Leila Mottley was regularly writing and performing poetry even before she published her novel Nightcrawling at only nineteen, in 2022; today we get an advance peek into her forthcoming first collection, woke up no light. Divided into hoods—sections on Girlhood, Neighborhood, Falsehood, and Womanhood—the poems instruct us, as here, in the art of noticing, speaking boldly, and feeling deeply.
what to do when you see a Black woman cry
stop. hum a little / just for some sound / just for a way to fill us up
it is streetlamp time / all moon-cheeked black girls are
mourning / a wailing kind of undoing
don’t mistake this as a tragedy / it is sacred
don’t mistake this as a glorious pain / we hurt.
don’t tell me it will be alright.
make me a gourmet meal and don’t expect me
to do the dishes after
don’t try to hug me without asking first
if i slept last night / if i need some
jasmine tea / and a bath in a tub
deep enough to fit my grief
and if i say i want a hug
don’t touch my hair while you do it / don’t twist
my braids around your fingers
or tell me my fro is matted in the back
from banging my head
on the wall of so many askings
you think we are sobbing for the men,
but we are praying for the men / their favorite
sweat-soaked t-shirts
we are screeching for our thighs
for our throats / and our teeth-chipping / for the terror
and the ceremony / and the unending always
of this sky
so if i let you see a tear drip / if i let you see my teeth chatter
know you are witnessing a miracle
know you are not entitled to my face crack / head shake / sob
but i do not cry in front of just anyone
so stop. hum a little / just for some sound / just to fill me up
More on this book and author:
Learn more about woke up no light by Leila Mottley.
Browse other books by Leila Mottley and follow her on Instagram @leilamottley.
Click here to read Leila Mottley's curated list of recommended books about the San Francisco Bay Area.
Leila Mottley will be in Brooklyn for a Poetry Night reading and conversation with Tatiana Johnson-Boria at Books Are Magic (Montague Street location) on April 24, 2024 at 7:00 PM. The event will also be livestreamed for free on Youtube.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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#FRIDAY READS: HOW TO WRITE A POEM
When was the last time you wrote a poem? Elementary school? Yesterday? As Natalie Goldberg puts it in her classic book Writing Down the Bones, “poems are small moments of enlightenment.” There’s a poet in each of us and turning experience and feelings into poetry can be cathartic and fun. Inspiration is everywhere – the subway, the sea, the past, the present… Here are some books to help you cross that bridge and fling open those doors of perception: Metaphors be with you!
FEATURED TITLES
YOU, TOO, COULD WRITE A POEM by David Orr
A collection of reviews and essays by David Orr, the New York Times poetry columnist and one of the most respected critics in America today, his best work of the past fifteen years in one place. Orr’s prose is devoted to common sense and clarity, and, in every case, he brings to bear an impeccable ear, a genial openhandedness of spirit, and a deep wealth of technical knowledge—to say nothing of his shrewd sense of humor. Orr’s journalism represents a high watermark in the public discussion of literature, and is as pleasurable as it is informative. You, Too, Could Write a Poem is at heart a love note to poetry itself.
THE ODE LESS TRAVELLED: UNLOCKING THE POET WITHIN by Stephen Fry
Comedian and actor Stephen Fry’s witty and practical guide gives the aspiring poet or student the tools and confidence to write and understand poetry. He believes that if one can speak and read English, one can write poetry. In The Ode Less Travelled, he invites readers to discover the delights of writing poetry for pleasure and provides the tools and confidence to get started.
LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET by Rainer Maria Rilke
At the start of the twentieth century, Rainer Maria Rilke wrote a series of letters to a young officer cadet, advising him on writing, love, sex, suffering, and the nature of advice itself. These profound and lyrical letters have since become hugely influential for generations of writers and artists of all kinds, including Lady Gaga and Patti Smith.
WRITING DOWN THE BONES: FREEING THE WRITER WITHIN by Natalie Goldberg, Julia Cameron
With insight, humor, and practicality, Natalie Goldberg inspires writers and would-be writers to take the leap into writing skillfully and creatively. She sees writing as a practice that helps writers comprehend the value of their lives. The advice in her book, provided in short, easy-to-read chapters with titles that reflect the author’s witty approach (“Writing Is Not a McDonald’s Hamburger,” “Man Eats Car,” “Be an Animal”), will inspire anyone who writes—or who longs to.
