An interview with the Virginia Poet Laureate on poetry as witness, colonial history’s hauntings, and her longstanding poem-a-day practice
it’s spring, or whatever / season it is for laughter or slaughter, a // difference of one letter between one state / of being and another
REPEAT: you stay up memorizing all the twists and turns of a ‘proper’ / enunciation and still your tongue fails you the morning after, syllables / flopping in your mouth like a dead fish, cleaved in shame.
Writers of the Bangladeshi diaspora reflect on liberation and identity.
Kutenun seikat mimpi / dari telapak pemigi | I weave a bundle of dreams / from the palm of the pemigi loom
거울로 들어가는 문을 찾지 못해 / 내게는 오늘의 밤이 계속된다 | Since I / can’t find the door, the night ceases to end
O ngồi đó chờ đợi một linh hồn lạ mặt vẫn còn sống/ như cánh-đồng-tử-cung của bình minh | O sits there waiting for an unknown soul that is still alive / like a uterus-meadow at dawn
The cypress that grows up straight / sweetly represents my beloved’s the stature. / How can I compare his stature to a cypress? / The cypress is sweetly stuck in the mud of astonishment.
lord, please gift me that same wonder. / to pause hunger for a larger suspension
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
I’m not proud of what I’ve done. One foot bent in the gaze of the lake as if pleading to be consumed immediately.
Anahita’s head weighs 10 kilograms. Her hand, extended forward yet / disconnected from the bust, holds a fragment of drapery.
And who could forget / when he declared he was going to marry himself, /showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress
និស្វាសវាត / អស្សាសវាត / បស្សាសនៃ / ខ្យល់ចេញមិនចូល | In, out, held – / so goes the breath. / Winds leave but no longer come
今夜我抱着我妈 今夜我唱着夜曲 | Tonight I hold my mother in my arms
But the children are frolicking inside the palace of their mother’s empty stomach. They can’t say whether it’s day or night.
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
it’s spring, or whatever / season it is for laughter or slaughter, a // difference of one letter between one state / of being and another
I’m not proud of what I’ve done. One foot bent in the gaze of the lake as if pleading to be consumed immediately.
REPEAT: you stay up memorizing all the twists and turns of a ‘proper’ / enunciation and still your tongue fails you the morning after, syllables / flopping in your mouth like a dead fish, cleaved in shame.
Writers of the Bangladeshi diaspora reflect on liberation and identity.
Anahita’s head weighs 10 kilograms. Her hand, extended forward yet / disconnected from the bust, holds a fragment of drapery.
Kutenun seikat mimpi / dari telapak pemigi | I weave a bundle of dreams / from the palm of the pemigi loom
And who could forget / when he declared he was going to marry himself, /showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress
거울로 들어가는 문을 찾지 못해 / 내게는 오늘의 밤이 계속된다 | Since I / can’t find the door, the night ceases to end
និស្វាសវាត / អស្សាសវាត / បស្សាសនៃ / ខ្យល់ចេញមិនចូល | In, out, held – / so goes the breath. / Winds leave but no longer come
O ngồi đó chờ đợi một linh hồn lạ mặt vẫn còn sống/ như cánh-đồng-tử-cung của bình minh | O sits there waiting for an unknown soul that is still alive / like a uterus-meadow at dawn
今夜我抱着我妈 今夜我唱着夜曲 | Tonight I hold my mother in my arms
The cypress that grows up straight / sweetly represents my beloved’s the stature. / How can I compare his stature to a cypress? / The cypress is sweetly stuck in the mud of astonishment.
But the children are frolicking inside the palace of their mother’s empty stomach. They can’t say whether it’s day or night.
lord, please gift me that same wonder. / to pause hunger for a larger suspension
At the door, like a dog. / I waited for love. / The heart / was a station / where evenings stopped.
Through the radio speakers / I hear a woman shivering. I think of my friend, newly pregnant, / also on her way to work, how she’ll twist a ring off her swollen finger.
Even though you didn’t say “no” in what you’ve been told is the “right” way to say no, you were saying no.
A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.