I did fine,
and if I didn’t, it’s all in my head,
and if it wasn’t, then no one noticed,
and if someone did, then it wasn’t all that bad,
and if it was, then people will forget eventually,
and if they don’t…
Then they’re carrying a grudge!
Category: Crème de la Crème (page 1 of 2)
Best of the best
Some say gender is a spectrum but I see it as a schizm.
All the things that make me a man were just survival mechanisms.
School was like a prison.
I was ruled by fools cool with cynicism,
miss me with your misgivings.
Dragged down the corridor to settle old scores behind closed doors.
Shoved into a locker like a shiv.
I was thin, I could hide in the dim.
I could never tell a foe from a friend.
My old Sensei Willy would always say to me,
your best defense in a feud was to keep your distance.
You have no chance to react
once someone gets too close to you.
Matter of fact,
I thought Karate could harden my masculinity.
Anger would coil my fingertips into fists like electricity –
my father’s father’s curse: a hot coal thrown by these
burnt palms.
What’s worse:
White-hot eyes that squeezed out tenderness,
a temperament of tempered steel,
reeling in my indignant righteousness.
When I bullied the bully
who had poisoned my teammates against me,
spreading hateful lies about my size,
I became a man.
When I won a fight
by laughing in surprise
to a sucker punch to the gut,
I became a man.
When I was pushed from behind
into the dirt and the grime
because I let my guard down one time,
I became a man.
I learned how to “Man up”,
how to stifle how I felt
because those feelings made me vulnerable.
If being baited into an outburst made you trivial to ridicule,
wouldn’t you trap your feelings like lightning in a bottle?
But one day you awake mid-brake
after going full throttle,
lost control, totaled the vehicle
of your hopes and dreams, you cope and seethe,
you see male role models succeed
because of their toxic masculinity.
That same entitled anger that nearly broke my brother.
As a kid, whenever I was bored,
I would goad him into going overboard,
I explored how to explode
the anger he had stored.
O, how I made him suffer.
How we hurt each other in the ways
men believe
it will make them tougher.
It’s like disarming a bomb trying to tell you all this.
Confronting the mold in the fridge after a long Christmas trip.
The softer side of me knows
it takes strength to be weak,
to speak on it,
to grieve the loss of innocence.
I never wanted to be an old soul as a young child.
I never wanted my gender expression
to be a survival mechanism.
I could never speak on you
because the wound was tender.
Whenever I would get your mail,
I would write: ‘Return to Sender’.
Je n’ai jamais pu parler de toi
parce que la blessure était douce.
Chaque fois que je recevais ton courrier,
j’écrivais : “Retour à la source”.
I confess that now I scribe
‘Not at this address.’
I thought I would’ve healed inside
and disinfected this abscess.
Je confesse que maintenant je scribe
“Pas à cette adresse”.
Je pensais que j’aurais guéri de l’intérieur
et désinfecté cet abcès.
I’ll cauterize the chasm,
I’ll anesthetize the aether,
I’ll inoculate against the incubus
until I break this fever.
Je cautériserai le gouffre,
j’anesthésierai l’éther,
j’inoculerai contre l’incube
jusqu’à ce que je brise cette fièvre.
I’ll pour this poem down the drain
the way I swallow pain:
All at once, in one big gulp,
until it floods my veins.
Je vais verser ce poème dans l’égout.
comme j’avale ma chagrin :
D’un seul coup, d’une grande gorgée,
jusqu’à ce qu’elle inonde mes veines.
You told me that you fell out of love.
What sort of fall was it?
Tu m’as dit que tu étais tombé amoureux.
Quelle sorte de chute était-ce ?
Was it a fall from grace or from a burning tower?
or was it cold and caught your breath like autumn?
Était-ce une chute de la grâce ou d’une tour en flammes ?
ou bien il faisait froid et on avait le souffle coupé comme en automne ?
When I fell out of love, I forfeited my power.
They say the fall doesn’t do you in,
it’s when you hit rock bottom.
Quand je suis tombé amoureux, j’ai perdu mon pouvoir.
On dit que ce n’est pas la chute qui vous fait perdre pied,
c’est quand on touche le fond.
A trapdoor ejected me
when you finally
confessed to the truth:
“I think I may have gaslit you.”
