ecc-poetry

[ecc-poetry]

nuevo coloso / public charge (al modo de emma lazarus y ken cuccinelli)

Mi nombre es madre de exiliades. Levanto la lámpara al lado de la puerta dorada.

Soy el relámpago aprisionado. La mano lo acuna gentilmente, y los ojos ciegos se fijan al mar— porque no se sabe ni el día ni la hora.

Vengan, mis amores: cansades, pobres, y desdichades. Les lavo las pies y beso a sus niñes. Les unjo ustedes con óleo. Pueden suspirar aquí.

Bring me your tried and your pale who can stand on the shoulders of huddled

masses. Bring me a statue hollow of need, something for tourists to climb astride and behold the sea.

How can you say that’s not suffering? Have you counted those stairs? Bring me your chargeless, your unsoiled. Bring me conquering limbs and brazen giants.

-elisa chavez

The Miss Translated poems are a meditation on identity, language, and the things that get lost in translation. If you like my work, you can tip me on Ko-Fi or support me on Patreon.

[ecc-poetry]

SMASH THE MUSEUM, I NEED OXYGEN Elisa Chavez

exhibit 1.  My dad texts:  IS CRIME REALLY UP IN SEATTLE?  I send him a picture of the garden at Cal Anderson's heart. Black Lives Memorial. NO, I say. It felt like proof to me. Diversifying  in the face of scarcity. Transubstantiating the earth into wafers. 

exhibit 2. The oregon grape, qʷəbqʷəbčac  (qweb-qweb-chadth),  mahonia aquifolium, is "beloved by hummingbirds and bees."  I bring coffee to tired throats,  I bring post-it notes and pens; call me pollinator. Black and gold, buzzing corona.  Feathered shoulders. Busy, busy. 

exhibit 3.  Commenting Seattle says, Get rid of that weed patch, then the road mural on Pine. It's eating up the space we need for cars. Spare me your tree museum.  Your noblesse oblige, your death printed in triplicate. This feels like the right time to say  that I personally don't get the Mona Lisa. Kids' art I understand: color anarchy,  eyes wilding like coals in construction paper. Words I understand. I always stop for messages on telephone poles and building corners: "Wanted: the squirrel who stole my bagel"; "when I helped build this place  a worker fell down the elevator shaft and died." The Venus de Milo, I understand: armless, beautiful. Found in a farmer's field, where his habits of sowing and upturning resurrected the goddess from the earth. This is to say that not all beauty will make itself obvious to you.

exhibit 4. I watch my best friend pick blackberries straight from the bush by I-5. She swallows, no fear. I'm too scared to eat without permission, but I've thought of smoke and the tart juice ever since.  I read blackberries grow especially well  on the sites of old house fires.  I hope if I have to, I'll do the same.

exhibit 5. In the garden, we hors d'oeuvre  like it's a birthday party. We sing, we town hall, we fucking juggle. A man falls; like bees, we shift to give him space.  Like bees, the gardeners tend. Someone says, "I have narcan" and they get him back to blooming. Straggling, maybe. Pretty, maybe not. But alive.

exhibit 6. Ms. Lyles, this one's for you. For your children, who I pray will learn the story of a city that did better. Grief is a seed. It waits through winter, sprouts between the ribs like sidewalk cracks and puts reminders in your lungs. It's okay to breathe your grief. It's okay to speak it. Our grief is a story committed to dirt. We just hope something good will grow.

Hey friends, if you're in the Seattle area, please consider lending your voice to saving the Black Lives Memorial Garden! There is so much you can do that would be helpful to preserving this vital space: filling out a community survey, donating, asking local orgs and businesses you frequent to sign the letter of support. And more, probably!

Please share this poem/post/the linked resources with Seattle buddies, and remember to support your local gardeners. Okay I luh you buh-bye!

#seattle #black lives memorial garden #not a poem

[ecc-poetry]

SMASH THE MUSEUM, I NEED OXYGEN Elisa Chavez

exhibit 1.  My dad texts:  IS CRIME REALLY UP IN SEATTLE?  I send him a picture of the garden at Cal Anderson's heart. Black Lives Memorial. NO, I say. It felt like proof to me. Diversifying  in the face of scarcity. Transubstantiating the earth into wafers. 

exhibit 2. The oregon grape, qʷəbqʷəbčac  (qweb-qweb-chadth),  mahonia aquifolium, is "beloved by hummingbirds and bees."  I bring coffee to tired throats,  I bring post-it notes and pens; call me pollinator. Black and gold, buzzing corona.  Feathered shoulders. Busy, busy. 

