Brett Shaw
Director sticks two fingers in my mouth.
Says, the teeth should be a cherry’s width
apart. The mouth’s perilousO from which

the body grows, secondary & vestigial.
The body like water around a thrashing
fin. A mouth growing more exposed without air.
Told not to fish for notes, I’m red. Redacted.

A filament fused. Director says,
the hips should draw down. The spine stairways,
a column of clouds. My head, lifted on

a string. Learning how the body accepts
placement: pulled, plucked. Choral lines rigid
as hallway busts. Stuffed—our skin arranged
for display—a special kind of silence

for the rictus that offers only
what another’s hand portrays. I learned
to exhale without fogging the glass

placed in front of my face—crystalline
in control. My voice a kettle of hawks,
circling what twitched below. This game I played
with eyes closed felt like hunting, the way

hunting feels like wanting to be caught.
A cycle that frays closer & closer,
violence at its end. Each little adjustment

made. Like a beak combed through feathers, like
a beak combed through bone. Detail makes effort
unseen—a perfect seam. Empty remains
a wing shrouds over—brutal cavern…

& what is my mouth once its smile only spreads
on request? Feathers pressed into background
measure. A song emerges from this frieze.

Is it sweet,

is it piercing in its cry?

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Image of Geoffrey Chaucer
The Very Different Chaucer Connection in Ireland and England
 

"Writing in English was a proto-democratic literary choice for Chaucer, and was very much in keeping with his broad interest in encouraging diversity and oppositional voices. One of the key concepts underlying the Canterbury Tales is that everyone has the right to tell a story, and to interpret stories."

via THE IRISH TIMES 
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"I was twenty and an undergraduate at Howard University, taking Dr. Jon Woodson’s Survey of African American Poetry. He was suspicious of labels and spent the first weeks of class arguing against his own course title. His first lecture began with a summary dismissal of Maya Angelou, who a year earlier was Bill Clinton’s Inaugural Poet. He would hand out poems with the authors’ names blacked out, and ask: “What makes this a Black poem, or is this good or bad?” We had to defend our answers. Our shortcomings were immediately evident. This is how I was introduced to Gwendolyn Brooks’ 'A Lovely Love.'"

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