Une trappe m’a éjecté
quand tu as finalement
avoué la vérité :
“Je pense que je vous ai peut-être éclairé au gaz.”
I fell out of love mid-flight
at a nosedive, break-neck free fall
like a marionette severed from his strings
out of your mind and out of your sight
The wind shrieks a banshee’s call
instead of your sweet nothings.
J’ai perdu l’amour en plein vol
en piqué, en chute libre.
comme une marionnette séparée de ses ficelles
hors de votre esprit et hors de votre vue
Le vent hurle le cri d’une banshee
au lieu de tes douces pensées.
I fell out of love at terminal velocity,
like the urn from the Han Dynasty
that Ai Weiwei smashed to pieces
just by letting go.
I went to pieces, I would have you know.
Now, I see your name in all its fragments:
Je suis tombé amoureux à la vitesse terminale,
comme l’urne de la dynastie Han
qu’Ai Weiwei a brisée en morceaux juste par laisse tomber les main
Je suis tombé en morceaux, je te dirai.
Maintenant, je vois ton nom dans tous ses fragments :
Mary or Marie, Marianne or Anna – they all sound like Mariana to me.
Mary ou Marie, Marianne ou Anna – elles ressemblent toutes à Mariana pour moi.
Bewitched like Dr. Frankenstein,
this poem comes to life
though its no child of mine.
Ensorcelé comme le Dr Frankenstein,
ce poème prend vie
bien que ce ne soit pas mon enfant.
I’m transfixed on stitches
because this cardiovascular cicatrix
is keeping me alive.
Je suis fasciné par les points de suture
parce que cette cicatrice cardiovasculaire
me garde ma futur.
My cardiologist tells me I was lucky
to have survived but now there’s scar tissue
scrawled all across my heart.
Mon cardiologue me dit que j’ai eu de la chance
d’avoir survécu
mais maintenant il y a un tissu cicatriciel
gribouillé sur mon cœur.
I remember you now the same way
I remember a scar,
by tracing it from the end
back to its start.
Je me souviens de toi de la même façon
que je me souviens d’une cicatrice,
en la traçant de la fin
jusqu’à son origine.
Don’t try to change my mind.
I only change my mind at night.
I change my mind while I am sleeping,
without struggle, without fight.
N’essayez pas de me faire changer d’avis.
Je ne change d’avis que la nuit.
Je change d’avis pendant que je dors,
sans lutte, sans effort.
Don’t bother me with facts
or bore me with debate.
I’ll only remember how you loved
and how vicious was your hate.
Ne me dérangez pas avec des faits
ni ne m’ennuie avec des débats.
Je me rappellerai seulement combien tu as aimé
et combien ta haine était méchante.
I want to dream as if in flight
instead of how she smiled.
I want it all to be of peace
like when I was a child.
Je veux rêver comme si j’étais en vol
au lieu de voir comment elle souriait.
Je veux que tout soit en paix
comme quand j’étais enfant.
When I sleep is when I hope;
It’s where I pray alone.
I don’t know which gods kneel here
or for what sins they must atone.
Quand je dors, c’est là que j’espère ;
C’est là que je prie seul.
Je ne sais pas quels dieux se mettent à genoux ici
ou pour quels péchés ils doivent expier.
I only know of a void –
that place where I wasn’t born,
a place I won’t go when I die –
a place I don’t fear or mourn.
Je ne connais que le vide.
Cet endroit où je ne suis pas né,
un endroit où je n’irai pas quand je mourrai –
un endroit que je ne crains ni réside.
When I wake, my eyes will see
the world cast in a morning dew.
My dreams still cling to me
but mostly when I dream of you.
Quand je me réveillerai, mes yeux verront
le monde dans la rosée du matin.
Mes rêves s’accrochent toujours à moi
mais surtout quand je rêve de toi.
Hey there on your soapbox
with your arguments in array –
A third of me isn’t even here
and who knows what he’ll say?
Hé là, sur votre plateforme
avec tes arguments sur le tableau –
Un tiers de moi n’est même pas là
et ce n’est pas un petit morceau
So, don’t try to change my mind
I only change my mind at night.
I change my mind while I am sleeping,
without struggle, without light.
Alors, n’essayez pas de me faire changer d’avis.
Je ne change d’avis que la nuit.
Je change d’avis pendant que je dors,
sans lutte, sans épiphanie.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Iridescent.
