on hope

alice hoffman practical magic \\ anna badkhen to see beyond: a hoping in three pictures \\ lenelle moïse haiti glass: "the children of immigrants" \\ clementine von radics \\ denise levertov for the new year 1981 (via @petaltexturedskies) \\ franz wright earlier poems: "voice" (via @luthienne) \\ linda hogan ancient root

kofi

2023 in books: non-fiction edition

memoirs

Heavy: An American Memoir by Kiese Laymon (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Heart Berries by Terese Marie Mailhot (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

🔁The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Linea Nigra by Jazmina Barrera (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Happening by Annie Ernaux (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Biting the Hand: Growing Up Asian in Black and White America by Julia Lee (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Tokyo Vice: An American Reporter on the Police Beat in Japan (⭐⭐⭐)

The Skin Is the Elastic Covering That Encases the Entire Body by BjØrn Rasmussen (⭐⭐⭐)

Year of the Monkey by Patti Smith (⭐⭐)

essays

Thick: And Other Essays by Tressie McMillan Cottom (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

A Guest at the Feast: Essays by Colm Tóibin (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by Audre Lorde (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

Intimations by Zadie Smith (⭐⭐)

Wow, No Thank You by Samantha Irby (⭐⭐)

Bookends: Collected Intros and Outros by Michael Chabon (⭐)

I Don’t Want to Die Poor: Essays by Michael Arceneaux (⭐)

poetry - no ratings because i am a poetry novice lol

Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz

Bread and Circus by Airea Dee Matthews

Jane: A Murder by Maggie Nelson

Haiti Glass by Lenelle Moïse

Customs: Poems by Salmaz Sharif

The Tradition by Jericho Brown

Something Bright, Then Holes by Maggie Nelson

The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Guillotine: Poems by Eduardo C. Corral

The Book of Men by Dorianne Laux

Our Rarer Monsters by Noel Sloboda

Other

Kierkegaard: A Very Short Introduction by Patrick Gardiner (⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐)

The Great Derangement: Climate and the Unthinkable by Amitav Ghosh (⭐⭐⭐⭐)

The Book of Eels: Our Enduring Fascination with the Most Mysterious Creature in the Natural World by Patrik Svensson (⭐⭐⭐)

Spinoza: A Very Short Introduction by Roger Scruton (⭐⭐⭐)

Ghosting the News: Local Journalism and the Crisis of American Democracy by Margaret Sullivan (⭐⭐⭐)

Descartes: A Very Short Introduction by Tom Sorell (⭐⭐⭐)

Tokyo: A Biography by Stephen Mansfield (⭐⭐)

bloated trumpet carcasses, a singer swallows human sewage. her last note, a curse on america. aborted ultrasound. cacophonous warnings scatter brains. pedestrians hear calls to evacuate, escape, and think, how fast can on-foot run? the poor, the weary just drown. abandoned elders just drown. people in wheelchairs just drown. the sick in bed cannot leave. their doctors stay behind too. new emergencies engulf the e.r. swamped hospitals ain't hostels, ain't shelters. resources slim like hope. nurses stay behind too. their loyal partners will not leave. ill-fated rejects just drown. said, fetal fish in flood. outside, a breaking willow weeps like a father on his rooftop, murmuring his wife's last words: clutch tight to our babies and let me die, she pleaded, you can't hold on to us all, let me die.

— Lenelle Moïse, from “where our protest sound,” Haïti Glass

“Madivinez,” by Lenelle Moïse. This poem appears in Haiti Glass (2014), and in the second edition of Does Your Mama Know? An Anthology of Black Lesbian Coming Out Stories (edited by Lisa C. Moore, 2009).

“... In the apartment I share with the woman I love we have a bright yellow bookcase used as an arts altar. We shelve crayons, watercolors, ink, paper, glue for collages. I keep my Haitian Kreyòl-English dictionary behind the colored pencils -- its red cover taunts me daily. I am often too afraid to open it. I picked it up once when I first got it, hungry for familiar words that could make me feel home. I tried to look up ‘lesbian,’ but the little red book denied my existence. I called you, remember? ‘Mommi. How do you say lesbian in kreyòl?’ ‘Oh,’ you said, ‘You say madivinez, but it’s not a positive word. It’s vulgar.’

No one wants to be called madivinez. It’s like saying dyke. But how can cruelty sound so beautiful? Madivinez sounds so glamorous, something I want to be. Madivinez. My divine. Sounds so holy.

