Grass Woven Into Words
The Weekly Pause (Humanity United)
grass[1] woven[2] into[3] language[4]
[1] woven into a mosquito’s nest for babies our grandmother told us mosquitoes have nests i should have thought to ask but i never questioned the fact from our grandmothers fingers twisting knowledge plaiting strands of grasses now you try she told each of us & these days i still remember what kinds of grasses can make nests that need to be woven tightly because they taught us in school that mosquitoes sucked at our blood anopheles mosquitoes female mosquitoes never thinking we needed to hold on to our girl blood too because female anopheles mosquitoes needed ours to grow their babies so our grandmother taught us how to make nests & these days I hold strands of grasses in my fingers which have a thin memory of how to fold them i still know to pick the cylindrical ones the ones with feathered tops that we cut off because they were not part of the nests but my brain holds on to my grandmother’s voice between languages & the texts that we read in school from which we learned to spell nest & nets so how was i to hear different because i still never read anywhere that acholi made mosquitoes nets to stop the mosquitoes from biting our babies & my fingers still don’t remember & books still don’t know
[2] baskets
[3] knowledge for those who don’t live between languages
[4] which then holds on to us my fingers race through the keyboard but can’t remember the pattern of my grandmother’s mosquito nets
Video credit: Humanity United with thanks.
From Gauntlet (Nomados Press 2019)
glove1 we2 were the ones3 that didn’t fit4 so they5 were6 acquitted7 weren’t8 they9 while10 we11 got12 tossed13 back14 into the box15 got labelled16 stamped17 with18 date19 & time20 & forgotten21
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gratitude1 because2 where are you from3 because4 wow you’ve been here for such a long time because5 so you must have come here as a child because you’re such a long way from your home because6 because7 where did you learn to speak english so good because8 I’m just curious because your accent is so charming because9 you don’t look or sound like you’re from here because I’ve never seen you before
1 because i must feel so lucky to live in this country
2 where am i from where am i from where am i really really from 3 magic i’m from clouds from anywhere of nowhere that could fit
within the limits of your imagination
4 i know what alienation sounds like i really do
5 right you didn’t hear what I said can i repeat myself I have such
a sing songy way of speaking
6 these are your concerns how far i am away from home
7 at the borders between nations our tongues are measured & this
time they let me in
8 i still know what alienation sounds like I hear it every day
9 so i cannot forget what alienation sounds like
The Dogs are Coming
I hold my madness to my chest
after the dogs have gotten here
I hold my madness to my chest
because chest madness is silence everywhere else
God in the basement drunk
& it’s only just past noon
God in the basement in bits
& I’ve failed to put him back together
So if time won’t do?
Can we count words to remember the lives we lost on that day?
With what words?
With what stories can we tell
when we round off figures of people who lived their lives, or not;
madness just
madness just
madness across timelines
madness beyond graphs
madness beyond the clotheslines
lines & lines & lines & lines
except for the spot at the fence
where the neighbours haggle over who’s going to pay for what
What stories are there to tell in the presence of lovers
what of nature
what of annual cycles
what of wind & ocean rising to meet the stars?
What of the sun?
Yesterday you got out for the first time since last Monday
I told you to wear your madness around you like a cape
you refused
then you rushed back into the house
howling, splintering, gasping for breath
You’ve got to keep your madness to yourself
I’m telling
you just must
the dogs are coming
& the sun is not your friend
the dogs are coming
& the sun won’t be your friend
Superwoman cape
for Superwoman nothing
What words can rise up
collect itself like a hill or a mountain
on Monday morning on the way to work
same as it has always been:
we have nothing
we are nothing
time is nothing
& the mountains & hills will mock us until the end
So this is why I keep mine close to me
these are the end days
God in the basement in pieces
God toes scattered across the carpet
& God digits remain on the coffee table
Copyright © Juliane Okot Bitek. Originally published in EVENT Magazine (Issue 47.1, Spring/Summer 2018).
The Mundane, Sublime and Fantastical: 165 New Poems (36-38)
36.