I see joy reflected back at me.
Our twin irises squint into narrow halos.
I encircle you like an aperture sky.
You are beautiful.
You see beauty in yourself and in others.
You are beautiful.
We do not regard the rivulets or the divots in the countryside as blemishes.
They are as part of all I take in as the wind is composed of its own emptiness; the way the moon stores shade as it mirrors light;
the way every ocean crest is coupled by twin troughs.
In my time, I have seen time.
Its wrinkles, its waves, its squalls.
Hold still.
We will only ever have this moment.
It will never be enough.
I touch the water of your eyes and you peak like spring tide.
Your sun-kissed gaze showers me with the rays stored in the dimple of your cheeks.
I feel warm inside.
Elastic as the air we breathe, I speak with voiceless plosives, tense with perspicacity, parting the seas of your typhoon dreams.
Where shall we go from here?
Does beauty ever need to answer that question?
You are a city, growing, changing, impossible to flit through in an instant, captivated as I am by the sights, oh, the landmarks – oh, the history that drips off the horizon like a beading drop of water, flipping the world upon its head.
I should weep for all I know that will one day be lost.
I have dealt with the devil, learned nothing from Faust.
The cost of love is all I know to be true.
Soon, I will be swept away by the rivers that part ways in the channels of your heart. Rivers so great they drink my tears like rainfall.
Until then, let me stay but for a spell, perched above the plaza.
Let me face the sunsets here until they kiss my cheeks crimson too.
Every sunset, I blush when I think of you.
tear down the statues
drown them in paint, dye them blood-red
force everyone to see all of the dead.
tear down the statues
what are these virtues?
cast down the crowns, cast in cement
cast down the systems that lie and torment.
tear down the statues
new voices break through
who got to be, got to be white?
power won’t concede unless you can fight!
tear down the statues
let chaos ensue
no end in sight, powers that be
drag us all down into calamity.
tear down the statues
the past is preview
question it all, decolonise –
how deaf can we be to all of their cries?
tear down the statues
don’t let them construe
don’t let them lie, truth can be mine,
truth can be yours and ours all of the time!
tear down the statues
subvert and subdue
grab all you can, pull ev’ry strand
this nation’s fabric that rules over land
tear down the statues
living in mildew
rot at our core, what was it for?
borders are hoarders, they only want more.
tear down the statues
this country’s tattoo
under the skin, it’s permanent,
pass down ev’ry sin to all the children!
tear down the statues
tear down the statues, teardown
tear down the statues, teardown
tear down the statues, TEARDOWN
tear down the statues, teardown
tear down the statues, teardown
tear down the statues, TEARDOWN
tear down the statues, teardown
tear down the statues, teardown
teardownthestatues, you
teardownthestatues, me
teardownthestatues, you
teardownthestatues, we
teardownthestatues, you
teardownthestatues, me
teardownthestatues, you
teardownthestatues, we
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
what are these virtues?
new voices break through
let chaos ensue
the past is preview
don’t let them construe
subvert and subdue
living in mildew
this country’s tattoo
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
drown them in paint
cast down the crowns
who got to be
no end in sight
question it all
don’t let them lie
grab all you can
rot at our core
under the skin
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
dye them blood-red
cast in cement
got to be white
powers that be
decolonise
truth can be mine
pull ev’ry strand
what was it for?
it’s permanent
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
teardownthestatues
force everyone to see all of the dead
cast down the systems that lie and torment
power won’t concede unless you can fight
drag us all down into calamity
how deaf can we be to all of their cries?
truth can be yours and ours all of the time
the nation’s fabric that rules over land
borders are hoarders, they only want more
pass down ev’ry sin to all the children
teardownthestatues
forallthemissing
teardownthestatues
forallthemissing
allthemissing
allthemissing
allofthemsing
allofthemsing
allofthemsing
ALL OF THEM SING
To know how to change a mind, you must learn how to change a river.
One way to change a river is to introduce wolves into the ecology.
In 1995, the rivers of Yellowstone National Park were riotous and inhospitable. Along the banks of these turgid rivers thrived large herds of deer who lived an idyllic life. But this docile scene papered over an invisible violence.
Scientists, ever the gods of violence, introduced wolves in order to displace the deer. Imagine the hatred they must have felt towards the wolves for robbing them of their absolute liberty. To the privileged, equality feels like oppression.