exhibit 3.  Commenting Seattle says, Get rid of that weed patch, then the road mural on Pine. It's eating up the space we need for cars. Spare me your tree museum.  Your noblesse oblige, your death printed in triplicate. This feels like the right time to say  that I personally don't get the Mona Lisa. Kids' art I understand: color anarchy,  eyes wilding like coals in construction paper. Words I understand. I always stop for messages on telephone poles and building corners: "Wanted: the squirrel who stole my bagel"; "when I helped build this place  a worker fell down the elevator shaft and died." The Venus de Milo, I understand: armless, beautiful. Found in a farmer's field, where his habits of sowing and upturning resurrected the goddess from the earth. This is to say that not all beauty will make itself obvious to you.

exhibit 4. I watch my best friend pick blackberries straight from the bush by I-5. She swallows, no fear. I'm too scared to eat without permission, but I've thought of smoke and the tart juice ever since.  I read blackberries grow especially well  on the sites of old house fires.  I hope if I have to, I'll do the same.

exhibit 5. In the garden, we hors d'oeuvre  like it's a birthday party. We sing, we town hall, we fucking juggle. A man falls; like bees, we shift to give him space.  Like bees, the gardeners tend. Someone says, "I have narcan" and they get him back to blooming. Straggling, maybe. Pretty, maybe not. But alive.

exhibit 6. Ms. Lyles, this one's for you. For your children, who I pray will learn the story of a city that did better. Grief is a seed. It waits through winter, sprouts between the ribs like sidewalk cracks and puts reminders in your lungs. It's okay to breathe your grief. It's okay to speak it. Our grief is a story committed to dirt. We just hope something good will grow.

Hey friends, if you're in the Seattle area, please consider lending your voice to saving the Black Lives Memorial Garden! There is so much you can do that would be helpful to preserving this vital space: filling out a community survey, donating, asking local orgs and businesses you frequent to sign the letter of support. And more, probably!

Please share this poem/post/the linked resources with Seattle buddies, and remember to support your local gardeners. Okay I luh you buh-bye!

#seattle #black lives matter #black lives memorial garden #poetry #signal boost

[ecc-poetry]

WORKING TITLE: GAY QUESTIONS FOR LOBSTER DADDY

Remember when pride was a sin? Order goeth before the fall. Remember when we stole fire from the gods?  Remember when our mothers were like, so bad, and our fathers had their reasons? Remember when Saturn ate six of his children? (Chaos from calories.)

Remember the great nothing of sea and sky? Remember the flood?  Remember when blood ran the clocks, when we tumbled the moon out of heaven and drove thorns through our tongues? Remember the great mother? You remember her: Her tail is split like history. She tributaries, capillaries  to capulet capture: her scattered children drink. She is a healer of maladies–order from chaos. Remember when we lived in the swamp in a chicken-legged house? Remember when Hera wished for a son and whipped her ordered cells to holy parthenogenesis? Remember when the husband laid down  at the feet of his wife? Remember the lamb? Remember when property was a sin? Leave all things you have. Remember what the wolves did under scarcity? Remember when all the witches got together  and they hanged the town fathers? Me neither. Remember when the regiments came? Remember fire? Chaos from orders. Remember when love was a commandment? Remember when my girl taught you  to play vinyl backwards and she reknit Osiris? Remember when the girls were all turning into laurel trees and the boys were all turning into swans? Quadrupling their chromosomes! Remember when the angels came down from heaven and fucked the shit out of us? Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember Gaia? She loved her children the same, the communist. Remember when I gave birth to you? Remember how you told your mother the material world was an illusion and she smacked you with her jewel-encrusted spoon? Remember the queen who was feted  with her own two sons? Chaos from hors d'oeuvres. Remember the lesbians who lived at the bottom of the sea?  Remember when pride was a catalyst? Remember how fire was so thirsty for the moon? Remember when you were wet with miracles? Remember how we cried ourselves whole again? Remember when the girls were wine,  how their laughter fizzed like champagne floats and we drank and drank?  Well–you didn't. Remember when the men stiffened with milk? How we drank and drank! You mistook the trees for the harvest again, orgasm from chaos. Remember when we could always tell what not to do by the little piles of ash? Remember the time before gravity? Every natural law looks like chaos while you're inside of it. Remember how late you got to the vineyard? Remember more things in heaven and earth? All that is seen and unseen? Remember all the things we can't see? Remember when the world was an egg? Remember before it all went wrong? Remember how I stopped apologizing for my body and now my body lives rent-free in your head? Remember when I was made of flowers? Remember when I was made of blood? Wearing Hecate's three faces of maiden, multiplier, swamp. Remember when I went skinny-dipping in an ocean of milk? Remember how you blamed me for something I did in a dream? Remember how physiologically, you're bigger than me with more upper body strength, and how spiritually I don't care? Remember when I hid my heart in a knotted oak so I couldn't be killed? Remember how I danced the night after  my wedding was spoiled: Drowned and dragging seaweed, order from choreography. Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember when flesh was a prison? Life sentence. Remember the lady in a cage? Remember how we really lost Eden? Remember how evil is not just good backwards? Remember when the mask of your face sloughed off and all that was left was a hole no man could fill? Remember that this poem is a biography? Remember when love was a commandment? Do you remember when pride was a sin?

