The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don’t sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’ Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
From A Coney Island of the Mind, copyright © 1955 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
It’s the best part of the day, morning light sliding
down rooftops, treetops, the birds pulling themselves
up out of whatever stupor darkened their wings,
night still in their throats.
I never wanted to die. Even when those I loved
died around me, away from me, beyond me.
My life was never in question, if for no other reason
than I wanted to wake up and see what happened next.
And I continue to want to open like that, like the flowers
who lift their heavy heads as the hills outside the window
flare gold for a moment before they turn
on their sides and bare their creased backs.
Even the cut flowers in a jar of water lift
their soon to be dead heads and open
their eyes, even they want a few more sips,
to dwell here, in paradise, a few days longer.
Copyright © 2021 by Dorianne Laux. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 16, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
For forty years I shunned the lust
Inherent in my clay;
Death only was so amorous
I let him have his way.
This poem is in the public domain.
translated by Bryan Mendoza
It’s a spacious chamber.
Well lit.
A light that refracts the distant woodland.
Over the table lies
the body and the wings
outspread
like sails of a shipwreck.
They’ve stitched together the carnage
with no other motive
than something comparable to mercy.
Soon the volunteers will arrive
and they’ll take the body,
including the wings
to the landfill.
Disección del cadáver de Pegaso
Es una sala espaciosa.
Muy clara.
Es luz que refracta el bosque lejano.
Sobre la mesa yacen
el cuerpo y las alas
extendidas
como velas de bajeles deshechos.
Han hilvanado el despojo
sin otro motivo
que algo semejante a la caridad.
Pronto llegarán los voluntarios
y se llevarán el cuerpo,
incluidas las alas,
al basural.
© 2020 Julio Pazos Barrera and Bryan Mendoza. Published in Poem-a-Day in partnership with Words Without Borders (wordswithoutborders.org) on September 19, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.
In California, someone is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
in my anger, I forget to explain
to our white neighbor, why it matters
that he’s black,
if only she knew
the luxury of not having to worry
whether her life mattered or not–
*
The first time I learned
about the color of my skin
I spent months
crossing a border
where my kind was not welcomed;
the first time I was othered
I was still in the womb
breaking in my naming–
*
In California, a man is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
someone said,
it must have been a suicide,
what country is this
where suicide becomes the hopeful thing–
I want to talk about this,
I say to my husband,
do you know what this means?
I have run out of ways
of telling him that he, too, is a black, black man
living in a white, white world
but his body knows
our bodies always know–
*
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and no one knows why;
when they hear the news, someone asks
what kind of tree,
what country is this
where life is not life if it inhabits a black body
where we have to march in the streets
and get beaten, gassed, hunted down
so someone, anyone, can see this,
this us we see, this us we are, this humanness.
*
I am filled with a quiet furor. What happens
when the body is marked before it is born,
what happens to it
when it is filled with grief
what happens
when no one sees it as such
what happens
to black bodies riddled with war
what war is this
that continues to kill, kill, kill.
*
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and someone knows why;
we want to say many things
but none seem to get through;
our mother’s grief
is too great to contain us,
too deep to keep us safe
what do you call a country
that kills its people
and calls itself free,
what freedom is this
that has us running
that holds us hostage
that invades our every being
that hunts our children
that takes our fathers
that murders, murders, murders
Stop–
listen to this:
In California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, do you know why?
Does it matter
what kind of tree it was, what kind of earth
housed the roots of such tree,
does it matter
whether the man was in his early twenties
with glimmering black skin
and dancing dreadlocks
would you feel better
if it was a suicide
would it be better
if you never heard about this
do you find yourself thinking,
who would do such a thing,
do you find yourself breaking
completely split open
and parts of you erupting out,
did you wonder
about his mother
about her grief
about his beloveds
did you tell yourself
something nice
to forget this hanging body
did you will it away
what else did you do
to let yourself forget
as you did with all the others
did you tell yourself
I would never–but wait, wait:
did you hear:
in California, a black man is found hanging
from a tree, and you know why;
there is nothing more to say
no further reasoning you need to do
no way out of this,
listen closely:
a black man
is found hanging
from a tree
I know you must like trees
these tall muscular giants
housing small fruits,
breathing, living things,
I know you must think
this is a horrific thing
that has happened to a black man
but how many trees
have housed black bodies
how many were complicit
in our collective dying,
how quick are we to forget
the marred history of this land
built on the blood and bones
of our ancestors
how many more
will need to die
until you see, see, see
how many more
gunned down, beaten, suffocated
until you hear
our rightful pleading
how much blood
must you have on your hands
before our children
are finally set free,
listen:
a black man
hangs from a tree
a black man
hangs
from a tree
a black man
hanging from a tree,
how dare you try and absolve yourself
from our collective lynching–
Copyright © 2021 by Mahtem Shiferraw. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
Bird dogs, they say—
the kind that chase something in flight.
try to capture with its teeth
a winged ceremony,
feathers dripping from each of their mouths.
The first dog was just plain old.
The second died of a heart worm pill —my father neglected to purchase.
What else has he let die?
My mother fixed his plate every night,
never bought a car, or shoes, or skirt
without his permission.
She birthed children and raised them.
She, my sister, and I—
winged things in the air.
I knew there was blood under the ground.
No surprise when I found the house was sinking.
Our dogs always stayed outside, not allowed
in the living room.
Only the basement,
where my father stayed, slept, fixed things.
My mother, a silent companion.
The dog barks and my father goes running.
The dog dies
and we bury my mother.
Graves for everyone
We bark
and feathers fall from my father’s teeth.
He barks and becomes the tree.
The bark remembers phantom noose
and screams.
The screech becomes a bullet
without a window to land through,
just a body,
a backyard,
a shovel.
Copyright © 2020 by Barbara Fant. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 29, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.