The wolves were the de facto defenders of the forest. Those trees quintupled in size in just six years. Their roots embraced the river, caging it. Their branches welcomed new birds, new songs. They fell into the shape of dams, built by beavers, who could transform rot into home.
A more egalitarian ecosystem emerged where all could share in the gamble of life alike. Perhaps the deer secretly understood that their life of leisure was rapacious and unsustainable. Or perhaps they were bitter with spite like a general waging a war of attrition. One wonders what stories deer tell themselves.
We call this process widespread trophic cascade.
To change a mind, you must learn how to change a river.
One way to change a river is to introduce wolves into the ecology.
In 1995, the rivers of Yellowstone National Park were riotous and inhospitable. Along the banks of these turgid rivers thrived large herds of deer who lived an idyllic life. But this docile scene papered over an invisible violence.
Scientists, ever the gods of violence, introduced wolves to displace the deer. Now, imagine the hatred they must have felt towards the wolves for robbing them of their absolute liberty. To the privileged, equality feels like oppression.
The wolves’ purpose was to defend the forest. Those trees quintupled in size in just six years. Their roots embraced the river, caging it. Their branches welcomed new birds, new songs. They died in the shape of dams, built by beavers, who could transform rot into home.
A more egalitarian ecosystem emerged where all could share in the gamble of life alike. Perhaps the deer secretly understood that their life of leisure was rapacious and unsustainable. Or perhaps they were bitter with spite like a general waging a war of attrition. One wonders what stories deer tell themselves.
We call this process a widespread trophic cascade.
Similarly, for new pastures of understanding to emerge, there must be a widespread cognitive cascade.
To change a mind, you must know how to change a river.
Thoughts flow like water flows like rivers flow like rapids sometimes violent sometimes placid.
For every social justice movement to succeed, there must be wolves with teeth and trees with roots to strike a balance of violence in our tributaries of thought.
There must be patience for the slow growth of sustainable systemic change but also understanding for the violence of urgency. Because injustice affects real people in the real world right now. That’s why black lives matter right now. Why we must be idle no more when never again is right now.
For anything to have changed, Martin Luther King Jr., needed Malcolm X and Malcom X needed MLK.
King understood that the language of love could unite peoples against systems of oppression that were and are invisible to all us coddled white moderates, who freeze on matters of race like deer caught in headlights.
Malcolm X saw how racism was a forked-tongue language whose were themselves violent, whether they be a susurrus or a screech. He knew a Million Man march could not stop the local lynch mob, who understood only the lash of their tongue.
Together, despite their differences, the forest and the wolf bent the arc of the moral universe towards justice and became, for all of us, the better angels of our nature.
When I was young, Carole was one of those kind mothers who would take you in as one of her own in a moment’s heartbeat. It’s hard to emphasize how precious that sentiment can be. Like the shade of a tree or the firmament of the earth, the roots she laid down in our community became the ground that I walked upon. Carole made this world firmer to the touch for me. More real. More like home. The truth of this can be seen by how many of us have a similar recollection of her warm and reassuring presence. I am sure that every one of us has sheltered beneath the canopy of her concern and consideration for our well-being.
Carole cared. She cared about the people around her, she cared about her family, the friends of her family, their families. I do not actually know where that line ended for her. From what I saw, it seemed to stretch off into the horizon.
The last time I saw Carole was last Christmas. It had been a minute since we last spoke and she was radiant with joy to see me. Radiant and critical in the way only a mother can be. Was I taking care of myself? How was my trip? Had I eaten? Would I like anything to drink?
I was delighted to see her again, flush with the vibrant glow of a Christmas evening, so full of life and curiosity. We talked about books, what had changed, or not. And I see now how those simple questions, that amicable joy at reunion, that matronly glow is what made Carole such a pillar for our community. And I see now how the roots she had so slowly fostered will continue to sustain the forests of our families. I see now how the canopy she had matured all her life will continue to shade us from the harsh sunlight of a capricious world.
To Carole, who was a forest of kindness unto herself. I will miss you. You will remain familiar in my home, in my heart, in my friends, in my family, and in my community. You have left more than a mark – you have left a foundation of trust and love. And we will never forget you.
