Notes on Living

Kings County Supreme Court was in front of us, behind the panelists; to their left was Brooklyn City Hall. We sat in ‘Columbus’ park. A few days out I think of the calamity of what happens inside of those buildings, of what it means for the park to still be named after ‘Columbus’, next to the unassuming river, under our unassuming feet.

During the panel, Notes on Living1, poet Aracelis Girmay spoke several times of resuscitation. She said we can “make some living room… [in so many ways, including] …in the saying of someone’s name” (living room, of course, after June Jordan’s living room).

Poems are as good as living room sometimes—by way of the register they bring us to, by what’s available through the way that they stun or move us.

Cathy Linh Che brought herself to tears reading Live-Stream. I thought about how important it feels to hold somebody’s tears in public, how important it is to let the loss of ‘composure’ be witnessed.

Padraig O’Tuama, in his poem about Jesus and Persephone meeting at the gates of hell (lol), writes “and I wonder if it’s worth the effort to continue.”

Aracelis Girmay read Notes for a Sound You Were, gk , which honors her father and Jean Valentine. She talked about her writing practice, coming back to fragments later, after years sometimes, and said “so much life gets in there, so much difference.”

Amidst the bustle and din of the Brooklyn Book Festival (and the noise of this moment) a horde of us were silent, dialed in to the four poets who read and discussed their writing. Some sat, some stood—overflowing from the tent, stern and attentive. In the shadow of those buildings, as people walked by and were paused, as more and more people lingered to listen to people read and talk about poetry I thought this is true power: gentle, sharp as a bell, admitting sorrow and ambivalence. I was grateful for this other authority that shapes my life.