note on translation:
this year, five of us went to the woods and opened ourselves. we wrote things that were beautiful, but also true. some people might call these things poems, others might call them spells. many people write beautiful things, but seldom do they write true things. a thing is not true because it partakes of the truth; a thing is true because when you write it, you know you are no longer lying. i did the things in this poem. i pissed behind a building where colonizers died. i stood among the branches of a giant tree. i saw the tree become the wood of our cabin. i cried with my friend without becoming my friend. i became free. my body burned with fever as i purged all the fathers that ever were from my life, cutting them out of my system, denying their claims to my body.
this year, five of us went to the woods and opened ourselves. we wrote things that were beautiful, but also true. some people might call these things poems, others might call them spells. many people write beautiful things, but seldom do they write true things. a thing is not true because it partakes of the truth; a thing is true because when you write it, you know you are no longer lying. i did the things in this poem. i pissed behind a building where colonizers died. i stood among the branches of a giant tree. i saw the tree become the wood of our cabin. i cried with my friend without becoming my friend. i became free. my body burned with fever as i purged all the fathers that ever were from my life, cutting them out of my system, denying their claims to my body.
una puerta que no cierra porque se expandió la madera
french creek
12/25/16
para chloë, alli, caroline, oki, lou y joohyun
(i)
¿chloë, dónde están los poemas?
se me esconden
entre las ramas del sofá.
la tierra es un árbol lleno de poemas
como hongos del aire.
el carpintero le pide al leñador
que traiga madera
para construir un país,
y los poemas son deforestación.
todos dicen vamos a escribir,
tenemos que escribir,
los poetas somos visionarios.
las palabras están en la madera,
pero el poema está en el árbol.
le pregunté a oki si quiere
beber de este pentagrama
bendito.
(ii)
me mataron los poemas.
me los escondieron como ramilletes
dentro de los juguetes,
como calcomanías al fondo
del baúl rojo.
lloré con mi amigx
que lloraba,
y, por primera vez,
no era mi amigx,
aunque lloraba.
(iii)
los padres nos abandonaron en el bosque,
y es mejor así.
chloë, el fuego no simboliza mi odio.
la ruptura no es domesticable.
el poder que ejecuto
matará a los pescadores
porque sabemos que el mar
porque sabemos
(iv)
los poetas que leo
se están muriendo
como el alga marina.
digo que se están muriendo
porque sus fantasmas
viven en los árboles,
y los hombres
están cortándolos
con hachas modelo xxx
para construir un país.
si matas un fantasma,
matas la poesía.
(lxs brujxs dicen que tengo razón.)
si matas 2 fantasmas,
matas la poesía.
esta palabra es plural.
(v)
fui a la fundición de carbón,
y meé en el patio
de los colonizadores,
quienes murieron de malaria
por ser puercos europeos.
amén.
(vi)
te amo, joohyun,
porque naciste en dakota del norte,
y porque siembras fantasmas en el frío.
(vii)
bob ross es un manipulador/
escorpio/
figura paterna.
mezclo veneno en sus tubos de pintura,
y cuando usa sus manos,
asesino a todos los padres.
(viii)
la historia no nos redime.
la academia no nos reconoce.
la iglesia no nos ama.
la familia no nos alberga.
la escritura no nos recuerda.
el estado no nos rescata.
el dinero no nos une.
nuestra realidad es más rica que el lenguaje.
(ix)
chulx, tenemos que
cremar las nubes
hasta que lluevan cenizas
en nuestro pelo,
y nos pongamos viejitxs
antes de tiempo.
debemos
(quizás no tenemos que)
seguir el curso de la realidad,
red de aire
que nos adjunta,
grapadora invisible,
escalera de legos.
¡existes!
porque
¡existo!
porque
¡existes!
