Knowledge demands
that we write and cross out and rewrite
and cross out and right our theories of
space-mind-time-body-heart, and remember not to forget:
Nina Simone, who "knows about
Mississippi," Robert Penn Warren, who thinks he does,
Frederick Douglass, who men "shall
remember" but how?, 1865, Winslow Homer,
the pastoral Walt Whitman– and O!
his "glistening perfect" South– graveyard,
Narcissus, 1959, the body and what "it
can say" of God and evidence of dearth,
no dearth of evidence of death, after
death, after life, your death or mine,
our birth from the land, the ocean,
aperture, chasm,
the breach, the terrific and
terrifying breach
between who we are and who we are,
and the intimacy between who
we appear to be and who we are
not but who we are supposed to be
– and according to who?
Knowledge demands
all this overwhelms, becomes too much,
this evidence, this space,
this time, these myths at dusk had
better be "enough to call someone home."
Knowledge demands
that we question history,
History,
his story,
his logic,
his definition of Knowledge itself.
Knowledge demands
that we define
everything
everything
everything even as we unwind
our definition of ourselves.
Knowledge demands
that we refuse to play into the master
narrative,
whatever we're told our roles may be.
Knowledge demands
that I recognize this "we" I
so readily assert as unreal,
fictitious, constructed from my own
ideas,
themselves spun of thin twisting
threads and of seeds
from here and of seeds from across
vast seas,
sewn and unsewn and resewn in the
ground
I've been taught to call my own.
Knowledge demands
that we find a container,
a poetic form, a place to start from,
a way to hold all our non-legible
knowledge;
a way, this way, "already the
words are changing,"
and this does not mean the words
aren't real.
Knowledge demands
discomfort
that I listen
holy anger
that I listen
solidarity.
Maddie! This poem really resonated with me. Especially this section:
ReplyDeleteKnowledge demands
that I recognize this "we" I so readily assert as unreal,
fictitious, constructed from my own ideas,
themselves spun of thin twisting threads and of seeds
from here and of seeds from across vast seas,
sewn and unsewn and resewn in the ground
I've been taught to call my own.
Your poem ends with solidarity. That word is thrown around a lot, especially here at K. It’s a word I hear often as a plea, as a threat. I feel like this passage from your poem really voiced what my thoughts about the word solidarity are at this moment. That this “we I so readily assert [is] unreal” … and “constructed from my own ideas”. Realizing that you’ve been indoctrinated with lies your whole life is a tough process, of course, but I feel like what comes after is harder. All the ideas you’ve had in your life, how many of them are constructed from these lies? And the ones that “pass” the close inspection of whether an idea is fucked up or not, does it still have the seeds of these lies we’ve been taught? Who is this we? And why is it so easy for me to slip into it? Why do I use we and you we I could be using I? Is it pride? Am I so sure my experiences are universal? Is it a safety net? Do I have less accountability when I can blur into the background of a we?
These are just some of the questions I am taking with me into fourth week. Your poem ends with solidarity and the word itself implies that there is a group involved. But I think it, especially given the quoted passage, that it could also mean solidarity with one’s self. Learning, unlearning, relearning. Starting a new thread based on truth.
Thank you for the poem.