Poe says, ‘Tragedy is what makes good poetry.’ The intensive pain, the sound of grief pouring from your eyes.
The sight of rivulets flooding the dimple on your chin, or the smile you wore when you we’re pretending to be strong.
It is in the family that tells stories of how they survived genocide that spoke 4 languages, how they found out that all their injuries rhymed perfectly.
It is in my grandmother’s mattress which after she was gone, father said felt heavier than God.
Or how I traced my finger along the patterns of her jaynamaaz recalling everytime we prayed together.
Poetry is in the warm touch of your mother’s palm, it is in the rough chest of your father where you rest your head and fall asleep to the sound of the waves clashing against shore of the ocean of love he hides within.
Poetry is in the kind hearted mirror that shows you the things you want to see in yourself; in the window that shows you sky reminding you of how far you can go; in the book that is addicted to your voice.
But for me, the most poetically engaging and inspiring content is my mother’s old picture, honey legs in her skirt, she wears a purple dress with yellow flowers, cherry lips and her eyes say all that any man ever wanted to hear. Her straight short hair perfectly tucked behind her ears as she smiles with all her teeth.
The dress and smile she wore now fits my little sister. Not so little anymore I guess. Her skin loud enough to yell and gentle enough to promise.
For me, tragedy is a meal and I make sure I clean my plate and fill my appetite.
For me, music is what plays in the graveyard of words burried behind my throat and makes the dead rise from their graves.
For me, poetry is in the cracking summer sunlight and the rainy thunderous nights this city has blessed me with.
Poetry is what fills light in the darkness and what sings music in the silence. It eases the soul. It is what makes us believe that there still is something we cannot name and it is beautiful.
And then, when the thunderstorm come to rest and the beautiful calm melody of rain drops play ‘Hope’ on this beautiful planet we call home.
And your father’s ocean closes back up.
I concur that finding catharsis in this tempest of life is of highest literary value.
In fact, the most poetical thing is me dreaming of the future so often that I begin to mistake it for the now.
It is when I realized that we don’t want someone to love, we want someone to spit on our fingers to help us flip the pages of our book.
We don’t want someone to care for us, we want someone to hurt for us.
It is when I realize that finding social justice feels more like finding ways to cause more legal chaos. Maybe like we discovered marital rape.
And so I dip my pen into my ancestors corpse and write to honor their legacy.
I sit on my grandmother’s Jaynamaaz and pray for peace rather than her spot in heaven.
I find the women I love, and hurt for both of us.
I gather my tears to flip the pages of my books and decipher the sweet bundle of happiness squeezed in the middle of every sentence.
I live forever in every sentence I write.
I live forever in every word I pour on paper as it turns to poetry.
I live forever in the arms of the earth, wrapped in a white cloth looking up at the stars and finding peace in the distance.
