By Jose Olivarez
Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own
sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:
The poem, I’ve always felt, is an opportunity for me to create an integrated whole from so many broken shards --Rafael Campo
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Sunday, December 15, 2019
Saturday, December 14, 2019
The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you down like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
By Ellen Bass
Thursday, December 12, 2019
The Game Between the Jews and the Indians is Tied Going Into the Bottom of the Ninth Inning
By Sherman Alexie
So, now, when you touch me
my skin, will you think
of Sand Creek, Wounded Knee?
And what will you remember
when your skin is next to mine
Auschwitz, Buchenwald?
No, we will only think of the past
as one second before
where we are now, the future
just one second ahead
but every once in a while
we can remind each other
that we are both survivors and children
and grandchildren of survivors.
So, now, when you touch me
my skin, will you think
of Sand Creek, Wounded Knee?
And what will you remember
when your skin is next to mine
Auschwitz, Buchenwald?
No, we will only think of the past
as one second before
where we are now, the future
just one second ahead
but every once in a while
we can remind each other
that we are both survivors and children
and grandchildren of survivors.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
If One More Person Asks Me "Are you still writing"
I want to snarl
“do you still breathe?”
Or have you decided
you are tired of
doing it, have found
other less boring
ways to spend your
time. Do I still
write? as if it was
something I chose
like ordering
cappuccino instead
of café au lait.
Do you still feed
your cat or dog? Do
you still bathe?
And what about that
baby you’ve got
inside that carriage,
is it wearing the
same diaper it wore
its first day?
“do you still breathe?”
Or have you decided
you are tired of
doing it, have found
other less boring
ways to spend your
time. Do I still
write? as if it was
something I chose
like ordering
cappuccino instead
of café au lait.
Do you still feed
your cat or dog? Do
you still bathe?
And what about that
baby you’ve got
inside that carriage,
is it wearing the
same diaper it wore
its first day?
By Lyn Lifshin
Sunday, December 1, 2019
Hospital Writing Workshop
By Rafael Campo
Arriving late, my clinic having run
past 6 again, I realize I don’t
have cancer, don’t have HIV, like them,
these students who are patients, who I lead
in writing exercises, reading poems.
For them, this isn’t academic, it’s
reality: I ask that they describe
an object right in front of them, to make
it come alive, and one writes about death,
her death, as if by just imagining
the softness of its skin, its panting rush
into her lap, that she might tame it; one
observes instead the love he lost, he’s there,
beside him in his gown and wheelchair,
together finally again. I take
a good, long breath; we’re quiet as newborns.
The little conference room grows warm, and right
before my eyes, I see that what I thought
unspeakable was more than this, was hope.
Arriving late, my clinic having run
past 6 again, I realize I don’t
have cancer, don’t have HIV, like them,
these students who are patients, who I lead
in writing exercises, reading poems.
For them, this isn’t academic, it’s
reality: I ask that they describe
an object right in front of them, to make
it come alive, and one writes about death,
her death, as if by just imagining
the softness of its skin, its panting rush
into her lap, that she might tame it; one
observes instead the love he lost, he’s there,
beside him in his gown and wheelchair,
together finally again. I take
a good, long breath; we’re quiet as newborns.
The little conference room grows warm, and right
before my eyes, I see that what I thought
unspeakable was more than this, was hope.