-elisa chavez

#jordan peterson #poetry #HAPPY PRIDE #have a hingeless ??? #cw: gore #spot the mythology reference #reblogged now that i have learned how to add a read more cut which i can for some reason only do on mobile #I have never been more 1000 years old

[ecc-poetry]

WORKING TITLE: GAY QUESTIONS FOR LOBSTER DADDY

Remember when pride was a sin? Order goeth before the fall. Remember when we stole fire from the gods?  Remember when our mothers were like, so bad, and our fathers had their reasons? Remember when Saturn ate six of his children? (Chaos from calories.)

Remember the great nothing of sea and sky? Remember the flood?  Remember when blood ran the clocks, when we tumbled the moon out of heaven and drove thorns through our tongues? Remember the great mother? You remember her: Her tail is split like history. She tributaries, capillaries  to capulet capture: her scattered children drink. She is a healer of maladies–order from chaos. Remember when we lived in the swamp in a chicken-legged house? Remember when Hera wished for a son and whipped her ordered cells to holy parthenogenesis? Remember when the husband laid down  at the feet of his wife? Remember the lamb? Remember when property was a sin? Leave all things you have. Remember what the wolves did under scarcity? Remember when all the witches got together  and they hanged the town fathers? Me neither. Remember when the regiments came? Remember fire? Chaos from orders. Remember when love was a commandment? Remember when my girl taught you  to play vinyl backwards and she reknit Osiris? Remember when the girls were all turning into laurel trees and the boys were all turning into swans? Quadrupling their chromosomes! Remember when the angels came down from heaven and fucked the shit out of us? Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember Gaia? She loved her children the same, the communist. Remember when I gave birth to you? Remember how you told your mother the material world was an illusion and she smacked you with her jewel-encrusted spoon? Remember the queen who was feted  with her own two sons? Chaos from hors d'oeuvres. Remember the lesbians who lived at the bottom of the sea?  Remember when pride was a catalyst? Remember how fire was so thirsty for the moon? Remember when you were wet with miracles? Remember how we cried ourselves whole again? Remember when the girls were wine,  how their laughter fizzed like champagne floats and we drank and drank?  Well–you didn't. Remember when the men stiffened with milk? How we drank and drank! You mistook the trees for the harvest again, orgasm from chaos. Remember when we could always tell what not to do by the little piles of ash? Remember the time before gravity? Every natural law looks like chaos while you're inside of it. Remember how late you got to the vineyard? Remember more things in heaven and earth? All that is seen and unseen? Remember all the things we can't see? Remember when the world was an egg? Remember before it all went wrong? Remember how I stopped apologizing for my body and now my body lives rent-free in your head? Remember when I was made of flowers? Remember when I was made of blood? Wearing Hecate's three faces of maiden, multiplier, swamp. Remember when I went skinny-dipping in an ocean of milk? Remember how you blamed me for something I did in a dream? Remember how physiologically, you're bigger than me with more upper body strength, and how spiritually I don't care? Remember when I hid my heart in a knotted oak so I couldn't be killed? Remember how I danced the night after  my wedding was spoiled: Drowned and dragging seaweed, order from choreography. Remember how this poem is not a biography? Remember when flesh was a prison? Life sentence. Remember the lady in a cage? Remember how we really lost Eden? Remember how evil is not just good backwards? Remember when the mask of your face sloughed off and all that was left was a hole no man could fill? Remember that this poem is a biography? Remember when love was a commandment? Do you remember when pride was a sin?

-elisa chavez

#poetry #jordan peterson #HAPPY PRIDE #have a hingeless ??? #cw: gore #spot the mythology reference

[ecc-poetry]

GOD THIS IS AN INCREDIBLE TRANSLATION

with such fascinating and lovely notes!!!!

I hope you all will take some time and look over this reader translation, because @an-bettik gives a walkthrough of their process that is incredibly interesting and just. terrific. I've said it before, but I never cease to be honored and amazed by how many of you out on the internet have put so much work and heart into engaging with my work.

re: 4--idk i like the implications of "crowning" vs "coronation." it is very, very much in the spirit of this project to add layers of meaning where possible.

general note--I am still working on my own spanish, so where articles, prepositions, and verb tenses look clunky, honestly it's probably my fault.

i love you al very much.

la bandera / américa elisa chavez

¿Sabes qué?