FOR YOUNGER WRITERS
A KICK IN THE HEAD: AN EVERYDAY GUIDE TO POETIC FORMS by Paul B. Janeczko, Chris Raschka
In this splendid and playful volume — second of a trilogy — an acclaimed creative team presents examples of twenty-nine poetic forms, demonstrating not only the (sometimes bendable) rules of poetry, but also the spirit that brings these forms to life.
SLEEPING ON THE WING: AN ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN POETRY WITH ESSAYS ON READING AND WRITING by Kenneth Koch, Kate Farrell
This book is specifically for high school students, though it is useful to college students and anyone interested in the art and craft of poetry. Koch and Farrell, experienced teachers as well as poets, write about poetry in such a way that students will find it accessible and interesting.
Visit Signature to download The Writer’s Guide to Poetry
Sign-up for Knopf’s Poem-a-Day
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Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.
. .
The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.
Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.
On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repetitions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.
On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”
Sad James made his eyes get big.
“I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that somehow their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.
Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”
Cyrus laughed.
“I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”
Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.
“You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”
Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.
“Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”
The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.
In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.
“So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic martyr field guide?” asked Zee.
“I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accommodate her. That’s what I’m after.”
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.
Browse Kaveh Akbar's poetry collections and follow Kaveh on Instagram @kavehakbar.kavehakbar.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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A poem of girlhood and after by Indigenous New Zealander Tayi Tibble, whose second collection, Rangikura, comes out in America today. In the dictionary of Māori language, hōmiromiro is defined as “a white-breasted North Island tomtit…a little black-and-white bird with a large head and short tail.” It is often used to refer to someone with a tomtit’s keen vision—that is, a sharp eye for detail.
Hōmiromiro
I used to dream
about a two-headed goldfish.
I took it for an omen.
I smashed a milk bottle open
on a boiling road and watched
a three-legged dog lick it up
and in the process I became
not myself but a single shard
of glass and thought finally
I had starved myself skinny enough
to slip into the splits of the universe
but once I did I realised that the universe
was no place for a young thing to be
and there is always a lot more starving to be had.
When I was a girl I thought
I was Daisy Buchanan.
I read on the train.
I made voluminous eyes.
Once I walked in front of a bus and it exploded
into a million monarch butterflies
then I was ecstatic!
As a girl, I could only fathom
time as rose petals falling
down my oesophagus.
It tickled and it frightened me.
I ran around choking for attention.
I had projections of myself
at 100
my neck weathered and adorned
like the boards of a home
being eaten by the earth.
When I was a girl I would lie
on the side of that road
in the last lick of sun and wait
for the rabbits to come saluting
the sky of orange dust
and then I would shoot them into outer space.
For many years I watched them
bouncing on the moon.
But then I stopped caring and so
I stopped looking.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Rangikura by Tayi Tibble.
Browse other books by Tayi Tibble and follow her on Instagram @paniaofthekeef.
Hear Tayi Tibble and Harryette Mullen read from their new poetry collections at Beyond Baroque in Los Angeles, CA on April 10 at 8:00 PM. Tayi Tibble will be joined by Sasha LaPointe in Washington for a series of readings and conversations at Elliot Bay Book Company in Seattle on April 13 at 7:00 PM, at King's Books in Tacoma on April 14 at 1:00 PM, at Bainbridge Island Museum of Art in Bainbridge on April 15 at 7:00 PM, and at Third Place Books in Seattle, Lake Forest Park, on April 16 at 7:00 PM. Tayi and Sasha will also be at Broadway Books in Portland, OR, on April 17 at 6:00 PM. Tayi will be at the LA Times Book Festival signing books at the ALTA booth (Booth 111) on April 20 at 11:00 AM.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
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Welcome to poetry month! In a time of wars and painful divisions both at home and abroad, we hope in the next thirty days to offer what poetry can: the signal voice of the individual in darkness, the value inherent in truthful seeing, the connection to hearts and minds different from our own. We’ll begin with a powerful connector: Kevin Young, whose volume Stones comes out in paperback this week. Here he reflects on “kith and kin”; throughout the month, we’ll revisit the work of some of our Knopf ancestor kin and celebrate their wisdom alongside the vital contemporary voices.