I thank you, I hang up the phone, to repeat my vulgar gift word as I write it into the dictionary next to ‘kè,’ kreyòl for heart. Glamorous. Holy. Haitian. Dyke. Heart. Something I want to be.”

Lenelle Moïse, “the children of immigrants” / Raelis Vasquez, The One Who Will Lose Her Accent and the One Who Never Will / Momtaza Mehri, “Small Talk” / Pat Mora, “Elena”

Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky.

Lenelle Moïse, in "the children of immigrants" from Haiti Glass

remember noah

—  Lenelle Moïse

you have to understand it was so hot sand as far as the eye could see sand in teeth a sealess life every step a sinking a scratch every storm more sand no sweat when we danced pure salt in our lovemaking i tried to spit once it came out like a whistle my first period curry powder old wives spoke of tears we thought they were senile laughter was our wettest thing we prayed often to no one we believed in music dry palms clapping dust on ankle bracelets we threw tabla and daff caught spirit and sagat a blaring life the wailing or caesarean births widows' eyes wept wind even our tongues were tanned something sun-dried in every recipe rays were babies' first words you have to understand we forgot how to be thirsty mud by then was primitive splashing the stuff of legend only giddiness quenched us we were dizzy all the time in the world all the time then we heard him grumbling to himself something about forty something about a flood clad in sheep's wool he reeked of wolf shit something about monogamy something about shelter i thought: this must be heatstroke i thought: the brain of a six-hundred-year-old i thought: he is a conceptual artist the ark an installation his masterpiece took years took trees got bigger he was our favorite dirty joke beloved schizophrenic neighbor then he started preaching then he kidnapped pigs mosquitos doves things that wanted to eat each other stuffed onto the same boat we threw our heads back we slapped ashy knees we mooned him threw hot stones we streaked whistled in his face kicked the baking ship laughter was our thunder thing the lucky ones died laughing for centuries he warned us condescending motherfucker foaming at the mouth sweat dripping from his beard condensation how did we miss it? i have no words for the first drop cooling the cheek grandfathers raised their arms lightning made the children leap sizzle gave way to drizzle humidity taught humility we opened our mouths swallowing everything the clouds begat clouds began to bite us back panic soaked our slouching spines the instruments drowned first we played them sopping out of tune denial gave way to rivers i fell into a puddle my very first shiver the shock of cold water made me orgasm so all the times before had been dry heave? so this was mourning this was mikveh? the sky from blue to za'atar hail we choked god's vomit filled our lungs apologies bellyflopped reaching went out of reach we ran from high desert to highest mountain to whirlpool or choral grief if noah had been merciful he would have taught us how to swim instead he saved two mice muttered prayers shut the door the best belly dancers became mermaids the dinosaurs learned to fly we never saw a rainbow our grave stones coral reef

Today’s Poem

mud mothers --Lenelle Moïse

the children of haiti are not mythological we are starving or eating salty cakes made of clay

because in 1804 we felled our former slave captors the graceless losers sunk vindictive yellow teeth into our forests

what was green is now dust and everyone knows trees unleash oxygen (another humble word for life)

they took off with our torn branches beheaded our future stuck our breath up on pikes for all the world to see

we are a living dead example of what happens to warriors who in lieu of fighting for white men's countries dare to fight for their own lives

during carnival we could care less about our bloated empty bellies where there are voices we are dancing

where there is vodou we are horses where there are drums we are possessed with joy and stubborn jamboree

but when the makeshift trumpet player runs out of rhythmic breath the only sound left is guts grumbling

and we sigh to remember that food and freedom are not free

is haiti really free if our babies die starving? if we cannot write our names read our rights keep our leaders in their seats?

can we be free? really? if our mothers are mud? if dead columbus keeps cursing us and nothing changes when we curse back

we are a proud resilient people though we return to dust daily salt gray clay with hot black tears savor snot cakes over suicide

we are hungry creative people sip bits of laughter when we are thirsty dance despite

this asthma called debt congesting legendarily liberated lungs

i want to talk about haiti. i always talk about haiti. my mouth quaking with her love, complexity, honor and respect.

come sit, come stand, come cry with me. talk. there’s much to say. walk. much more to do.

