Poems That Capture 2020's Energy So Far
One of our favorite things about poetry is its stubborn ability to remain relevant, to twist and transform, to alternate colors in the shifting light. With 2020 starting off, we decided to take a trip through our archives and found, overwhelmingly, poems that felt like they had been written last week. We’ve gathered a few here for you. Perhaps you read them before, in their own time, and will find a new meaning shining out of their cracks. Or, if this is your first brush with them, you may be struck by their absolute fit in your life right now.
Before Snowfall by Ariel Francisco
French has no word for home.
—Jack Gilbert
I found Baudelaire on a street corner
near Washington Square Park for two dollars
on a flimsy table littered with orphaned books:
a faded, cracked paperback, lavender
as the lingering winter evening that draped
the skyline like a dust jacket, and small enough
to squeeze into a standard-sized envelope,
which I did, after scribbling a little note
on the inside cover to a girl back home.
She never got the book, which was in French,
and we never spoke again in any language,
though I always wondered what happened
to the book, probably lost in the dead letter office,
that mass grave of undelivered letters,
moldy packages, and illegible birthday cards.
Still, when winter arrives every year like a janitor
to sweep the fallen leaves, and I’m reminded
of what is lost, I like to imagine
a homeless man fishing my envelope
out of that dropbox on Broadway
before the mailman gets to it,
digging for Christmas cards from grandma
stuffed with cash for her favorite grandkid,
and instead finding Baudelaire.
He clutches the book with ungloved hands,
slumping down against the dropbox
in resignation, and flips it open
to my little note, which simply says
tell me, is the snow coming down
on you, too? And I imagine him looking up,
his gaze tracing the skyline until it reaches
the grey horizon, thinking of all the nowheres
to go to lay his head down tonight,
saying out loud:
Not yet, my friend. Thank goodness,
not yet.
Mist by Kwame Dawes
I am a graveyard.
Here, there is no mourning,
the dead are dumb as wood,
I have forgotten how to cry
because I can see spirits
as if the graves have broken
open on that red
resurrection morning.
The earth is a mansion
with many floors;
the layering of centuries,
the spirits strolling;
no one crosses the plain;
so many millions
gone, only to return
as if there are many
earths transparent
as the glassy film
of ice over a pond.
I don't know names
anymore; the spirits
is what we call them,
are soft as clouds,
or mist, they travel
these days, I stand
before a boiling pot
until it dries and cracks,
all the steam
caressing me like the love
of the dead. Healing
comes from the spray
of iron on damp cloth,
healing is the scent
of burning, the faltering
of crushed cloth,
the sweat of labor.
I am a graveyard,
wet with sea fog,
my memories
will not let me go.
I am staring upwards
looking for blue
sky through
the crowd of souls
streaking the heavens.
The Child's Safe, a zuihitsu by Kimiko Hahn
three tiny candy canes from the Christmas stocking
seven teeny tiny safety pins and one clothespin
a blue jay feather, the parakeet's pin feather, a plastic feather
mood ring, baby trolls, and a Cockamamie of a troll—all from a
gumball machine
very tiny glass pelican
doll-size Milwaukee Journal from Grandpa
Mother's sample Chanel No. 5 that she gave to me
Mother's bisque Kewpie doll—that she doesn't know I have
a letter on blue tissue from Grandma that I can't read because she
writes in kana
A long piece of silk cut from Mother's dress when she was hemming.
She promises to sew doll clothes for me when Daddy's in
Chicago. She told me it's mauve and I think of her name and
I would like a mauve dress, too. The same as hers. Which is
what Auntie Makiko and Gracie have. The baby is too little for a
mauve dress.
a rabbit foot—to keep forever safe
binoculars for a charm bracelet
the Valentine from Skipper that Dad teased me about which is why
it's locked up
a wishbone from Barb
The Woman's Cabinet of Curiosities, a zuihitsu by Kimiko Hahn
A pewter wishbone
A needle carved from whalebone, a tortoise shell bracelet from
Nicaragua, a purse made from crocodile—keep those or throw
out—?
Bracelet with plastic evil-eye beads from Assisi
Risqué cartes de visite: nude woman reading a book
The puppy's baby tooth and from our backyard: a dragonfly, cicada,
three red feathers
Bira-bira ornament from Auntie Kimie
A wisp of dark hair tied with pink ribbon and the younger one's
blond strands tied with pink—how tiny they were, though large
in my body—
Occupied Japan figurine of a Chinese girl holding a lute—from my
girls
Dad's jackknife (Did Dad use that knife to slice mango at
Grandma's?) (Did he get it in the Navy?) (Did his father give it
to him?)
Three fish hooks
A pinkie-size glass snail. A matchbook-size dictionary. A diaper pin.
A Menehune carved from wood.
A dried rose, white, from my first wedding—from my hair
The Valentine I made for Mother when I was in grade school
A knife from Dad
Live Feed by Sally Wen Mao
After I am dead, I will hunt you
day and night. Pixelated ghosts
will haunt your ears. Trees will crack
under my electric weight.
In a minute my arrest
will go live, handcuff you to your bed.
It's starting: I watch you watch me.
I watch you lurk me, my starling,
it rolls: I'm the beggar. I shake the train—
gyrate, move, bare my shoulders, they come
for me, jostle and flay.
I am a fish and a pariah
drying in my oubliette.
Release me—share me, my shards
and my innards—
reduce me to a watering hole
for your thirst. Thrash
against my pincers. Undo
yourself, let the oculus
burn through my clothes, record
every mistake I make.
I feed you my limbs
in this glass container. I limn
you with this fodder
and you taste.
Death Theory by Bianca Stone
When people die we can finally love them
how we want to love them.
Like how when our dog runs away
we realize how every day we got up
in the freezing darkness to let it out
into the front yard. It wasn't much.
But we remember the shivering
and the steam rising from the ground.
When people die their odor lingers
only for a week or two in our hair. But then
we get out of bed with death
and leave silently before death wakes up.
Light speed is what our hearts move at.
Backward in time. At a crushing, impossible speed.
What I mean is, we can love them uninhibited
by their shortcomings and, possibly,
their brutality. Love them how we wish
we had. But still this is going to mean
we're carrying a sack of bones and bedclothes
around on our backs. This means we are all
cheap peddlers of sorrow.