Kith
All week I have wondered
what kith
meant—
always paired
with kin, can it be
the same thing?
Kin seems like
like, like kind,
as in our kind,
us—kindness,
we hope,
or something to like.
Kith is more
helpless, married
as it is to kin—
Kith is what you find
in the cemetery, names
effaced from their graves,
names you may not
know, but share,
or share though don’t yet know.
Kith is not
yesterday—
that’s ancestry—nor
is it today—kin
keeps that close—
no, kith
is tomorrow
& who knows?
Is outliving
the dead, but means
the dead too, resting
here on the sill
among the blue
bottles—both the flies
& the glass
that once held what?
Kith
is that. The pair
of shoes that still
keep the wearer’s shape
after removed—
whether moments ago, dog-tired,
or years later,
still standing—
though nobody asked
them to—long beyond
when the wearer’s gone.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Stones by Kevin Young.
Browse other books by Kevin Young and follow him on Instagram @thehungryear.
Join Kevin Young in Cambridge, MA, at the opening of the ARTS FIRST festival, on April 24 at 5pm, when he will receive the 2024 Harvard Arts Medal. The festival (April 24-28, 2024), showcases the creativity of the Harvard arts community through performances, art exhibitions, and art-making activities.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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Nam Le, celebrated author of The Boat, makes his poetic debut with a collection titled, 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem. Reading these pieces, which expose the harm, humor, and difficulty of language itself for a Vietnamese refugee living in the West, we come across far more than thirty-six ways of understanding Le’s diasporic experience. Number 17, offered here, centers the kitchen as a place of generational knowledge and boundary-crossing.
[17. Culinary]
(OFFERTORY)
I put a little...
see if you can guess
sweet or bitter—
how know one without the other?
longan, mangosteen sapodilla
star anise & lotus seed
something from the karstic north
but with Western tang
passed on from my mother
and her mother and hers...
blood ligament of kitchen labour
wisdom all compressed
into this blank deep-strata rock.
Yes, the geode pulses
with secret inward gleams
but it stays silent.
Until now! Until me!
My tongue rings all!
I am loud with every flavour, every humour,
equally of north, south, east, west
and as she made me
I will make you, mother.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem and The Boat by Nam Le.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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In the prologue to Spectral Evidence, Pulitzer winner Gregory Pardlo’s new collection, he writes, “This book is about the legal means by which fear is used to rationalize the persecution of people imagined to be in league with the possessed of supernatural forces. This book argues that the logic used to rationalize the prosecution of witches is the same logic that rationalizes vigilantism and police street justice.” He goes on to consider that both Black men and white women are “similarly pressed into service as both muse and monster in the Western cultural imagination,” while, at their ghostly intersection, the patriarchy is haunted by “the omnipresent but rarely named” Black woman.
One iconic example, brought forth in these shimmering poems of the self as shaped by (and shaping) American history, is Tituba, the only woman of color to be accused in the Salem witch trials.
Occult
Zero your scales to the burden of a lash, Dear
Justice, but let Tituba clumsy the Magistrates’
minds with a wag of her wizened index. A flight
risk near forests of the Wampanoag where Christians
savaged Queen Weetamoo’s corpse, what else might
Tituba, nonwhite and woman, haunt but a margin
of error? She’s a catbird’s song trapped in the chimney.
She’s egg whites in water, she is the tumescence
of smoke. Dear Mami Wata, let Tituba prove
to be the stone that splits the stream of their vision.
Let her renounce sight and be unseen. Let her
cough ground coral in the shedding of a pewter
moon, that she, of all the innocents, should live.
