Two poems
Aerate: Far afield
Hone
Shanita Bigelow
Aerate: Far afield
Hone
Shanita Bigelow
"Composition" by Andree Rexroth; pencil and watercolor on paper; 9 x 6 in.; ca. 1935-1943; open source from the Smithsonian American Art Museum
Aerate: Far afield
Ego, set the tempo. Let this little ditty bop.
I pace. It plays, a sodden floor of remembrance.
I mumble into a cup of willful reverie. I wish
it would falter. It saddens me. The song
in my head, impromptu and staggering, can’t
fill my mingling mouth. I can’t find the words.
Feet tap. I splinter into grace. Let it loose.
Let it wreck this house. Let it be another body
disembodied—make her more than the one she
came in. Make more of her than a name we mourn.
Make more of her than the shape of a forlorn whistle.
Make her again—a body, a voice, flux and delight.
See that feather, dark, full of an oil slick rainbow?
Leave it be. Let it settle, decompose. Torch
the sky. Clean your mouth of ash. Disinfect
your teeth. Let the tongue cleave every other word
for “contain.” Let there be more distance to pace, more
flight, less assent. Let this not be an end.
Ego, set the tempo. Let this little ditty bop.
I pace. It plays, a sodden floor of remembrance.
I mumble into a cup of willful reverie. I wish
it would falter. It saddens me. The song
in my head, impromptu and staggering, can’t
fill my mingling mouth. I can’t find the words.
Feet tap. I splinter into grace. Let it loose.
Let it wreck this house. Let it be another body
disembodied—make her more than the one she
came in. Make more of her than a name we mourn.
Make more of her than the shape of a forlorn whistle.
Make her again—a body, a voice, flux and delight.
See that feather, dark, full of an oil slick rainbow?
Leave it be. Let it settle, decompose. Torch
the sky. Clean your mouth of ash. Disinfect
your teeth. Let the tongue cleave every other word
for “contain.” Let there be more distance to pace, more
flight, less assent. Let this not be an end.
Hone
after Jean Toomer
Perfect the thistle spires. Perfect the line.
Encroach on rapacious centers. I see the blade.
We see the blade. Let it swing and shine.
Let it alarm the willful. Let it pierce merciless eyes.
Perfect line. Perfect ends.
Water everywhere. Broken glass, a squashed can of tomato paste.
An alarm rings, and the aisles are empty again. This time the dis-ease too far gone
for the essential among us. This time the virus, a sinewy hate, tethers us to dark
sound, blade sharpened, teeth whetted with a righteous grief. Anger swells. Watch
as light pours out atop the pawn shop and grocery store, another target to drop--
helicopter hovers. We watch and watch, we mill in and out hands full, arms full,
beginning to be heard again. Have said it all before. Cut our tongue on words:
on “awareness,” “justice,” on “it could be me,” on “wait,” on “system” and “failure,”
on “hope.” We bleed, that silent swinging centered in profit, a maligned discord.
How am I going to get my medicine? How am I going to eat today? Watch
as death drowns out the light of another good body, proud figure. All too often
they go on swinging silently, and I watch and watch and watch and say something,
anything, everything, plead for understanding. Money pours in for another homegoing.
Money slinks away from another corporate investment in community. We are left
bleeding at the center.
I see the blade. I watch the weeping rage. I weep and rage.
I see the blade, stained, in motion cutting and cutting
and cutting away to the bone.
Our tongues are sharp. Our minds unfurl in the heat of gestation, unfurl with the
intrepid call to cease ignoble operations. We see the blade, have seen it, have warned
of its night vision, heat detection. Another body, they see/say—another vision diminished
in spectacle. Another spectacular demise. We rise and rise and rise, above the blade,
its sweeping mechanisms, above the putrid air and flood lights, beyond the broken glass
and flames into the weary wild of negotiation.
after Jean Toomer
Perfect the thistle spires. Perfect the line.
Encroach on rapacious centers. I see the blade.
We see the blade. Let it swing and shine.
Let it alarm the willful. Let it pierce merciless eyes.
Perfect line. Perfect ends.
Water everywhere. Broken glass, a squashed can of tomato paste.
An alarm rings, and the aisles are empty again. This time the dis-ease too far gone
for the essential among us. This time the virus, a sinewy hate, tethers us to dark
sound, blade sharpened, teeth whetted with a righteous grief. Anger swells. Watch
as light pours out atop the pawn shop and grocery store, another target to drop--
helicopter hovers. We watch and watch, we mill in and out hands full, arms full,
beginning to be heard again. Have said it all before. Cut our tongue on words:
on “awareness,” “justice,” on “it could be me,” on “wait,” on “system” and “failure,”
on “hope.” We bleed, that silent swinging centered in profit, a maligned discord.
How am I going to get my medicine? How am I going to eat today? Watch
as death drowns out the light of another good body, proud figure. All too often
they go on swinging silently, and I watch and watch and watch and say something,
anything, everything, plead for understanding. Money pours in for another homegoing.
Money slinks away from another corporate investment in community. We are left
bleeding at the center.
I see the blade. I watch the weeping rage. I weep and rage.
I see the blade, stained, in motion cutting and cutting
and cutting away to the bone.
Our tongues are sharp. Our minds unfurl in the heat of gestation, unfurl with the
intrepid call to cease ignoble operations. We see the blade, have seen it, have warned
of its night vision, heat detection. Another body, they see/say—another vision diminished
in spectacle. Another spectacular demise. We rise and rise and rise, above the blade,
its sweeping mechanisms, above the putrid air and flood lights, beyond the broken glass
and flames into the weary wild of negotiation.
About the Author
Shanita Bigelow is a poet and educator whose work has appeared in Four Way Review, SAND Journal, Bombay Gin, New American Writing, Callaloo, and African American Review, among other publications.
About the Work
"These poems are attempts at understanding what can be confused, what is conflated in the space of fact and memory. How do we come to terms, find the terms for this time? How do we continue to move language(s) toward change, move our bodies/beings toward change and critical thought/action? I wrestle with both the stillness and flux of this moment. This year has asked many questions of me, my creativity and integrity. I think those go hand in hand. I wonder feverishly of what is to come, what does the “weary wild of negotiation” look like for self, for the collective?"
Shanita Bigelow is a poet and educator whose work has appeared in Four Way Review, SAND Journal, Bombay Gin, New American Writing, Callaloo, and African American Review, among other publications.
About the Work
"These poems are attempts at understanding what can be confused, what is conflated in the space of fact and memory. How do we come to terms, find the terms for this time? How do we continue to move language(s) toward change, move our bodies/beings toward change and critical thought/action? I wrestle with both the stillness and flux of this moment. This year has asked many questions of me, my creativity and integrity. I think those go hand in hand. I wonder feverishly of what is to come, what does the “weary wild of negotiation” look like for self, for the collective?"
