Happy Monday,
blessed Imbolc,
and a powerful Black History Month, dear readers!
Imbolc is Brigid's sabbat. It's when we heathens of a particular flavor celebrate poetry, rebirth, the sun's return, fertility, inspiration, fire & light, music, and smithery. I've blogged about my love of Imbolc in the past, because it's always a powerful way to pull me out of the post-Yule doldrums, and there are few things I love more than cold, bonfires, and poetry.
Even if you don't celebrate Imbolc, I invite you to take a few quiet moments to reflect on some new or beloved poetry. I recommend you check out the Poetry Foundations' article on Lucille Clifton
cutting greens
by Lucille Clifton
curling them around
i hold their bodies in obscene embrace
thinking of everything but kinship.
collards and kale
strain against each strange other
away from my kissmaking hand and
the iron bedpot.
the pot is black,
the cutting board is black,
|my hand,
and just for a minute
the greens roll black under the knife,
and the kitchen twists dark on its spine
and I taste in my natural appetite
the bond of live things everywhere.
I believe it would be a mistake to end the post here. It's important to say the words out loud, especially on a day to honor and revere poets and Black Americans (all month, all year). Poetry is not white. It's not straight. It's not cisgender. We must read, hear, see black voices every day. Our country is sick with White Supremacy and we can't heal together if we don't hear now. Black Americans are dying every day from systematic racism; in the justice system, at the hands of police, and even in healthcare. Just this week an article was posted that a Black man, father & husband, David Bell, died in the Barnes-Jewish hospital parking lot after being refused care (the third time). Not to mention the outrageous mortality rate for Black mothers and babies in our hospital systems (an issue that tennis GOAT all time champ of all things, Serena Williams has talked about at length after the birth of her daughter).
Those of us white poets must step up to stand behind Black (and BIPOC) folks because there is no other time. Now is the time. Now will always be the time.
20 Black Poets You Should Know & Love.
Read, but also think about how you can help in your daily life.
Today, I'd like to recall the last lines of Amanda Gormon's inaugural poem, "The Hill We Climb":
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it
Black voices are powerful, beautiful, and important. They are the light. Black poets paved a highway through our collective histories with tales of humanity, queerness, womanhood, Blackness, gender, family... We owe an incalculable debt to our Black poets, past and present, for saying the hard, the joyous, the invisible things that many of us white people want to ignore (except during Black History Month).
Normally I would end my blog post with a little blip about supporting my writing through ko-fi or what have you. Today, I want you to go support a Black voice. Read a poem by a Black poet to your child or your partner or your bestfriend. Listen, hear, be vulnerable and uncomfortable, learn, heal, elevate. Go on, go read some Audre Lorde or Rita Dove.
Love,
Kit