Dear Three-headed Hecate, replace her, the unthought
thought, with wax, twigs, horse hair and straw. Let her
not appear as a witness. Nor as evidence. As with
the talking dog, let her be the hoodoo that speaks
through their mirrors. Let a hang-thread skein of yarn
ghost the floorboards tempting a red cat—his familiars,
the devil and his counsel, the canary. Let her conjure
the man in black they fear who charms pilgrims
on the road to paradise, disguised as a harmless
birdwatcher. Dear Nemesis, let her feed the court
a few names from his register—a taste of her
truth, her mise en abyme, her one hell that calls forth
another. With no standing on her own behalf,
let her sit in judgment. Let this power
invested of gavel and oath help her give birth
through her mouth like a god.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Spectral Evidence by Gregory Pardlo.
Browse other books by Gregory Pardlo and follow him on Twitter @pardlo.
Click here for a special NYPL recording of Imani Perry and Gregory Pardlo in conversation about Spectral Evidence.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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Understanding the imprint of her mother on her body and soul has been one of the encompassing projects of the poetry of Sharon Olds. Over the years, her poems have explored the child’s desire to protect itself from harm, as well as the grown daughter’s imperative to tell the truth about the mothering she received and, into her later age, to try to forgive.
Tender Bitter
When I started having tender thoughts about
myself as a child—that long, pointed
chin, those tiny eyes—I started having
tender thoughts of my mother. She would look
up, a lot—short for an adult—
with a look of dazed longing, her fine
straight hair wrapped wet around
many small rollers, and bound back with combs
put in backward, to give her hair
some height, or with a fillet like a goddess. My hair was
loopy, soft, lollopy like
flop-eared rabbits’ ears, she wrote
about it in my Baby Book, “Shar’s
not conventionally beautiful—but that
naturally curly hair!” I don’t think she would have
traded with me, she remembered her cold
Pilgrim mother, in my mom’s sleep,
slipping the bobby-pins out of the dreaming child’s
spit curls. We were big on trading—you were
supposed to want to take Jesus’s place
on the cross, as he had taken yours. I think
my mother would have died for me—
and I think I would have died for her—
is that how the other animals do it? Who
dies for whom? My mom sometimes
liked my mind—the odd things
I said—she would write about my mind in my pink
Baby Book. She came from ignorant
educated people of self-importance
and leisure. She did not see that what I
said was funny, like joking, it was
metaphor. But it charmed her. She would not have
taken it from me, she would not have known
what to do with it, nor did she want to
mar me, as her mother had marred her. My mother . . .
loved me. If she had not beaten me,
I would have been purely enamored with her—she was so
sad, and pretty. Her eyes were a hundred
bright bright blues, like a butterfly’s scales
but crystal electric, like a shattered turquoise goblet.
She did not take away my ability
to love—with her elder sister, and my elder
sister, she taught it to me. And she did not
take my mind—the one thing
of value I was born with—my mother did not
take the simile away from me.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Balladz by Sharon Olds.
Browse other books by Sharon Olds.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
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The Asking: New and Selected Poems covers half a century's poetry-making by Jane Hirshfield, who shapes whole worlds of feeling—and moves between idea and image—with startling economy.
To Drink
I want to gather your darkness
in my hands, to cup it like water
and drink.
I want this in the same way
as I want to touch your cheek—
it is the same—
the way a moth will come
to the bedroom window in late September,
beating and beating its wings against cold glass;
the way a horse will lower
its long head to water, and drink,
and pause to lift its head and look,
and drink again,
taking everything in with the water,
everything.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about The Asking by Jane Hirshfield.
Browse other books by Jane Hirshfield and follow her @janehirshfield on Facebook.
Click here to see a recording of Jane Hirshfield deliver this year's annual Blaney Lecture for the Academy of American Poets, "Making the Invisible Visible." [link will be available after March 19]. Jane will give the keynote speech at The Sierra Poetry Festival in Nevada City, CA on April 13 and will hold a conversation on climate change at the Tiburon Public Library with Science Friday host Ira Flatow in Tiburon, CA on April 19 at 6:30 PM.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
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Anne Michaels is a poet and novelist of passion and history—history that inevitably encompasses violence and loss, but also the possibility of beauty and connection in their midst. In her new novel Held, set during World War One and across the century to follow, the descriptions crystallize line by line with the immediacy and sharp physical awareness of her fine lyric poems. We supply the opening here—the novel’s first stanza.
