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money, our great country of money, we (forgive us) lived happily during the war.