Lenelle Moïse

As with any community-based identity, naming practices are critical for the formation of a group, even if the words and names used may carry violent or pejorative meanings when uttered by folks outside of the community. The queer community in Haiti is no exception to this rule. In Haitian Creole, the words used by some members of the queer community – masisi, madivin/madivinèz, madoda, and miks – all carry the potential for queer community formation and violence against that very community. In their introduction to Women & Performance: a journal of feminist theory, entitled "Nou Mache Ansanm (We Walk Together): Queer Haitian Performance and Affiliation, Dasha Chapman, Erin Durbin-Albrecht, and Mario LaMothe cite how the late queer activist Charlot Jeudy referred to the 'M words' as the "Kominote M" (M Community). Chapman, Durbin-Albrecht, and LaMothe explain that "In print and mass media, community and public speeches, Jeudy self-identifies as masisi and trumpets how he and madivin, madoda, and miks thrive to confront Haitians’ fear about alternative modes of being and living. To re-inscribe what M folks invoke, his naming presses audiences to reflect upon ways that same-sex loving Haitians are “honest bodies.”

By calling queer folk in Haiti to the Kominote M, Charlot Jeudy provided visibility for words and people that sometimes even escape Haitian Creole dictionaries. When the words do appear, they lack the dynamism with which queer people in Haiti employ them. For example, the poet Lenelle Moïse associates the term madivin to the French "ma divinesse," meaning "my female divinity." In the Indiana University Creole Dictionary, for example, "masisi," "madoda," & "madivin(èz)" are all presented along a strict gender binary, denying the creative gender expressions of the people who use these terms to self-identify. "Masisi," unlike the word "madivin(èz)," can be combined with the verb "fè" (to do) or the preposition "nan" (in) to express the act of being gay/queer. In this way, queerness in Haitian Creole simultaneously implies an act of being as well as a process of doing or expressing queerness through action. It can also lead to situations where acts of same-sex love can be disassociated from queer identity – similar to the idea of the "downlow/DL" – like in the phrase "M fè masisi, men m pa nan masisi" ("I have sex with men, but I am not gay"). These terms and names are fluid. They offer unity as well as rupture. They can be evoked with love, or out of fear and violence. They can affirm existence, just as they can ostracize.

- Dr. Nathan Dize

you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with.

aside from faith, as far as you know, you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with. fill it with blood & love. risk. let the strange world sneak inside. accept all of life in your chest. death is the end of percussion. breathe deeply, the music will function. listen close. freedom thaws in your ribcage. dance with vehemence to feel its fast-pumping. tempt two lips to greet your throat & take note: your racing pulse will laugh & kiss back. god is strong in the clock of your desire. every tick, my friend, divine confirmation: you are alive. beat. yes! you are alive

— Lenelle Moïse, Anahata (Smith College, Spring 2011)

The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered. When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humiliated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years.

Lenelle Moïse

catalogue of poetry books i have: Glacier Lily by Chungmi Kim, Madness by Sam Sax, Crosslight for Youngbird by Asiya Wadud, Factory of Tears by Valzhyna Mort, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay, Haiti Glass by Lenelle Moïse, Split by Cathy Linh Che, The Latin Deli by Judith Ortiz Cofer, Cure All by Kim Parko, Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong, Crush by Richard Siken, Something Bright, Then Holes by Maggie Nelson, Midnight Lantern by Tess Gallagher, Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo, How Her Spirit Got Out by Krysten Hill, Absolute Solitude by Dulce María Loynaz, & When I Grow up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities by Chen Chen

jazz is underwater vodou atlantis mute aborted ultrasound fetal fish in flood haiti's first cousin forcibly kissed by a hurricane called katrina. hot winds come one fat tuesday. old levee leak explodes. fixing funds gone to homeland security. soldiers stationed in iraq. said, jazz is underwater days like laissez-faire manna does not fall saviors do not save hunger prays to rage for resilience, improvisational genius implodes, anarchy duets with despair. bassist fingers loot—nimble like a deft pianist. said, vodou atlantis mute. the fragile eardrums of instant orphans get inundated with someone else's mama's soprano saxophone screams. (meanwhile televised tenor voices report monotonous drone to drown out) the deafening beat of funeral marchers can't swim. bloated trumpet carcasses, a singer swallows human sewage. her last note, a curse on america. aborted ultrasound. cacophonous warnings scatter brains. pedestrians hear calls to evacuate, escape, and think, how fast can on-foot run? the poor, the weary just drown. abandoned elders just drown. people in wheelchairs just drown. the sick in bed cannot leave. their doctors stay behind too. new emergencies engulf the e.r. swamped hospitals ain't hostels, ain't shelters. resources slim like hope. nurses stay behind too. their loyal partners will not leave. ill-fated rejects just drown. said, fetal fish in flood. outside, a breaking willow weeps like a father on his rooftop, murmuring his wife's last words: clutch tight to our babies and let me die, she had pleaded, you can't hold on to us all, let me die. she, too, like jazz, is underwater. her love, her certainty, will haunt him. their children's survival, a scar. sanity also loses its grip, guilt-weight like cold, wet clothes. eighty percent of new orleans submerged. debris lingers, disease looms. said, days like laissez-faire. manna does not fall. shock battles suicide thoughts. some thirsty throats cope, manage dirges in cajun, in zydeco. out-of-state kin can't get through. refugees (refugees?) remember ruined homes. a preacher remembers the book of revelations. still saviors wait to save. and the living wade with the countless dead while a wealthy president flies overhead up where brown people look up where brown people look like spoiled jambalaya, stewing from a distance in their down-there distress, said, he's free— high up—far up— vacation fresh—eagle up, up and away from the place where our protest sound started, still sings. american music gurgling cyclone litanies man cannot prevent, the man cannot hear.