River Escaut,
Cambrai, France, 1917
We know life is finite. Why should we believe death lasts forever?
*
The shadow of a bird moved across the hill; he could not see the bird.
*
Certain thoughts comforted him:
Desire permeates everything; nothing human can be cleansed of it.
We can only think about the unknown in terms of the known.
The speed of light cannot reference time.
The past exists as a present moment.
Perhaps the most important things we know cannot be proven.
He did not believe that the mystery at the heart of things was amorphous or vague or a discrepancy, but a place in us for something absolutely precise. He did not believe in filling that space with religion or science, but in leaving it intact; like silence, or speechlessness, or duration.
Perhaps death was Lagrangian, perhaps it could be defined by the principle of stationary action.
Asymptotic.
Mist smouldered like cremation fires in the rain.
*
It was possible that the blast had taken his hearing. There were no trees to identify the wind, no wind, he thought, at all. Was it raining? John could see the air glistening, but he couldn’t feel it on his face.
*
The mist erased all it touched.
*
Through the curtain of his breath he saw a flash, a shout of light.
*
It was very cold.
Somewhere out there were his precious boots, his feet. He should get up and look for them.
When had he eaten last?
He was not hungry.
*
Memory seeping.
*
The snow fell, night and day, into the night again. Silent streets; impossible to drive. They decided they would walk to each other across the city and meet in the middle.
The sky, even at ten o’clock at night, was porcelain, a pale solid from which the snow detached and fell. The cold was cleansing, a benediction. They would each leave at the same time and keep to their route, they would keep walking until they found each other.
*
In the distance, in the heavy snowfall, John saw fragments of her—elliptic, stroboscopic—Helena’s dark hat, her gloves. It was hard yet to tell how far away she was. He shook the snow from his hat so she might see him too. Yes, she lifted her arms above her head to wave. Only her hat and gloves and the powdery yellow blur of the streetlamps were visible against the whiteness of sky and earth. He could barely feel his feet or his fingers, but the rest of him was warm, almost hot, from walking. He pulsed with the sight of her, the vestige of her. She was everything that mattered to him. He felt inviolable trust. They were close now but could not make their way any faster. Somewhere between the library and the bank, they gripped each other as if they were the only two humans left in the world.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Held by Anne Michaels.
Browse other fiction and poetry collections by Anne Michaels here.
Click here to view a note from Anne Michaels about the questions at the heart of Held.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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A multi-generational saga courses across the pages of Ædnan, by Sámi-Swedish author Linnea Axelsson, translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel. The verse epic follows an Indigenous Sámi family who have herded reindeer for generations, as the forces of colonialism and modern development of their ancestral lands threaten their culture and livelihood. The story is told by a small chorus of characters from the 1910s through the current day, and we become especially close to Lise, who left her Sámi family, following her brother Jon-Henrik, to be educated at a residential school for “Nomad” children. This excerpt from Chapter XII takes place in the early 1970s, along the Great Lule River Valley, where the state-owned Vattenfall company was developing hydroelectric resources, and Lise is graduating into a world unimaginable to her parents.
. .