En Barcelona, hay catedral inconclusa. Hace más que un siglo, pálidos cuerpos de santos y agujas sin resolución se han formado como coral.

¿Cuántos manos la tocaron? ¿Cuánto tenemos que esperar para el coronamiento? Perdemos la paciencia. Muchas personas nos han hecho promesas y cada incompleta nos merma.

Sin embargo, todo el mundo la visita. Quizás la gente cree en la promesa de su mármol. Quizás mitad-maravilla es mejor que nada. Cuando te vengo, sagrada, traigo ladrillo.

Don’t you know?

This country is like returning to my childhood home and finding bodies in the drywall. Like learning I’ve been bred on bone-dust

and martyr marrow. Not my parents’ strong hands. Not my spine. This country’s concrete lullaby makes my mind a petri dish: replicate and replicate. It makes a coroner of me.

The sins I’ve eaten embarrass me, this genteel cannibal feast. How could I not know whose marbled meat? America, you cauldron. You sacred vein. You tourniquet.

#miss translated #reader translation #reader commentary #poetry in translation

[ecc-poetry]

Sometimes you remember a poem exists that perfectly encapsulates your feelings about changes your white boss asked you to make to a WOC's direct quotes and it's like

#like totally whatever #not my poem #melissa lozada oliva #Youtube

[ecc-poetry]

ask and ye shall receive

social justice monk

Her hours are rare and precious. When she wakes, and the headache ebbs, she types: public comment to cheer the housing bill, petition, public comment. Email to city council, Zoom call with the union. Her flurry of keystrokes can't be stopped until she stops it.

BALANCE THE PARTY

social justice barbarian Never met a nazi they wouldn't punch. Never met a cop they wouldn't call a nazi. Treats the soft animal of their body like a lance to the heart of a tyrant. Their anger is a gift from God– it transubstantiates.

social justice necromancer Reads her history. Says their names. Goes through cemeteries leaving flowers, grave-borrowing tactics. Coaxes the spirits from their beds to let them dance; we realize we have always been beautiful.

social justice rogue Unplucks the landlord's tapestries at night. She covers her face, she code-names, wipes the prints from her hand after shaking. She's a lot. A blade in the dark that daylight can't soften. She hums a mantra called mission; it's all the warning you'll get.

social justice bard Makes his sincerity a lute and plucks fingers raw upon it. Has brass knuckles on the inside of his throat. Knows what to say to soothe the scared guy sleeping rough, to make the officer laugh instead of shove.

social justice druid Gives you grace and space to grow. Makes a weird balm to calm your hurts. Turns into a panther once a day dispensing courage; turns into a dove once a day dispensing peace. Serves the world from the half-empty vessel in their heart.

social justice warlock Sold her soul to do DEI for a Fortune 500 company. Walks each day through thicketed razors, carving footholds in a hill of glass. The job takes its pint of blood so slowly, it is possible to believe she doesn't feel it.

social justice paladin Always knows the words. Is afraid of what will happen if they forget them. It's not an excuse, but it is sandpaper, truths nailed into the shoebeds. They're implacable from the outside. They can't believe I would love them without their fury.

social justice cleric The people tell her, "Your mouth ruined our movement. You suffer in silence all the time–what's one more?" She believes in a love whose demands cut friends and enemies alike. She cleanses, sad surgeon. She is martyred twice. From the ground where her tears fall, a perfect flower grows.

social justice warforged Has a fuckin' truck!!! He rolls up to mutual aid and the people rejoice at his truck. He is become a mover of things, a Christ-bearer: mattresses and gasoline, the girl who needs a ride across the state. She says bless you, bless your truck, and his heart swells. He never knew he could be so needed.

social justice giant crab Strength +1. Intelligence -5. She is a crab. She has 13 hit points and claws for hands– but she can breathe water and air. She knows what the surface looks like from underneath. She carries wisdom in her crab body that the arc of the universe will always bend to rediscover. Don't you get it? That we all have gifts to give?

-elisa chavez

#NO ONE SAW ME MESS UP POSTING

[ecc-poetry]

That's so cool!!! I feel like of these, social justice druid was the one I saw the least of within myself/my friends/my family, so I'm pleased it was specific enough that someone else could see themselves in it.

