You Are Standing on a Bridge
We don't know what we are crossing towards. We do know the only way there is together.
Dear Readers,
I write to you on the eve of the most important election of our lifetimes. As our latest poetry reminds me, tomorrow is a bridge we must cross. It spans days. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Catherine Strayhall writes below, "Let our hope be a promise to do better than our histories." And electoral justice has long been a fragile destination. We don’t yet know precisely what we are crossing towards. We do know the only way there is together.
No matter what happens in the days to come, Poets Reading the News will be here working to document, process and activate with poetry. Perhaps when we are on the other side, words of beauty will have greater cause to exist than words of resistance. It is possible.
But only if you vote.
Below, rest your eyes on poetry for this moment by Susana Pravez-Perez, Gary Margolis, Jeffrey Cyphers Wright, Dion O'Reilly, Catherine Strayhall and Adriana Rewald.
In solidarity,
Elle Aviv Newton
Editor in Chief
Love Notes and Dissent
By Catherine Strayhall
after langston hughes and emma lazarus
no time for grief; not anymore. a
neighbor needs you. a sister needs
you. a stranger needs you. so wear
your mask proudly. read langston
loudly, let america be truth to
devastation. let it be love notes
to each other. let love notes be
black ink on ballots and lace-
collared dissent. let dissent be
the hands we hold out to each
other. let our hands be the
bridges we’re building. let our
bridges cross miles, oceans,
origins. let our origins be everywhere
someone is dreaming. let our dreams
be without cages, without tear gas,
without walls. let our walls be a
memory. let our memories be
unflinching. let our unflinching
hearts crack, but let them crack open.
let our open arms lock together and
embrace the yearning to breathe
free. let our freedom be our
responsibility, our responsibility
our outrage, our outrage
our hope. let our hope be a
promise to do better than our
histories. let the histories we write
be something we’re proud of
tomorrow. let tomorrow be the time
we stand though we’re shaking. let
our stand be remembered as a
transmutation of grief; as the future
we forge from these ashes and nights.
and let our nights lead to brilliant,
incandescent dawns—grateful sunrises.
we exist side-by-side, reading poetry to
november air, pledging ourselves to each
other in that fragile valor called faith
I Turn to Prayer
By Susana Praver-Perez
There are no atheists in foxholes
–source uncertain
On a planet where the sun rises red
and the moon glows amber
like a spoon of honey
in a coffee sky, a virus still rages
like the fires
flaming five million acres
of forests and homes.Good and bad hair days
have been replaced by
good and bad air days–
And for a heap of weeks,
our air has been a mess.I mask for ash-filled skies and COVID
all rolled into an apocalyptic brew
in a nation debating masks
all the way to the cemetery.Now, pestilence snakes
through the White House halls–
Trump got the bug, karmic justice
and just plain disdain
finally catching up with him.I’m not one to wish folks ill,
though the man throws tinder
on wildfires
of injustice.
I don’t want to be crass, so
I turn to prayer–May the flame of COVID’s fever burn white
supremacy from his brain.
May walking death’s highway teach him
how much life matters–
black & brown lives too.
The American People
By Gary Margolis
When I hear you speak
of the American People
I ask myself what people
you’re speaking about.
And whether you’ve walked
a road like mine. Where,
more often than not,
you’ll see someone
setting out their trash,
raking leaves into a ditch.
Waving at a school bus,
after the plow drives by.
Someone who pledges
allegiance to the sky
and the honking,
migrating geese.
Looking for a cornfield
to lie down in
overnight.
Before they take flight
again in the morning.
All of them, one people
you could say.
If you’re not afraid
to see a goose as a person,
taking its place
in the shifting wing
of a flock. Each one
calling to the others
to follow the changing
leader. To stay strong
for the long road ahead.
Not a road really,
but a path through
the personable clouds.
A place to disappear in
for a while. Before coming out
the other side.
Which is what the candidate
seems to be saying
to the crowd looking out
their windows.
Trying to hear what he’s
promising. Between now
and election day.
When whoever wins
will beseech, address
the American People,
those shadows leaving
their marks on the snow.
To come together as if
then was then and now
is now.
As if I can believe
what I’m hearing.
There Was Smoke in the Sunrise
By Dion O'Reilly
It glitzed the vinyl floor
an oxblood hue. Outside a clatter
in the naked snag. Crow caws
like stilettos on concrete. For years
they’ve been warning us—
black Cassandras of the power lines.
It’s sad, really, how pain teaches
truth, as if it knows something
we need to learn.
It seems so simple—
the fox choked on chicken feathers,
the wolf slit open, the eaten freed.
I can barely wait for the ending,
the lifted axe, the melted witch.
How I love a campfire story—
my face hot from the blaze,
my back blained with cold.
Behind me, the tangled trees,
the endless dark, so many ravenous
creatures I can’t see.
NONSENSE HOTLINE
By Jeffrey Cyphers Wright
Languishing in the Department of Anguish
Tuesday spins, tipsy on its tilted axis
Trump Stumps in Battleground States
Blessed are the hungry, for they feed truth
Black beans with epazote and beet greens
Dream I cut into the buffet line
Free Leonard Peltier Day
Squatters’ Rights Day
Spoiler Alert vs Trigger Warming
Shelf life of a burning heart
Alphabet soup on afternoon’s mustache
Trap your inner sun, earth links
Fog wraps silver rags around time’s neck
The rest of us surging to bumrush the clock
You Shouldn't Have Pissed Us Off: A Lesson in Polish Obscenity
By Adriana Rewald
Now, better than ever, we understand the thick,
necessary art of cursing in Polish: kurwa
and its ten thousand variants, each a needle stuck
at a new angle. A fragile body can only take
so much insertion before it begins to bruise.
And, well, you made it about bodies.
So, look, do kurwy nędzy! It’s bodies, bodies,
bodies, clogging roundabouts, lining up across
tram tracks, swelling in the streets to bisect
the status quo. Going in and putting weight
on the rot, so it’s impossible to dismiss.
Bodies taking up space in the naves, bodies
encircling pillars, bodies sitting cross-legged
on the steps leading up to the pulpits.
The admonitions of Our Fathers gurgle like
the final gówniany swill down the drain.
Poland exercises its right to swear its oaths
loudly and out in the open, in writing on the walls
of the city, in symbols, on posters, in online
storms and real storms, lightning passing
from each of us to the next.
Understand that we will decide what to do
with our electrical impulses. That if we tell you
wypierdalaj, that is our choice and you,
kneading your brow in session or puffing wetly
at the pundits on nationalized television, you
are just as permeable as any skin-thing,
and you should probably listen.
Proclamation on Indigenous Peoples' Day
By Leila K. Norako
Christopher Columbus
ushered
European settlements on[to]
the shores—inhuman
contributions. native
heritage warmth
and generosity love of family
strengthen the fabric of
communities Columbus
sought to
replace. his radical
ideology and its adherents—
inherently sinister orthodoxy. We
must not give in to these tactics. We
must teach future generations about our heritage—
of Columbus
destroying.
To ensure that we
build,
encourage educators to teach
concepts
grounded in
history.
We must
stand against those who spread hate.On this day we m[u]st
listen.We m[u]st
[un]settle a
nation.NOW,
by virtue of the authority vested inthe people, observe this day with appropriate ceremonies
and give all
this
Land
[back].