Hafizah Geter
A Nigerian proverb

that when you lose your bridge,

climb down the mountain.

Instead, my mother grabbed

the Atlantic. Enough for a path

to carry daughters.

Every mile of seabed leapt over

used to form statues

of her brothers

in her mind. On her back,

I slept a journey.

She whispered, leave

our language behind, afraid

of an old country

on my tongue.

In America,

feet never dried.

Half-breed turned hemlock.

My mother, my rope

through the sea, my vine.

I arrived, language's orphan,

a two-citizen child, no country.

Wake, a dead woman's

daughter, homesick with no home

to ill towards, listening

for what English does

to my blood.
from the book UN-AMERICAN / Wesleyan University Press
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Diane di Prima reading in New York in 1959
"Diane di Prima, Feminist Poet of the Beat Generation"

Diane di Prima died in San Francisco on October 25, aged 86. "For Diane di Prima, the author of more than 40 works of poetry, prose and theater, writing was 'like being a hermit or a samurai. A calling. The holiest life that was offered in our world.' By her actions, she declared herself a conscientious objector to the bourgeois life of her childhood."

viaTHE WASHINGTON POST
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Cover of Dan Beachy-Quick's book, Stone-Garland
What Sparks Poetry:
Dan Beachy-Quick on "Alcman 89"

"Studying my declensions, conjugating those verbs, the endless rote memorization of vocabulary, all felt meaningful in relation to this wild, instinctive possibility—that thinking was the body’s work, that apprehension in all its senses (grasping, fearing, knowing) was the thinking poetry could offer, a thought that is a sensation, as natural and instinctive as the hawk’s dive is to hawk or the mouse’s hiding is to the mouse, all eyes bright with purpose."
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