Top Posts Tagged with #girmay

This Morning the Small Bird Brought a Message from the Other Side

Aracelis Girmay

I would not call it fear or the absence of fear that I woke with, but worry, this morning when I rose up from the bed, & saw, with clear seeing, for the first time, that my chest was a small, red cup, or bird in my hand, somehow thirsty, its injury made me panic for it & I carried it with me not knowing what to do with its small speech, the way it said your name.

I want to know what to do with the dead things we carry.

If I were to wake another morning, maybe tomorrow, with the red thing in my chest or hand, what would I do? Will I?

& the bird, would it attempt, to cross over, would it come again from the body's realm of animals & claws? Would it risk its life again to give me the message of your name? Would I trust my mouth to resuscitate the messenger, small bird, knowing I could kill it with my teeth?

(Kingdom Animalia BOA Editions via grief to light)

#aracelis girmay #aracelis #girmay #agirmay #bird #messnger #life #risk #kill #wake #tomorrow #dead #things #carry #poetry #poem #name #trust #mouth #small #red #chest #panic #fear #worry #awake

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I Am Not Ready To Die Yet

by Aracelis Girmay

I am not ready to die yet: magnolia tree going wild outside my kitchen window & the dog needs a house, &, by the way, I just met you, my sisters & I have things to do, & I need to talk on the phone with my brother. Plant a tree. & all the things I said I’d get better at. In other words, I am not ready to die yet because didn’t we say we’d have a picnic the first hot day, I mean, the first really, really hot day? Taqueria. & swim, kin, & mussel & friend, don’t you go, go, no. Today we saw the dead bird, & stopped for it. & the airplanes glided above us. & the wind lifted the dead bird’s feathers. I am not ready to die yet. I want to live longer knowing that wind still moves a dead bird’s feathers. Wind doesn’t move over & say That thing can’t fly. Don’t go there. It’s dead. No, it just blows & blows lifting what it can. I am not ready to die yet. No. I want to live longer. I want to love you longer, say it again, I want to love you longer & sing that song again. & get pummeled by the sea & come up breathing & hot sun & those walks & those kids & hard laugh, clap your hands. I am not ready to die yet. Give me more dreams. To taste the fig. To hear the coyote, closer. I am not ready to die yet. But when I go, I’ll go knowing there will be a next time. I want to be like the cactus fields I drove through in Arizona. If I am a cactus, be the cactus I grow next to, arms up, every day, let me face you, every day of my cactus life. & when I go or you go, let me see you again somewhere, or you see me. Isn’t that you, old friend, my love? you might say, while swimming in some ocean to the small fish at your ankle. Or, Weren’t you my sister once? I might say to the sad, brown dog who follows me down the street. Or to the small boy or old woman or horse eye or to the tree. I know I knew I know you, too. I’m saying, could this be what makes me stop in front of that dogwood, train whistle, those curtains blowing in that window. See now, there go some eyes you knew once riding the legs of another animal, wearing its blue sky, magnolia, wearing its bear or fine or wolf-wolf suit, see, somewhere in the night a mouth is singing You remind me You remind me & the heart flips over in the dusky sea of its chest like a fish signaling Yes, yes it was me! & yes, it was, & you were there, & are here now, yes, honey, yes hive, yes I will, Jack, see you again, even if it’s a lie, don’t let me know, not yet, not ever, I need to think I’ll see you, oh, see you again.

#aracelis girmay #aracelis #girmay #agirmay #die #death #life #honey #hive #love #swim #ocean #small #boy #eyes #live #longer #tree

Elegy

by Aracelis Girmay

What to do with this knowledge that our living is not guaranteed?

Perhaps one day you touch the young branch of something beautiful. & it grows & grows despite your birthdays & the death certificate, & it one day shades the heads of something beautiful or makes itself useful to the nest. Walk out of your house, then, believing in this. Nothing else matters.

All above us is the touching of strangers & parrots, some of them human, some of them not human.

Listen to me. I am telling you a true thing. This is the only kingdom. The kingdom of touching; the touches of the disappearing, things.

#aracelis #girmay #agirmay #elegy #poem #poetry #touch #branch #beautiful #grow #grwoth #birthday #death #shade #parrots #strangers #human #true #truth #touching #disappear

You Are Who I Love

by Aracelis Girmay

You, selling roses out of a silver grocery cart

You, in the park, feeding the pigeons You cheering for the bees

You with cats in your voice in the morning, feeding cats

You protecting the river You are who I love delivering babies, nursing the sick

You with henna on your feet and a gold star in your nose

You taking your medicine, reading the magazines

You looking into the faces of young people as they pass, smiling and saying, Alright! which, they know it, means I see you, Family. I love you. Keep on.

You dancing in the kitchen, on the sidewalk, in the subway waiting for the train because Stevie Wonder, Héctor Lavoe, La Lupe

You stirring the pot of beans, you, washing your father’s feet

You are who I love, you reciting Darwish, then June

Feeding your heart, teaching your parents how to do The Dougie, counting to 10, reading your patients’ charts

You are who I love, changing policies, standing in line for water, stocking the food pantries, making a meal

You are who I love, writing letters, calling the senators, you who, with the seconds of your body (with your time here), arrive on buses, on trains, in cars, by foot to stand in the January streets against the cool and brutal offices, saying: YOUR CRUELTY DOES NOT SPEAK FOR ME

You are who I love, you struggling to see

You struggling to love or find a question

You better than me, you kinder and so blistering with anger, you are who I love, standing in the wind, salvaging the umbrellas, graduating from school, wearing holes in your shoes

You are who I love weeping or touching the faces of the weeping

You, Violeta Parra, grateful for the alphabet, for sound, singing toward us in the dream

You carrying your brother home You noticing the butterflies

Sharing your water, sharing your potatoes and greens

You who did and did not survive You who cleaned the kitchens You who built the railroad tracks and roads You who replanted the trees, listening to the work of squirrels and birds, you are who I love You whose blood was taken, whose hands and lives were taken, with or without your saying Yes, I mean to give. You are who I love.