This poem was found at the bottom of a ditch, behind a weeping willow, crumpled and buried in a hole. I followed a black Rabbit here (code name Richards) in the dead of night to find it. I followed her because she praised soft men with a soft tongue and she had the bloodshot night-vision of a poet, peering deeply into the darkness, into the quietest corners of the soul.
She was the kind of woman who could look down upon my life reaching for meaning the way a gardener could glare down at a plant and remark, “Thirst is good for you right now.” Even though that stare would feel as hard and dry as the noonday sun, it would translate to: “I believe you will grow.”
Rabbit reminded me of Hilda Doolittle’s Sea Rose. This rose survives beside the harsh ocean by sucking salt out of sand and turning thirst into the fragile fragrance of wisdom. Like a sea rose, the hard women in my life have always drawn me towards their aroma because it smelled real and true unlike the cloying, sweet perfume of the spice-rose. For if anything is true, it must be made of this world and I know of no world that smells so sweet – shorn of its thorns.
Show me what it takes to survive in this world, hard women. Show me the bark of your skin and the bite of your fruit.
For I know it takes a certain kind of hardness to smile at yet another bad joker begging for your eyes to lock. Will his punch line be a Trojan Horse designed to open the purse of your person? Some men dip their tongues in silver simply so they can pick the locks.
It takes a certain kind of hardness to raise a waking life into a walking nightmare and to teach that child how to dream in your stead.
It takes a certain kind of hardness to soberly see the world with punch-drunk double-vision: as you see the world and as the world of men chooses to see you.
To the hard women, I see you see me too. My eyes trace the secret scars in your smile like lipstick. I smell the acrid scent of resentment for men obsessed with the good sense of their own flatulence.
Men, I know the content of your character by the nature of your desires. But only you will know what you have sold to stoke the coals of a lustful fire.
Men, I want you to know this world bears down on women the way an ocean tide collides upon the beach. After an eon, each grain of sand is sculpted into a hardened work of art. There lies fertile soil for the rare sea rose, growing roots in this shattered shoal despite the violent undertow.
And if you were guided by your nose, you would not retreat,
for a sea rose by any other name would smell as bittersweet.
Veuillez entendre le poème ici
Ce poème est écrit en Français parce que mon frère ne parle pas français.
Mon accent peut provoquer des regrets, mais c’est le seul moyen d’expliquer mon secret.
Il est vrai que le langage amène l’âme à parler jusqu’à ce que la langue devienne plus musclée que le coeur, à force de partager nos torsions de langage.
Mais, comme un voyage ou comme nos premières peurs, nos heures sont limitées. Et c’est avec cet aveu clair que je raconte mon histoire cachée derrière la poésie voilée.
Sans paix, mon frère était méchant parce que mes parents ont séparés quant il avait seulement sept ans.
Ce fut un moment imprévu qui n’a jamais été résolu. Le fossé entre mes parents est encore absolu.
Ensuite, pendant ma jeunesse chez ma mère, mon frère a perturbé la santé de ma mentalité avec sa colère chaque matin.
Il était circadien comme le coq qui crie au soleil : « je vole votre sommeil »
Et il aurait beugler avec un visage vermeil: « Michael! Fuck off! »
Mais, je sais que nos identités sont enracinées dans les histoires de nos parents, chance, et nos croyances. Ainsi, l’ensemble de notre volonté et puissance est tissée dans une rivière de la causalité. Nous avons la liberté mais nous ne pouvons pas nager en amont. Nous ne choisissons pas notre nature.
Avant ma naissance, il y avait déjà des fissures entre ma futur mère et père. Le désespoir, dedans un poème ou devant le miroir, ou entre deux amoureux, vole la chaleur de nos feux spiritueux.
Et quand on a froid, il ne prend que les ombres des mois d’hiver, quand les nuits sont plus sévères, pour partager un silence avec les secrets qui habitent dans notre conscience. Et ces idées nous gèlent de l’intérieur.
Alors, je crois que mon frère a eu des engelures à partir des querelles frigides entre mes parents.
Comment pourrais-je donner un sens à sa froideur envers moi ?
Un glacier ne pousse que dans des eaux glaciales.
J’espère qu’un jour mes mots peuvent lui faire fondre mais de nos jours, je gèle quand je lui parle.
Et je sais que le changement est lent donc je vais essayer d’être patient mais jusqu’à ce qu’il m’écoute avec du respect, je ne serai pas en mesure de lui parler en anglais.