(x)
vinieron los hombres a jodernos la vida,
y matar los poemas.
qué aborrecibles,
como los cargos
con sus emblemas,
pero, chloë, los poemas
son menos que nosotrxs,
y más que el país
por el cual son sacrificados.
volveremos a colgarlos
de todas las ventanas,
las piedras
y los columpios:
petroglíficos
en el furor.
a door that won’t close because the wood has expanded
french creek
12/25/16
for chloë, alli, caroline, oki, lou and joohyun
(i)
chloë, where are the poems?
they hide from me
among the sofa’s branches.
the earth is a tree full of poems
like mushrooms of the air.
the carpenter asks the woodsman
to bring wood
to build a country,
and the poems are deforestation.
everyone says let’s write,
we have to write,
the poets are visionaries.
the words are in the wood,
but the poem is in the tree.
i asked oki if she wants
some of this holy
pentagram.
(ii)
they killed my poems.
they hid them in my toys
like bouquets,
like stickers at the bottom
of the red chest.
i cried with my friend
who cried,
and, for the first time,
i was not my friend,
though i cried.
(iii)
the fathers abandoned us in the forest,
and it’s better that way.
chloë, the fire doesn't symbolize my hatred.
the rupture is not domesticable.
the power i execute
will kill the fishermen
because we know that the sea
because we know
(iv)
the poets i read
are dying
like the kelp.
i say they are dying
because their ghosts
live in the trees,
and the men
are cutting them down
with model xxx axes,
in order to build a country.
if you kill a ghost,
you kill poetry.
(the witches say i’m right.)
if you kill 2 ghosts,
you kill poetry.
this word is plural.
(v)
i went to the coal foundry,
and i pissed in the backyard
of the colonizers
that died of malaria
because they were nasty europeans.
amen.
(vi)
i love you, joohyun,
because you were born in north dakota,
and because you plant ghosts in the cold.
(vii)
bob ross is a manipulator/
scorpio/
paternal figure.
i mix poison in his paint tubes,
and when he uses his hands,
i kill all the fathers.
(viii)
history will not redeem us.
academia will not acknowledge us.
the church will not love us.
the family will not protect us.
writing will not remember us.
the state will not rescue us.
money will not join us.
our reality is richer than language.
(ix)
chulx, we have to
cremate the clouds
until it rains ashes
on our hair,
and we become old
before our time.
we should
(perhaps not have to)
follow reality’s course,
the web of air
that attaches us,
an invisible stapler,
a lego ladder.
¡you exist!
because
¡i exist!
because
¡you exist!
(x)
the men came to fuck with our lives,
and kill the poems.
how abhorrent,
like cargos,
with their emblems,
but, chloë, the poems
are less than us,
and more than the country
for which they are sacrificed.
we will hang them again
from the windows,
the stones,
and the swings:
petroglyphic
in the fury.
french creek
12/25/16
para chloë, alli, caroline, oki, lou y joohyun
(i)
¿chloë, dónde están los poemas?
se me esconden
entre las ramas del sofá.
la tierra es un árbol lleno de poemas
como hongos del aire.
el carpintero le pide al leñador
que traiga madera
para construir un país,
y los poemas son deforestación.
todos dicen vamos a escribir,
tenemos que escribir,
los poetas somos visionarios.
las palabras están en la madera,
pero el poema está en el árbol.
le pregunté a oki si quiere
beber de este pentagrama
bendito.
(ii)
me mataron los poemas.
me los escondieron como ramilletes
dentro de los juguetes,
como calcomanías al fondo
del baúl rojo.
lloré con mi amigx
que lloraba,
y, por primera vez,
no era mi amigx,
aunque lloraba.
(iii)
los padres nos abandonaron en el bosque,
y es mejor así.
chloë, el fuego no simboliza mi odio.
la ruptura no es domesticable.
el poder que ejecuto
matará a los pescadores
porque sabemos que el mar
porque sabemos
(iv)
los poetas que leo
se están muriendo
como el alga marina.
digo que se están muriendo
porque sus fantasmas
viven en los árboles,
y los hombres
están cortándolos
con hachas modelo xxx
para construir un país.
si matas un fantasma,
matas la poesía.
(lxs brujxs dicen que tengo razón.)
si matas 2 fantasmas,
matas la poesía.
esta palabra es plural.
(v)
fui a la fundición de carbón,
y meé en el patio
de los colonizadores,
quienes murieron de malaria
por ser puercos europeos.
amén.
(vi)
te amo, joohyun,
porque naciste en dakota del norte,
y porque siembras fantasmas en el frío.
(vii)
bob ross es un manipulador/
escorpio/
figura paterna.
mezclo veneno en sus tubos de pintura,
y cuando usa sus manos,
asesino a todos los padres.
(viii)
la historia no nos redime.
la academia no nos reconoce.
la iglesia no nos ama.
la familia no nos alberga.
la escritura no nos recuerda.
el estado no nos rescata.
el dinero no nos une.
nuestra realidad es más rica que el lenguaje.
(ix)
chulx, tenemos que
cremar las nubes
hasta que lluevan cenizas
en nuestro pelo,
y nos pongamos viejitxs
antes de tiempo.
debemos
(quizás no tenemos que)
seguir el curso de la realidad,
red de aire
que nos adjunta,
grapadora invisible,
escalera de legos.
¡existes!
porque
¡existo!
porque
¡existes!
(x)
vinieron los hombres a jodernos la vida,
y matar los poemas.
qué aborrecibles,
como los cargos
con sus emblemas,
pero, chloë, los poemas
son menos que nosotrxs,
y más que el país
por el cual son sacrificados.
volveremos a colgarlos
de todas las ventanas,
las piedras
y los columpios:
petroglíficos
en el furor.
a door that won’t close because the wood has expanded
french creek
12/25/16
for chloë, alli, caroline, oki, lou and joohyun
(i)
chloë, where are the poems?
they hide from me
among the sofa’s branches.
the earth is a tree full of poems
like mushrooms of the air.
the carpenter asks the woodsman
to bring wood
to build a country,
and the poems are deforestation.
everyone says let’s write,
we have to write,
the poets are visionaries.
the words are in the wood,
but the poem is in the tree.
i asked oki if she wants
some of this holy
pentagram.
(ii)
they killed my poems.
they hid them in my toys
like bouquets,
like stickers at the bottom
of the red chest.
i cried with my friend
who cried,
and, for the first time,
i was not my friend,
though i cried.
(iii)
the fathers abandoned us in the forest,
and it’s better that way.
chloë, the fire doesn't symbolize my hatred.
the rupture is not domesticable.
the power i execute
will kill the fishermen
because we know that the sea
because we know
(iv)
the poets i read
are dying
like the kelp.
i say they are dying
because their ghosts
live in the trees,
and the men
are cutting them down
with model xxx axes,
in order to build a country.
if you kill a ghost,
you kill poetry.
(the witches say i’m right.)
if you kill 2 ghosts,
you kill poetry.
this word is plural.
(v)
i went to the coal foundry,
and i pissed in the backyard
of the colonizers
that died of malaria
because they were nasty europeans.
amen.
(vi)
i love you, joohyun,
because you were born in north dakota,
and because you plant ghosts in the cold.
(vii)
bob ross is a manipulator/
scorpio/
paternal figure.
i mix poison in his paint tubes,
and when he uses his hands,
i kill all the fathers.
(viii)
history will not redeem us.
academia will not acknowledge us.
the church will not love us.
the family will not protect us.
writing will not remember us.
the state will not rescue us.
money will not join us.
our reality is richer than language.
(ix)
chulx, we have to
cremate the clouds
until it rains ashes
on our hair,
and we become old
before our time.
we should
(perhaps not have to)
follow reality’s course,
the web of air
that attaches us,
an invisible stapler,
a lego ladder.
¡you exist!
because
¡i exist!
because
¡you exist!
(x)
the men came to fuck with our lives,
and kill the poems.
how abhorrent,
like cargos,
with their emblems,
but, chloë, the poems
are less than us,
and more than the country
for which they are sacrificed.
we will hang them again
from the windows,
the stones,
and the swings:
petroglyphic
in the fury.