You who the borders crossed You whose fires You decent with rage, so in love with the earth You writing poems alongside children

You cactus, water, sparrow, crow You, my elder You are who I love, summoning the courage, making the cobbler,

getting the blood drawn, sharing the difficult news, you always planting the marigolds, learning to walk wherever you are, learning to read wherever you are, you baking the bread, you come to me in dreams, you kissing the faces of your dead wherever you are, speaking to your children in your mother’s languages, tootsing the birds

You are who I love, behind the library desk, leaving who might kill you, crying with the love songs, polishing your shoes, lighting the candles, getting through the first day despite the whisperers sniping fail fail fail

You are who I love, you who beat and did not beat the odds, you who knows that any good thing you have is the result of someone else’s sacrifice, work, you who fights for reparations

You are who I love, you who stands at the courthouse with the sign that reads NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE

You are who I love, singing Leonard Cohen to the snow, you with glitter on your face, wearing a kilt and violet lipstick

You are who I love, sighing in your sleep

You, playing drums in the procession, you feeding the chickens and humming as you hem the skirt, you sharpening the pencil, you writing the poem about the loneliness of the astronaut

You wanting to listen, you trying to be so still

You are who I love, mothering the dogs, standing with horses

You in brightness and in darkness, throwing your head back as you laugh, kissing your hand

You carrying the berbere from the mill, and the jug of oil pressed from the olives of the trees you belong to

You studying stars, you are who I love braiding your child’s hair

You are who I love, crossing the desert and trying to cross the desert

You are who I love, working the shifts to buy books, rice, tomatoes,

bathing your children as you listen to the lecture, heating the kitchen with the oven, up early, up late

You are who I love, learning English, learning Spanish, drawing flowers on your hand with a ballpoint pen, taking the bus home

You are who I love, speaking plainly about your pain, sucking your teeth at the airport terminal television every time the politicians say something that offends your sense of decency, of thought, which is often

You are who I love, throwing your hands up in agony or disbelief, shaking your head, arguing back, out loud or inside of yourself, holding close your incredulity which, yes, too, I love I love

your working heart, how each of its gestures, tiny or big, stand beside my own agony, building a forest there

How “Fuck you” becomes a love song

You are who I love, carrying the signs, packing the lunches, with the rain on your face

You at the edges and shores, in the rooms of quiet, in the rooms of shouting, in the airport terminal, at the bus depot saying “No!” and each of us looking out from the gorgeous unlikelihood of our lives at all, finding ourselves here, witnesses to each other’s tenderness, which, this moment, is fury, is rage, which, this moment, is another way of saying:

You are who I love You are who I love You and you and you are who

(via KO)

#ko #Aracelis Girmay #aracelis #girmay #agirmay #love #you #people #so much resonance in this one poem #ac #saudade #saudadechat #poetry #poem

I Am Not Ready To Die Yet, Aracelis Girmay

#poetry #art #artist #girmay #poem #writing #quotes

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ELEGY by Aracelis Girmay

what to do with this knowledge that our living is not guaranteed?

All above us is the touching of strangers & parrots, some of them human, some of them not human

Listen to me. I am telling you a true thing. This is the only kingdom. The kingdom of touching; the touches of the disappearing, things.

#poetry #poem #arecelisGirmay #Girmay #aracelis

Here are one thousand of your days you would’ve given back for your parents to stay with it, little, little girl, put them down, all their hawks & quiet weeds, look those long days in the eyes, see their sleepless flash & royal, the hard, hard suffocating days, the days you danced in wildly, even in your sleep. Here. & do not ever say again that you don’t know what it is to stay or to be stayed with, that you don’t get love & maybe couldn’t do it, not like that, when, in fact, that’s all you’ve ever known. Day after day, after day, here is your love, your love that has gone nowhere away from you. Here is a blue sky. Here is the smell of grass on your fingers. Here is a flower. A road, a shoreline. Here are kites rising. Here is breath. Here are your saints, your father’s heart, here is love to believe in, your mother’s cheek. Here is an airplane’s lights, here is a new, white hook of moon, a tiger’s tooth. Here is your mother’s perfume. Here is the ocean, your brother’s shoes. Here is an electric, church organ & a flock of birds outside the window doing their glide & switch, glide & switch, like flags or fish or two-eyed angels. Here is the parking lot where Lucinda slaps hands with bow-legged Small. Here is old Mother Trottie whose foot grew back in church, don’t shake your head, you saw it. Here is the miracle. Here are your dresses & blue jeans. Here are your days, days, days, their black & blue. Here are your bruises, your back & forth. Here is the crow that circles your heart. Here are your seesaw years. Here are all the things you prayed for. Where do they go? Here is the yellow, yellow day. Here is the black, black night. Here is breath. Here is a love you have not had to leave, not yet, not yesterday, not this morning, who knows, oh, terrible & beautiful & giant, hibiscus here, is a fruit tree, a day, a god who looks you in the face despite your fifty heartbreaks, now, Here is a god to make you sing & pray to, oh, good & wrecked & here & here & here.

Girmay

#Girmay #poetry