BALANCE THE PARTY

social justice barbarian Never met a nazi they wouldn't punch. Never met a cop they wouldn't call a nazi. Treats the soft animal of their body like a lance to the heart of a tyrant. Their anger is a gift from God– it transubstantiates.

social justice necromancer Reads her history. Says their names. Goes through cemeteries leaving flowers, grave-borrowing tactics. Coaxes the spirits from their beds to let them dance; we realize we have always been beautiful.

social justice rogue Unplucks the landlord's tapestries at night. She covers her face, she code-names, wipes the prints from her hand after shaking. She's a lot. A blade in the dark that daylight can't soften. She hums a mantra called mission; it's all the warning you'll get.

social justice bard Makes his sincerity a lute and plucks fingers raw upon it. Has brass knuckles on the inside of his throat. Knows what to say to soothe the scared guy sleeping rough, to make the officer laugh instead of shove.

social justice druid Gives you grace and space to grow. Makes a weird balm to calm your hurts. Turns into a panther once a day dispensing courage; turns into a dove once a day dispensing peace. Serves the world from the half-empty vessel in their heart.

social justice warlock Sold her soul to do DEI for a Fortune 500 company. Walks each day through thicketed razors, carving footholds in a hill of glass. The job takes its pint of blood so slowly, it is possible to believe she doesn't feel it.

social justice paladin Always knows the words. Is afraid of what will happen if they forget them. It's not an excuse, but it is sandpaper, truths nailed into the shoebeds. They're implacable from the outside. They can't believe I would love them without their fury.

social justice cleric The people tell her, "Your mouth ruined our movement. You suffer in silence all the time–what's one more?" She believes in a love whose demands cut friends and enemies alike. She cleanses, sad surgeon. She is martyred twice. From the ground where her tears fall, a perfect flower grows.

social justice warforged Has a fuckin' truck!!! He rolls up to mutual aid and the people rejoice at his truck. He is become a mover of things, a Christ-bearer: mattresses and gasoline, the girl who needs a ride across the state. She says bless you, bless your truck, and his heart swells. He never knew he could be so needed.

social justice giant crab Strength +1. Intelligence -5. She is a crab. She has 13 hit points and claws for hands– but she can breathe water and air. She knows what the surface looks like from underneath. She carries wisdom in her crab body that the arc of the universe will always bend to rediscover. Don't you get it? That we all have gifts to give?

-elisa chavez

[ecc-poetry]

I haven't listened to any of The Witch Trials of JK Rowling and don't plan to, but I've been following some of the news/video essays related to it because I try to keep tabs on the transphobes.

This essay is just heartbreaking. The author writes:

A 17-year-old should not have to carry the weight of Abigail Shrier’s Irreversible Damage, a book he references by name, on his shoulders.

And it's true. No 17-year-old should be in this position (and not just because Irreversible Damage is a vicious rant of a book that insults, in rough order, the humanity of transmasculine people, transfeminine people, asexuals, lesbians, Black and brown people, women, teenagers, people with eating disorders, psychologists, and teachers' unions). It's a failure and a shame on us that young people have to fight this hard for their most fundamental rights.

I'm trying to do my part to bring about a world where all teenagers will be able to focus exclusively on school, interpersonal drama, and passionate arguments about which fictional characters should or should not kiss. We're very far from there right now. But thank you, Noah. And I'm so sorry.

(While I'm here, I also have to recommend Caelan Conrad's video "The ALLEGED Witch Trials of JK Rowling." Caelan is great. Check out their series going undercover in gender critical FB groups.)

#not a poem #the witch trials of jk rowling #terfs #evan urquhart #caelan conrad #transphobia #featuring a detour into how much i fucking hate abigail shrier

[ecc-poetry]

BALANCE THE PARTY

social justice barbarian Never met a nazi they wouldn't punch. Never met a cop they wouldn't call a nazi. Treats the soft animal of their body like a lance to the heart of a tyrant. Their anger is a gift from God– it transubstantiates.

social justice necromancer Reads her history. Says their names. Goes through cemeteries leaving flowers, grave-borrowing tactics. Coaxes the spirits from their beds to let them dance; we realize we have always been beautiful.

social justice rogue Unplucks the landlord's tapestries at night. She covers her face, she code-names, wipes the prints from her hand after shaking. She's a lot. A blade in the dark that daylight can't soften. She hums a mantra called mission; it's all the warning you'll get.

social justice bard Makes his sincerity a lute and plucks fingers raw upon it. Has brass knuckles on the inside of his throat. Knows what to say to soothe the scared guy sleeping rough, to make the officer laugh instead of shove.

social justice druid Gives you grace and space to grow. Makes a weird balm to calm your hurts. Turns into a panther once a day dispensing courage; turns into a dove once a day dispensing peace. Serves the world from the half-empty vessel in their heart.