The river climbed
silently up the hills
as soon as Vattenfall
whistled it came
creeping:
–
Streamed backwards
up its deep channel and
drowned the earth
When the great
Suorva Dam for the third
time was to be regulated
–
Entreaty
shone from Mama’s
eyes
–
She explained
clearly to the Swedes
that the fishing will suffer
if the water rises
–
There was probably
no one who understood
what she was saying
– –
After the social
studies lesson
I went with the others
to sit on the
gymnasium floor
–
Almost all of
Malmberget’s students
had been dismissed
from class
–
To participate
in the miners’
strike meeting
–
Someone had heard
that Olof Palme
was coming
that he would travel
all the way up here
–
To the mining company’s
and Vattenfall’s world
the one that he
himself had helped
build
–
It is what
he is guarding
It is all that
he can see
–
The mine boss’s voice
flowed wildly above the
crowded hall which was
hot with bodies
–
His voice was so robust
his conviction
so intense
–
I glanced at Anne
who was sitting beside me
leaning against
the wall bars
and she smiled back at me
–
Soon we would
be leaving school too
–
And could start working
join the union
–
You took the job you wanted
that’s all there was to it
–
Switchboard cleaner or cook
with the old folks at
the Pioneer
or the children
in day care
– –
I spend the weekend
up at Mama
and Papa’s
–
I stand with Jon-Henrik
–
Watching the river
flow murky
across the slope
–
That brushy slope
where he and I
used to go
it’s underwater now
–
How are our tracks
ever to be heard
Among the Swedes’
roads and
power stations
–
It’s Jon-Henrik
who says this
he had also
been drawn down
to the dam
–
To work
for Vattenfall as soon
as school was done
–
I’m surprised
when he says
That he’d preferred to have
taken up with the reindeer
–
Been elected into the
Sámi community
And learned to guide
that wandering gray
soft ocean
across the world
of the fells
–
Just as the lot of us
were once taught
at the Nomad School
that this is what the Sámi do
that this is how
we all live
–
He laughs
and says:
–
Who knows what
the spring flood
will bring with it
this drowned
earth may yet
be fertile
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Ædnan by Linnea Axelsson.
Check out The Rumpus for a conversation between Linnea Axelsson and Susan Devan Harness about Axelsson's Sámi heritage and the decision to write Ædnan in verse.
Click here to read Linnea Axelsson's op-ed piece for LitHub on Scandinavia’s hidden history of Indigenous oppression.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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In Shakespeare’s Sisters, Ramie Targoff recovers to literary memory the lives and talents of four women who wrote in England during Shakespeare’s time, well before there was any notion of “a room of one’s own.” From Mary Sidney, sister of the well-known poet Sir Philip Sidney (she wrote most of the beautiful translations of the Psalms ascribed to him) to Anne Clifford, a diarist and memoirist who fought for decades against a patriarchy that tried to disinherit her from her family’s land, these women stun us by their bravery. In the passage below, Targoff discusses the important poetry of Aemilia Lanyer, born of an illiterate mother and an immigrant father; it appeared in print in 1611, making her the first woman in the 17th century to publish an original book of verse.
. . .
In the same year the King James Bible first appeared in print, establishing the most influential English translation of scripture ever produced, Aemilia dared to tell a different story. Over the course of 230 rhyming stanzas of eight lines each, her “Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum” lays out the story of Christ’s Passion from a distinctly female perspective. The formal challenge of writing the poem was itself daunting: it’s no easy feat to compose over 1,800 lines of ottava rima (iambic pentameter stanzas written in an abababcc rhyme scheme). But Aemilia’s greater audacity was in tackling the subject of Christ’s crucifixion. To justify this, she makes the same claim for divine inspiration that the great Protestant poet John Milton would make sixty or so years later in writing Paradise Lost. Describing her own “poor barren brain” as “far too weak” for the task, she asks God to “give me power and strength to write”:
Yet if he please to illuminate my spirit,
And give me wisdom from his holy hill,
That I may write part of his glorious merit,
If he vouchsafe to guide my hand and quill
Then will I tell of that sad blackfaced night,
Whose mourning Mantle covered Heavenly Light.
Given the fact that the poem proceeds to do exactly what she petitions for, Aemilia shows her reader that her prayer has been answered: she’s not so much writing as channeling the divine word.[...]
Aemilia’s narrative of Christ’s Passion begins on the “very night our Savior was betrayed.” As part of her overall strategy in “Salve Deus”of celebrating female virtue, the poem draws attention both to the wicked acts of men (Caiaphas, Judas) and to the compassionate acts of women (the daughters of Jerusalem, the Virgin Mary) in the days leading up to Christ’s arrest. None of this comes as a surprise. But when Aemilia arrives at the moment that Pontius Pilate considers Christ’s fate, she does something totally unanticipated. Relinquishing her own role as narrator, she hands the poem over to Pilate’s wife. Among the most minor figures in the New Testament, Pilate’s wife has a single line of verse in only one of the four gospels. In Matthew 27:19, a woman who is never named urges her husband, the Roman governor in Judaea, to disregard the will of the people calling for Christ to be crucified: “Have nothing to do with that just man,” she warns Pilate, “for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.”