On the other side of Saturday, she is shiny with desire
Today, not so much
Desire for what?
A clean house?
Well-behaved children?
A successful practice?
An unwavering hand at her back?
Saturdays leave much to be desired
Breakfast in bed for a tired woman
One day in the year
Two, three
A bouquet of flowers
Weloveyouweloveweloveyouwedo
A lop-sided smile
A small pinch
Ah, bwana, lakini wewe?
Let us not arouse the dead
37.
Distinctions:
1. Your loveliness — for this there is no struggle
2. Your location on the east gate. No one is coming to acknowledge your presence
3. The relationship between the breeze and a full skirt
4. There is nothing else but you
38.
Grace Lee Boggs on the period of transition:
“I’m very conscious of the sense of time. How long will I live? I’m very conscious of what time it is on the clock of the world. As I have grown older, I think more in terms of centuries, whereas eight or nine years ago, I was only thinking about decades.”
It’s almost morning in the clock of the world
A chandelier in the living room swings gently on it’s own, remember?
A pale sky
A tired night
An almost morning in the clock of the world
The earth itches in yet another spot
The first sign the the cold season is over — earthworms wriggle out
The first sign that the cold season will never be over — Grace Lee Boggs is gone
Tuesdays like Fridays Joe said
Tuesdays like elephants, like laughter, like skin. Tuesdays like elements of nature, like commitment, like fire. Tuesdays like forewords, like bridesmaids, like flowers, like coffee at eleven, like lotion that wears out with the afternoon sun. Tuesdays like opportunity. Tuesdays like relationships. Tuesdays like references, like printers, like home.The Hail Mary Project
165 New Poems: The Mundane, Sublime & Fantastical (151-155)
151.
forgive me, Jasmine
the foolishness with which I speak
surpasses my lack of humility
from last night
the world might heave
& swallow itself
but your arms about me are strong
& I’m safe
152.
when the instructions were given for jericho
we lined up, we of the margins
we lined up to sing & pray like everyone else
but they pointed at us & called us infidel
& called infidelity from our lyrics
& told us to go
so further & further out from the wall
of Jericho from the columns of song
from the layers & layers of prayer
& the centre where a golden god waited for freedom
we heard: not you infidel
not you with your infidelity
not you with that kind of soul beside you
so further & further
further & further until we turned our backs
to the centre & from the wall
& headed back home
153.
we headed for ethiopia
i to look for anu
you for aoife of the marvellous thighs
we walked a dark night
you held my hand
reminded me to look for the white line on the road
to watch for traffic
to listen for the direction of the river babble
154.
we walked in the dark
away from the margins
away from the walls of jericho
so the stars dimmed
& enveloped us into a darkness
with hard edges & a soft centre
155.
watch for traffic
remember the road line
stick to our stories
hold hands, hold hands
so we forgot about jericho
because we had each other
& a cabin that waited
165 New Poems: The Mundane, Sublime & Fantastical (146-150)
146.
Because Binyavanga Wainaina asked: “where were we when the beautiful Moses Taiwa Molelekwa died?”
trees line the street like widows waiting for a coffin
where were we when mokolekwa died?
i might have been painting likely not
i might have been loving or cracking hearts for dinner
i might have been walking home or stuck in traffic
or on the bus
or waiting for time
or waiting for time
mokelekwa was dying
mokelekwa was dead
the boulevard remains lined
trees like widows waiting for the body
where were we when molelekwa was dying?
i might have been doing dishes complaining
loving life or hating everything
mololekwa was dying he was dead
where were we?
where were we?
Where were we
when molelekwa was dying?
With their straight backed trunks
dignified trees still line the street
the coffin is on the way
147.
brother, we listened to you full of life
drank in your music as i marked papers
felt that much
that much
that much kinder, lighter
more alive
where was i when molelekwa died?
where was i split apart by his notes
remember
remember, damn it
remember
148.
i want you back but i have to contend
i want you back even as i have you
i have your music
i have your smile i have your words
still
i want you back i never had you
i want you back i won’t ever have the music
that died with you
where was i when molelekwa died?