social justice warlock Sold her soul to do DEI for a Fortune 500 company. Walks each day through thicketed razors, carving footholds in a hill of glass. The job takes its pint of blood so slowly, it is possible to believe she doesn't feel it.

social justice paladin Always knows the words. Is afraid of what will happen if they forget them. It's not an excuse, but it is sandpaper, truths nailed into the shoebeds. They're implacable from the outside. They can't believe I would love them without their fury.

social justice cleric The people tell her, "Your mouth ruined our movement. You suffer in silence all the time–what's one more?" She believes in a love whose demands cut friends and enemies alike. She cleanses, sad surgeon. She is martyred twice. From the ground where her tears fall, a perfect flower grows.

social justice warforged Has a fuckin' truck!!! He rolls up to mutual aid and the people rejoice at his truck. He is become a mover of things, a Christ-bearer: mattresses and gasoline, the girl who needs a ride across the state. She says bless you, bless your truck, and his heart swells. He never knew he could be so needed.

social justice giant crab Strength +1. Intelligence -5. She is a crab. She has 13 hit points and claws for hands– but she can breathe water and air. She knows what the surface looks like from underneath. She carries wisdom in her crab body that the arc of the universe will always bend to rediscover. Don't you get it? That we all have gifts to give?

-elisa chavez

#poetry #d&d #dungeons and dragons #reblogging myself like a woman with confidence

[ecc-poetry]

BALANCE THE PARTY

social justice barbarian Never met a nazi they wouldn't punch. Never met a cop they wouldn't call a nazi. Treats the soft animal of their body like a lance to the heart of a tyrant. Their anger is a gift from God– it transubstantiates.

social justice necromancer Reads her history. Says their names. Goes through cemeteries leaving flowers, grave-borrowing tactics. Coaxes the spirits from their beds to let them dance; we realize we have always been beautiful.

social justice rogue Unplucks the landlord's tapestries at night. She covers her face, she code-names, wipes the prints from her hand after shaking. She's a lot. A blade in the dark that daylight can't soften. She hums a mantra called mission; it's all the warning you'll get.

social justice bard Makes his sincerity a lute and plucks fingers raw upon it. Has brass knuckles on the inside of his throat. Knows what to say to soothe the scared guy sleeping rough, to make the officer laugh instead of shove.

social justice druid Gives you grace and space to grow. Makes a weird balm to calm your hurts. Turns into a panther once a day dispensing courage; turns into a dove once a day dispensing peace. Serves the world from the half-empty vessel in their heart.

social justice warlock Sold her soul to do DEI for a Fortune 500 company. Walks each day through thicketed razors, carving footholds in a hill of glass. The job takes its pint of blood so slowly, it is possible to believe she doesn't feel it.

social justice paladin Always knows the words. Is afraid of what will happen if they forget them. It's not an excuse, but it is sandpaper, truths nailed into the shoebeds. They're implacable from the outside. They can't believe I would love them without their fury.

social justice cleric The people tell her, "Your mouth ruined our movement. You suffer in silence all the time–what's one more?" She believes in a love whose demands cut friends and enemies alike. She cleanses, sad surgeon. She is martyred twice. From the ground where her tears fall, a perfect flower grows.

social justice warforged Has a fuckin' truck!!! He rolls up to mutual aid and the people rejoice at his truck. He is become a mover of things, a Christ-bearer: mattresses and gasoline, the girl who needs a ride across the state. She says bless you, bless your truck, and his heart swells. He never knew he could be so needed.

social justice giant crab Strength +1. Intelligence -5. She is a crab. She has 13 hit points and claws for hands– but she can breathe water and air. She knows what the surface looks like from underneath. She carries wisdom in her crab body that the arc of the universe will always bend to rediscover. Don't you get it? That we all have gifts to give?

-elisa chavez

#poetry #d&d #i could not wait to share this one with all you nerds #activism #tag yourself im social justice necromancer #you are all so necessary #even when it doesn't feel like it #and you can't see it #a friend told me years ago “not every part of a movement has to be embodied by every person in it” and it was really good advice #social justice giant crab

[ecc-poetry]

TERF WARS

I wrote JK Rowling a letter when I was a little girl, asking to play Hermione in the Harry Potter movie. The nerdy witch. Justice-monger. Shame and self-doubt had started to snake their way through me, but weren't yet my veins. It was safe then to beg boons of St. Joanne. Mother Christmas. "Miracle" wasn't a slur–hadn't she taught us to be plucked from obscurity? Hadn't she made magic real?