In early Christian commentaries and apocryphal writings, this woman was often called Procula Claudia, or simply Procula. In medieval England, Procula was paraded onstage in the mystery plays as an evil woman who almost prevented Christ’s saving humankind; in the York Cycle’s play named for her—The Dream of Pilate’s Wife—Percula, as she’s called there, receives her dream from the Devil himself. There’s no way to know if Aemilia knew this or other medieval dramas; it’s more likely she would have noticed the more positive treatment Pilate’s wife was given in the Geneva Bible, the popular translation done by English Protestants in the 1550s. Consistent with the Protestant belief that everyone should have access to the Bible directly, the translation was heavily glossed with marginal notes. Next to the verse from Matthew regarding Pilate’s wife was a single gloss suggesting that Pilate should have taken the “counsel of others to defend Christ’s innocence.” But whether the treatment of this woman was negative or positive, she had never been asked to perform the role Aemilia gave her in “Salve Deus,” where she delivers one of the strongest defenses for women’s rights that Christianity had ever seen.
In Pilate’s wife, Aemilia found her perfect heroine: a woman whose intervention at the crucial moment could have changed the course of history, if only her husband had listened. With the scriptural verse from Matthew before her, Aemilia made two crucial additions to the story. First, she transformed Pilate’s wife into a faithful believer who already regarded Christ as her Lord. “Hear the words of thy most worthy wife,” she begs her husband, “who sends to thee, to beg her Savior’s life.” Far from simply reporting that she’s had an ominous dream, as she does in Matthew, Pilate’s wife explicitly warns Pilate that he will be killing the son of God.
Second, Aemilia turned Pilate’s wife into a proto-feminist. After urging Pilate to let Christ go on religious grounds, she comes up with a new reason for why he should be pardoned: “Let not us women glory in men’s fall / Who had power given to over-rule us all.” If men are sinful enough to crucify their savior, then women should be liberated from men’s rule. “Your indiscretion sets us free,” she declares, “And makes our former fault much less appear.” In these four short lines, Aemilia’s character anticipates the killing of Christ as the basis for women’s freedom from patriarchy.
As if this weren’t radical enough, Pilate’s wife moves in “Salve Deus” from making her argument about the Crucifixion to recon- sidering the reason for Christ’s sacrifice in the first place. “Our mother Eve,” she exclaims,
. . . who tasted of the Tree
Giving to Adam what she held most dear,
Was simply good, and had no power to see,
The after-coming harm did not appear.
If Eve had no way to know the damage she might do, Adam was only too aware: it was he who received the command directly “from God’s mouth.” Eve was simply a victim of misinformation and “too much love,” whereas Adam, not betrayed by the “subtle Serpent’s falsehood,” knew exactly what he was doing.
Aemilia was certainly not the first person to defend Eve on grounds of her innocence or to propose that Adam be held responsible for the Fall. She was possibly the first to argue that the crime of killing Christ so overwhelmed any fault of Eve’s that women’s subordination should come to an immediate end. “If unjustly you condemn [Christ] to die,” Pilate’s wife concludes,
. . . Then let us have our Liberty again,
And challenge [attribute] to your selves no Sovereignty;
You came not in the world without our pain,
Make that a bar against your cruelty;
Your fault being greater, why should you disdain
Our being your equals, free from tyranny?
If one weak woman simply did offend,
This sin of yours, hath no excuse, nor end.
Hundreds of years before the women’s liberation movement, Aemilia used the figure of Pilate’s wife to argue that the sexes should be equal. In doing so, she also rescued a voice from history, giving full personhood and agency to a woman whom the Bible didn’t regard as worthy of a name.
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Shakespeare’s Sisters by Ramie Targoff.
Browse other books by Ramie Targoff and follow her on Instagram @ramietargoff.
Hear Ramie Targoff read at the Boston Athenaeum in Boston on May 15, 6:00 - 7:00 PM. Click here to join virtually.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
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