lenelle moïse, where our protest sound

the children of immigrants

By LENELLE MOÏSE 

When I am a toddler, a child, a tween, a teen, and a young adult, I am called an ancestral soul, a ti gran moun, a little old person. Adults study me and decide that I am wise beyond my years, mature for my age, emotionally ripe. I am told it is unusual to meet a five-ten-fifteen-year-old girl who does not slouch or mumble or speak in monosyllables. When I do the things that come naturally to me—when I hold my spine up erect, when I wait my turn to speak, when I speak having listened, carefully, when I enunciate, when I look grown-ups in the eye—I am told I must have “been here before.” "How do you know?" one college professor asks me after she has seen a psychologically violent play I have written at age nineteen. "How do you already know?” In high school, I charm my teachers. They encourage me to write speeches about feminism that I recite for International Women's Day at City Hall or deliver as part of conference panels at local universities. “If you were older," they tell me, "we would probably be friends.” One of them even flirts with me. Among my peers I exist somewhere between amicably mysterious and irrevocably dorky. The popular kids greet me in the hallways, but they never invite me to their beer-drenched parties. I will never play Spin the Bottle. I will never play Seven Minutes in Heaven. My mother tells me she is protecting me from boys, but the truth is, after I do my homework, she wants me to type up another family friend’s résumé or resignation letter. At home, I am a bridge, a cultural interpreter, a spokesperson, a trusted ally, an American who is Haitian too, but also definitely American. The children of immigrants don't get to be children. We lose our innocence watching our parents' backs bend, break. I am an old soul because when I am young, I watch my parents' spirits get slaughtered. In Haiti, they were middle class. Hopeful teachers. Home owners. They were black like their live-in servants. They donated clothes to the poor. They gave up everything they knew to inherit American dreams. And here, they join factory lines, wipe shit from mean old white men's behinds, scrub five-star hotel toilets for dimes above minimum wage. Here, they shuck and jive and step and fetch and play chauffeur to people who aren't as smart as they are, people who do not speak as many languages as they do. In the 1980s, they are barred from giving blood because newscasters and politicians say that AIDS comes from where they come from: Haiti, the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, a black magic island that spawns boat people and chaos, a place of illiterate zombies, orphan beggars and brazen political corruption. When I am a child, my childhood is a luxury my family cannot afford. Their dignity is not spared, so my innocence is not spared. They are humihated and traumatized daily, so I become a nurse to their trauma. I am told too much, so I know too much, so I am wise beyond my years. When I am six, my mother tells me she found out she was pregnant with me at age nineteen, she “tried to kill the baby." She says "the baby," as if it isn’t me she’s talking about; as if I am not the expensive, scandalous daughter who forced my way into her world despite the abortion-inducing herbal teas she drank and her frantic leaps off of small buildings. When I am sixteen, my father calls me on the phone to, inevitably, weep. He says, "Living in this country, I have learned not to hope for things. Only you are my hope. Only you." So—yes, I grow up fast.

anahata by Lenelle Moïse

aside from faith, as far as you know, you will never have another heart. better to grow the one you were born with. fill it with blood and love. risk. let the strange world sneak inside. accept all of life in your chest. death is the end of percussion. breathe deeply, the music will function. listen close. freedom thaws in your ribcage. dance with vehemence to feel its fast-pumping. tempt two lips to greet your throat and take note: your racing pulse will laugh and kiss back. god is strong in the clock of your desire. every tick, my friend, divine confirmation: you are alive. beat. yes! you are alive.