Unplucked, I hit high school, where despite owls and broomsticks, the reality was that I wasn't the right kind of girl: Awkward. Too smart. Too angry. My body clung to me like a slur, meanwhile Joanne SPEWed her punchlines: A witch who believes in sharing power?! I had no power. I only felt safe while shrinking. I shed baby fat like the skin of a snake,

and couldn't think who taught me the trick. My mind writhed like a snake. Hermione got a makeover to ready her for love, her worth made real. Joanne said: at my age, she could've been conned to seek a safety only gettable in the body of a boy. Not me. I was indelible. I'd die of girl before I stopped being one, like the girls who were told which they were and rebelled. Like the boys Joanne slurs

as lost girls. Joanne's three-quarter prose drowned Hermione in a slurry of girlboss: memory-muddler. Perfect prime minister. A snake licked my ears since 11, and now in the base of my brainstem, a witch peddles poisons. Joanne says the things in your head aren't real just because you know them. She says struggling. That girls are at risk of erasure, because it's un-safe–

and worse, unpopular–to be one. St. Joanne wants a safe world for women, so she causes with people who think I'm a slur. She says, "The system, surgery, easy fix, poor girls who do not conform." She parcels her tongue, snakelike, each poison pill small and swallowable. She knows 'real' lies between my legs. She thinks she is only burning witches;

but her cruelties sear me too. Don't you get it? Hurt one witch and her sisters scream. Joanne says protect, but I've never felt safe in her sanctum. I keep smelling flames. I run to my real coven, my story-slurred sisters. Joanne says that bigot's a slur, but to her it's a badge. It admits her to the parliament of snakes. All in the name of protecting 'real' girls–

Well, spare me your cherishing. My witch-womb rejects you. I pronounce your sanctimony slurred,

your safe, a stake to the heart. You think we're the same, but Joanne: I don't caucus with snakes. You made magic

once, but what you call love isn't real. It's a nuclear bomb, shedding ash through the years onto all us wicked girls.

-Elisa Chavez

(Notes and recs)

#sestina #reblog for the tomorrow crowd #ONE DAY LEFT TO BUY TRANS WITCHES ARE WITCHES ON ITCHIO #see the notes and recs for direct links #I also edited the notes to thank the person who edited this piece with/for me #jk rowling #harry potter

[ecc-poetry]

TERF WARS

I wrote JK Rowling a letter when I was a little girl, asking to play Hermione in the Harry Potter movie. The nerdy witch. Justice-monger. Shame and self-doubt had started to snake their way through me, but weren't yet my veins. It was safe then to beg boons of St. Joanne. Mother Christmas. "Miracle" wasn't a slur–hadn't she taught us to be plucked from obscurity? Hadn't she made magic real?

Unplucked, I hit high school, where despite owls and broomsticks, the reality was that I wasn't the right kind of girl: Awkward. Too smart. Too angry. My body clung to me like a slur, meanwhile Joanne SPEWed her punchlines: A witch who believes in sharing power?! I had no power. I only felt safe while shrinking. I shed baby fat like the skin of a snake,

and couldn't think who taught me the trick. My mind writhed like a snake. Hermione got a makeover to ready her for love, her worth made real. Joanne said: at my age, she could've been conned to seek a safety only gettable in the body of a boy. Not me. I was indelible. I'd die of girl before I stopped being one, like the girls who were told which they were and rebelled. Like the boys Joanne slurs

as lost girls. Joanne's three-quarter prose drowned Hermione in a slurry of girlboss: memory-muddler. Perfect prime minister. A snake licked my ears since 11, and now in the base of my brainstem, a witch peddles poisons. Joanne says the things in your head aren't real just because you know them. She says struggling. That girls are at risk of erasure, because it's un-safe–

and worse, unpopular–to be one. St. Joanne wants a safe world for women, so she causes with people who think I'm a slur. She says, "The system, surgery, easy fix, poor girls who do not conform." She parcels her tongue, snakelike, each poison pill small and swallowable. She knows 'real' lies between my legs. She thinks she is only burning witches;

but her cruelties sear me too. Don't you get it? Hurt one witch and her sisters scream. Joanne says protect, but I've never felt safe in her sanctum. I keep smelling flames. I run to my real coven, my story-slurred sisters. Joanne says that bigot's a slur, but to her it's a badge. It admits her to the parliament of snakes. All in the name of protecting 'real' girls–

Well, spare me your cherishing. My witch-womb rejects you. I pronounce your sanctimony slurred,

your safe, a stake to the heart. You think we're the same, but Joanne: I don't caucus with snakes. You made magic

once, but what you call love isn't real. It's a nuclear bomb, shedding ash through the years onto all us wicked girls.

-Elisa Chavez

(Notes and recs)

#transphobia #jk rowling #trans liberation now #trans rights are human rights #sestina #line breaks are a social construct #eating disorder #cis solidarity

[ecc-poetry]

"TERF Wars" notes and recs

Before you read the sestina, if you indeed do, I urge you to check out these creative efforts from fellow LGBTQ+ zillennials:

"I'm Done with JK Rowling" Jessie Gender (The biggest direct inspiration for this piece. It's 3.5 hours long, so if you love long Youtube videos like I do, you're welcome.)

Trans Witches Are Witches (Get this bundle of LGBTQ+ games, zines, music, and other creative goodies! It's 80% off until 02/24/23.)

"A Brief Look at Harry Potter" Lily Simpson (Yes, my favorite Harry Potter/JKR retrospectives from trans creators get even longer. This one is 10 hours, I've watched it twice, if you start now you can be done by the weekend.)

Harry Potter Rebind Laur Flom (Separating the art from the artist by rebinding the Harry Potter books without JKR.)

And then some navel-gazing from me under the cut.

As a member of the Harry Potter generation, I've been thinking about my relationship with JK Rowling and her work. I never actually finished the Harry Potter books, and while I remember participating in fannish activities (midnight screenings and book release parties, fanfic-reading and -writing, a letter to JK Rowling that I don't think I ever actually mailed), Harry Potter as a world never became one of the ones that really grabbed me and shaped me. In hindsight, I'm still not sure why. It didn't offer me what I think I wanted then, which was a deep understanding and empathy for my internal state.

Speaking of understanding and empathy.

Many trans creatives, from video essayists to writers to visual artists, have spoken movingly and with moral urgency about JKR's transphobia and the threat it poses. But they shouldn't have to do all the work. Transphobia is an attack on all women--and all people--because bigotry is intersectional. I wanted to write something that would come from my own experience as a queer cisgender woman and repudiate the idea that transphobic rhetoric serves me in any way. To whit: There is no conflict between the rights of women and the rights of trans people (they're overlapping categories). There is no trans debate--a human person, with dignity and feelings and inalienable rights, is not to be "debated."

I hope that this poem serves as one more pebble of resistance against the forces that seek to undermine our rights. Trans liberation now. <3

P.S. I owe big thanks to my bestie Anthea Carns, author of the musical "The Devil and Sarah Blackwater" as well as other stuff that is good! Without her this sestina would have been (even more) tortured and (even less) focused.

Also, a big thank-you to my family. We watched all 7 Harry Potter films over the winter holidays, and seeing my parents raise many of the critiques I've seen over the years, in real time, was fascinating. When Hedwig died, my mother turned to us and said, "This is cruel. You don't do that to children." And that really stuck with me.

#transphobia #jk rowling #not a poem #but about a poem #this is my best friend valentina she's an ally

[ecc-poetry]

Ode to the Trump trucks on I-35 outside Austin, TX

Let me tell you about the place I come from: the blood sun, the fish fry on the skin. We grow up swallowing crickets, letting them pop in our throats so we know how it feels to have our hearts live there. The crickets are prophecies: Water won’t be there when you need it. Texas was blue once. Eagle beats snake. We grow up playing princess,  counting bluebonnets on road trips, counting stars. My uncle says we were Aztecs once. I believe I am an inheritor of things.

In the place I come from, a little girl dies playing soccer. Asthma. Her mother dreaded the hospital’s jaws, saw its fangs poised to dial INS. Now she’s a vigil at Spanish mass. From my fancy high school, I watch lightning ripple over the soccer field. The chapel and vast acres sink into my bones  and make me strong. The air crickets: something’s gonna happen.

I happen. It’s 2006 and I’m knocking on doors, making calls, hoping voraciously. Will Texas turn blue this year? No. 2008? No. 2012 …? Bad maps, mad dogs, nothing stops us. On election day, I am 17 and poll-watching with a Republican man old enough to be my father. He tells me he should have the right to shoot an intruder, and I laugh. I haven’t yet learned that my laugh  makes men angry. I haven’t yet heard that across the state, a legislator we know just got punched in the face by his opponent. 

In the place I come from, it’s 2008  and we’re running another race we know we can’t win. It’s 2013 and Wendy Davis gives ‘em hell. It’s 2018, and Beto’s so close I taste crickets. I taste prophecy. I hoard water, turning my spikes to the outside and fruit upon my friends. It’s 2020 in the place I come from, and today–tomorrow–ten years from now– whether quickly or on wheels of blood– the eagle beats the snake.

-elisa chavez

#thinking about this today

[ecc-poetry]

In “poems I wish I had written,” this incredible and monstrous entry by Kyle Tran Myhre.

Go vote! Make the fascists bleed (metaphorically) for every inch. Show ‘em who you are, babies.

And read the poem!

#poetry #vote #kyle tran myhre #guante