after Naomi Shihab Nye
We on the sea cliff all
thrill at December’s licking
wind
[[[call down a watery sky
(a ritual)
call on grasses stamped with Saturday shoes
(a circle)
call up the kissing foam
(a washing)
call to familia, mostly chosen,
(a mending)]]]
and hover, for a time
in exquisite love.
My sister unfurls her golden kaftan,
yokes our hearts’ zealous
champing
[[[calls upon the holy
(poetry)
calls upon our circle
(familia)
calls upon our ancestors
(saina)
calls upon the cosmos
(guma’)]]]
and sings
It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness
The winter sky sings
my brother’s proud trembling
jaw, your father’s bursting
radiant heart.
And you, zaytun of my heart, i asagua-hu.
You wrapped in tales of tatreez, your mother’s thobe.
My dress is made of water
and invisible feathers dipped
in moonlight.
I sing
[[[Halla. New moon. Sinåhi. Hagu I pilån-hu.
Let us keep each other safe and soothed and seen.
Let us be in each other’s eyes and minds and guts.
Let us tend our twining love so that it spirals, ever upward,
ever outward, ever toward our shared home.
The osprey overhead clutches a plump
gulping fish, anoints us with i tåsi.
I promise to always to hold you with patience, humility, and
compassion.
I promise to honor you, your ancestors, and your homeland as I
honor my own.
I promise to never stop fighting, until we see freedom for our
lands and people.
Let us share our struggles, along with our joys.
Let us share our pain, along with our bliss.
Let us share everything, together, i guinaiya-ku,
sa’ tåya’ åmot para man guaiguaiya fuera di mas guinaiya’.
(Because there is no medicine for being in
love, except for more love.)]]]
Copyright © 2024 by Lehua M. Taitano. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 14, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
translated from the Bengali by Lilian M. Whitehouse
We are indeed children of Light. What an endless mart goes on in the Light. In the Light is our sleeping and waking, the play of our life and death.
Beneath one great canopy, in the ray of one great sun, slowly, very slowly, burn the unnumbered lamps of life.
In the midst of this unending Light I lose myself; amidst this intolerable radiance I wander like one blind.
We are indeed children of Light. Why then do we fear when we see the Light? Come, let us look all around and see, here no man hath cause for any fear.
In this boundless ocean of Light, if a tiny lamp goes out, let it go; who can say that it will not burn again?
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on May 26, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
1.
If you run for too long, you forget everything.
Even your limbs become invention. A fallacy of skin
you tell yourself you once had when you knew
how to be more, so birds are the stories you now tell
your flesh. You remind her of the Swift
who flies for years, as if land is an impossible trick. You tell
her about the Sea Eagle from China lost
in America for years. Flying and flying and never
finding home. You remember her the ʻAlauahio, the ʻŌʻō,
the Olomaʻo, the Kākāwahie, the ʻĀkepa, the Nukupuʻu
the ʻŌʻū, the Mamo, the ʻUla-ʻai-hawane, the Poʻo-uli,
the Kāmaʻo, the ʻAmaui, the birds, the birds,
the birds. You remember her all the birds
who had to be more
to be.
2.
This morning I am unsure how
a bird exists when she has been seen only
under glass for more than fifty years. Her feathers
a feeble reminder of what she could be. Diminished
to a hush of keratin and collagen. This bird
once shook the forest with her color.
3.
This morning I am not sure how
I am still here. Daybreak—
just another process of shedding
of peeling back to meat
with no new skin to shelter.
Every breath, a surprise.
The heart beats still.
But how—how do we quiet
these too loud bones
when our seams are worn
by so much running?
4.
When you finally stop
you still feel your insides running.
Those involuntary tissues scrambling
to burst through your surfaces. What
would you do to let them free? When all of you
is full of run, you imagine yourself feathers.
There is a bird inside you pushing
at all your cracks. The punctures of vanes
are just more places for you to breathe.
This bird inside you would know
how to draw breath. This bird inside you
would know the song struggling
in your throat. What will you do
to let this bird free? What will you do
to find all the songs
you should sing?
5.
Today we remember the Kākāwahie.
we remember the ʻAlauahio, the ʻŌʻō,
the Olomaʻo, the ʻĀkepa, the Nukupuʻu
the ʻŌʻū, the Mamo, the ʻUla-ʻai-hawane,
the Poʻo-uli, the Kāmaʻo, the ʻAmaui.
Today we remember our body
before we severed our own wings
just so we could hide
from the man
in the story
who would pin
all our wings
to the ground.
Copyright © 2024 by Lyz Soto. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 27, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
For Akua
Walking, I drew my hand over the lumpy
bloom of a spray of purple; I stripped away
my fingers, stained purple; put it to my nose,
the minty honey, a perfume so aggressively
pleasant—I gave it to you to smell,
my daughter, and you pulled away as if
I was giving you a palm full of wasps,
deceptions: “Smell the way the air
changes because of purple and green.”
This is the promise I make to you:
I will never give you a fist full of wasps,
just the surprise of purple and the scent of rain.
Reproduced from Nebraska: Poems by Kwame Dawes by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. Copyright 2019 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska.