Tuesday Poem: "Poetry is Political" by Leslie D. Bush

 

Poetry is political?

How can this be

Can society be upended

Divided by a love poem?

Poets are political?

Yes. No. Maybe

Some examples

Perhaps

Poets don’t tell

The literal truth

(Who does?)

They see things

That are not necessarily 

There. Do continue.

See motives when such

Motives might not exist

Interesting, pray continue

(to dig yourself into a hole)

The truth is grey, everybody knows

Why do you paint it white as snow

Or blood stained, by death in the masses

Do these things not happen?

Are they not motivated by and acted on

By humans? I write what I see

You say, poetry is political

Do you mean, designed to misinform

Not to tell the truth? To inflame the minds

Of the proletariat, to put the powerful at risk?

You can’t be too careful, can you?

Yes, poets and poetry ARE political

In the sense they are human

Producing human creations

Yes, poems are political

They are narratives, they choose a side

And argue their case, assertively

Honestly. Do you fear debate?

It would be imprecise to say

Poetry is truth. It is not the opposite

By purpose. A poet seeks the truth

Either literally or metaphorically

Nothing less will satisfy them

So, yes, poetry is a political act

So is breathing. Going to ban that?

by Leslie D. Bush

Tuesday Poem; "What Belongs to Us" by Marie Howe

Not the memorized phone numbers.

The carefully rehearsed short cuts home.

Not the summer shimmering like pavement, when Lucia
pushed Billy off the rabbit house and broke his arm

or our tiny footprints in the black files.

Not the list of kings from Charlemagne to Henry

not the boxes under our beds

or Tommy’s wedding day when it was so hot and Mark played the flute
and we waved at him waving from the small round window in the loft

the great gangs of people stepping one by one into the cold water.

I have, of course, a photograph
you and I getting up from a couch.

Full height, I stand almost two inches taller than you
but the photograph doesn’t show that
just the two of us in motion
not looking at each other, smiling.

Not even the way we said things, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Not the cabin where I burned my arm and you said, oh, you’re the type
that even if it hurt, you wouldn’t say.

Not even the blisters. Look.

by Marie Howe 

For more information see:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/marie-howe