perhaps...

these are poetic times

perhaps these are not poetic
times
at all.

-nikki giovanni “for Saundra”

if literacy is an entry point in the revolutionary process, if a poem can be an instrument in excavating one’s conscience, if imagination is fertile soil for action, if feelings or lack thereof are often what guide our decisions—when is it ever not time for poetry? poetry is not a choice nor is it mere documentation of what is happening, it is the residue of our very being. it is not what shows up on the page in metaphor or form but what is formless and embodied. it’s the living that brings us to the page. the poem is who we are.

while rereading nikki giovanni’s poem especially now, i connect to the sentiment. the struggle within for perspective and context. indeed it is a struggle. our elders were not being flippant as they declared, “the struggle continues.” i find myself having to actively meditate that we are in a struggle of ideas and how those ideas shape our material conditions. but ideas, alone, are not the cornerstones of our lives. life is not a problem to be solved; it is a sequence of experiences to be lived. it is living. it is how we care for living. as we live, we learn there are very seen and unseen ways of feeling and being felt. and while one is often positioned in opposition, they are rather integral phases of a revolutionary process. despair becomes privilege. a contrived method by which we identify with our alienation. alienation in the age of algorithms and social media especially, is a culturally generative downward spiral. it is lucrative in a market-driven economy. if one can be or at least feel alienated, they are more likely to internalize their conditions and to accept the unacceptable. to be in community isn’t an ephemeral anecdote, it is in fact to be alive. if only with the trees around you. if everyone can be reduced from a means to an end, we don’t have to worry about an outside oppressive force, we become the very agents of oppression.

on any given day, we have a series of commitments, responsibilities, agreements to maintain. and while much of that is called, “survival,” it’s far more so a reflection of the interdependence we feel toward community. if i give up, if i say the world is “too much.” what does that say about my values? how do i embody the very love i feel for the people i deeply hope to support, survive, and thrive? where do we turn if not to one another? while we experience the realities of world mis-leaders destroying our social agreements and fabric of humanity, we have to tug closer and establish the values we hold dear. they’ve created a climate where if we are left to our own primal instincts, the biggest threat to us won’t be a bomb or bullet but what we will do to each other as our needs are being exploited. in a climate of hyper-competitive-individualism, they won’t need to attack us, we will attack ourselves.

but let me say this: these are trying times on the spirit. what does society look like where poetry is law? where the feelings felt birth new ideas? to give name to the nameless and formlessness. to honor those whose names we simply do not know but feel. what proponents of our society are willing to go through poetic excavation for the sake of our shared lived experiences? poetry illuminates and our actions intercede on behalf of those illuminations. poetry is a process of whether we are willing to feel or to be transformed by that feeling. how do we observe our feelings as places of possibility rather than mandates of action. there’s so many words these days. i feel the heaviness of what is not yet named. what cannot be articulated but only felt? our music. our sense of us.

i don’t have many hot takes. i don’t even always have the words. i spent days if not weeks with this amalgamation of feelings. if im being honest, im more at loss for words these days than not. and so i read and listen, i read Giovanni and wonder, where is my gun to clean? the irony. The kerosene supply? it’s here in these words. this page i have barely faced because of what i fear i will find in it. that maybe i do love life. that maybe there are things worth living for like the softness of the breeze, my late-grandmother whispering through the creak of my bathroom door. or how my grandfather’s dimples still find my cheeks mid-sentence talking to my lover. or even how rest is not resistance but the dreams im dreaming these days are mapping the depths of my innerstanding. these are the arsenal of my courage. just a few. every other day, a friend suggests a shooting range or strategy for defense. i’d be lying if i said im not also spending most of my days on calls, in community, strategizing and plotting. mostly, for the human heart. the dignity of our humanity to be cherished. have we checked on our loved ones? have we asked if they have food in the fridge? clothes on their back? a roof over their head? a survival kit? first aid at home? how is your heart? what are we preparing for? if not a world in which we love each other, dare i say, better? this is not easy work and it has been made difficult intentionally.

freedom is a practice. what the years of grassroots organizing in community has taught me, is how we move with one another is what shapes our movement. whatever we are witnessing materially is deeply shaped by our immaterial conditions. our people not only need bread but their roses, too. everything is inevitably spiritual. poetry is how we alchemize the material and immaterial needs of our very lives. i do not feel that what we need in this moment will come from our own understanding. no one theory or mind or organization or poem or song is to be trusted as the sole vehicle of change when it can so easily be contrived. every material war reveals the spiritual battle ahead. we need an upgrade of the human heart and tools on how to embody this process. even when we think, or when we are being told, we are destroying ourselves—it creates the conditions for us to transmute, transform, and become what we need in the doing of now. things are rarely what they seem. the shift is real.

i’m meditating on the children. the innocence of children. the child in me that resonates with all children. how do we protect the wonder, the creativity, the joy and imagination of our children? i speak to my little girl-self often. i ask her questions. i listen to her. her feelings are valid and yet she demands the wisdom of my living and all i’ve learned to shelter and shepherd her very being. yesterday, a friend asked me, how do you effectively fight evil? i don’t know. i replied, the only way to fight it, is to not become it. Perhaps? these days, i cherish small acts of kindness in the ordinary of our day to day. in the face of demanding cruelty, i sit with awe at the choice people make to be loving and compassionate. to be in solidarity. to choose. you are not alone even as we walk alone through the shadowy halls of uncertainty. it almost always brings me to tears. to be loving isn’t passive. it isn’t indifferent or docile, to be loving is to be deliberate. it is expansive and opens pathways for people to exist. for the planet to be heard. if we do not take heed to the poetry of our being, we will become what we claim to despise. so perhaps, these are not poetic times at all... but i thank God for the poetry forged through us and the poems we choose to become.. these are the weapons i hold most dear during these times.