As political a poem as I've written I suppose, from back in January

 


Unnamed in the figure of shadow

Not without a name, but stripped syllables,

The bright contours of phoneme reft

From the curved seraph, but the thing

Still itself, there where we’ve pointed. 

The names gathered, some attempt 

At hiding tantamount to a hope for

Disappearance altogether. Take my name

Then hear from my own keening

A song spill out still from my lips. 

There were already worlds where you

Wouldn’t look. Call them shadows

& pluck from them names to kindle 

Fires, but nameless or no here they

Remain, grave & luminous &

Seeing you






* I hadn't read this since writing it four months ago, & it's funny, at first I was appalled that I had used the word 'name' over & over, like some candied jewel stuck in my mouth the whole time, but then I think it's sort of perfect, given the context. How it is rendered into anonymity while also becoming singular. How it becomes a choice & a thing sought. I love that subconsciously when you write a poem (or anything, but it happens to me on reading poems mostly), it's never just the actors visible on stage but the whole crew at work. Some of the best connections in meaning seem to come from the least intentional connections or contiguities. Which doesn't mean anyone has to like them, but I like that our brains or hearts or whole bodies conspire like that from time to time.


(Just the sort of insightful exegesis that made academia so delightful for me.)

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