149.
The trees are still in lines
that insist beyond the boulevards
we were waiting even when we didn’t know
we couldn’t have known
we were waiting a decade
before piano tickles & after
before trumpet blows & after
before we understood that the horns
would precede your last walk home
150.
where were we when molelekwa died?
the children were little still precious then
the children were incessant still dependant
i longed for music
i longed for you, molelekwa
not knowing & not knowing
on the way home
on the bus
in traffic
longing for this music
longing for this jazz
painting
or not painting
complaining all the time
longing longing
& still longing
other widows line the street
the way they always do
they wait backs straight heads bowed
to receive molelekwa & his love
The Mundane, Sublime and Fantastical: 165 New Poems (141-145)
141.
When weren’t they my hands
The dark-skinned ones
Weaving the loom with blackened nails
I see you, man
I see you on the other side of the window
Having an animated conversation
My head in my hands but I see you
When weren’t those hands mine?
The ones in the fundraising ad
To help preserve old knowledge, you know?
Because only your money can help save them
Us them us them us them us
I see you, man
Having an animated conversation
Now your first fingers under your chin
Your head tilted back
Your thumb is the trigger
My head in my hands
Crowd funding crowd funding
Crowd funding crowd crowd crowd
Shall I help you pull the trigger, man?
142.
We’ve fallen into story
& inside story this is all there is
This is all there is this is all there is
This is all
We fall
We fall
We fall
Into lightness
Into being
Brightness into flight
This is all there is this
Is all there is this is
All there is this becoming
What they wanted us to be
Coming into becoming
Into being
Who are we who are we who are
We again?
143.
You kissed me on the threshold
Because
You wanted to show
Your wife to
See you wanted my husband
To see you
Kiss me on the threshold you
Wanted me to see
Love you wanted to show your wife
Love you wanted to show my husband
Love you wanted to
144.
I almost saw you today
Almost you sitting in a chair ahead of me
Intent on the presentation
& I on almost you
& then almost you turned
& almost you wasn’t you at all
But just the back of your head nape shoulder
& the memory of my hands on you
Shapeshifting
145.
& now you’re a tiger snarling
& now you’re a memory
Now you’re an ache
Now goosebumps
& all I can feel is you
The Mundane, Sublime and Fantastical: 165 New poems (136-140)
136.
we arrive at the courthouse
my thighs & I
judge is already there
waiting for us
so he can be announced
& stood up for
we arrive, my thighs & I
judge with his red eyes glinting
i can’t yet tell whether he remembers
where we were last night
we arrive, my thighs & I
the courthouse is awash in excitement
the evidence is apparent
the collar of a priest
a rabid dog
a fan
we’re late, my thighs & I
late because you you said
we were only 8 minutes to squamish
& you know it took a lot longer than that
137.
the jury, all bespectacled
the jury of my peers
the peers of my thighs
the jury to decide our fate
finally
silence in the court
we stand there, my thighs & I
& await pronouncement
from a judge who’s eyes glint
with something
that may be a memory
138.
the gavel
a rabid dog
a fan
the collar of a priest
a sweaty palm
a smirk
a quiver
we won’t be going back home
if we’re pronounced guilty today
139.
my thighs & I are accused
of adjusting the truth
adjusting the truth?
yes, adjusting the truth
to fit the time we needed
to get to squamish
(you know exactly what i mean
you said it would take 8 minutes
& we were late)
& now we stand convicted
for this
but adjusting the truth
is no lie
the lie may be a fiction
but fiction is no lie
140.
she’s on her knees
as if caught in the grip of religion
muttering, muttering
a tulip sprouts from her head
the way it did last tuesday
she’s on her knees again
like she’s
in the presence of a mighty one
her hands over her face
you can’t hear if she she repeats
amen, amen, amen
on her knees
as if her legs have given out
& the lord won’t forgive her
as if he ever has