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Dear Ferocious Dreamer
Dear Ferocious Dreamer Play Audio BY PATRICIA SMITH
SHARE Dear ferocious dreamer. Dear maven of song and surveyor of every flung star. Dear meandering romantic, audacious witness, dear listener with the whole of your covetous heart. Dear listener to the air’s brutal and gorgeous music, soft dancer to ballads not yet written or sung. Dear lost-ago sister, conjuring us behind shuttered eyes, dear mother of this shifting and cumbersome light, dear writer of moments and reader of lives, dear wide-aloud daydreamer, dear tenderly reckless, dear ceaseless pen, clacking keyboard and second throat— Dear Harriet— It is you who envisioned us, spilling like so many daybreaks through the door you opened, and here we are, so fevered and restless and so loudly alive, our days luminous and upended by the dauntless strut, the sleek dance of sound on a line, on a thousand lines, among us perhaps a million lines, lines that leave us breathless and grant us breath, lines that pull us down sun-splashed roads of jubilation and the crippling path of grief, lines like sting hard like homemade brown liquor and everything Buddy Guy done said, lines that unveil our whole histories and feed us in a way religion won’t, lines that break us apart and build us back crooked, build us back sideways, build us back heartbroke, lines that give us new names and introduce us to our shadows, 14 lines with stiff rhymes and a volta, lines flirting with dactyls and crammed with ampersands and shoveling golden, lines that say Hey you, you’re in love or Hey you, you need love or Hey haven’t you had enough love? These lines from Kimiko—“Imagine words with a dimension not unlike the light and dark regions of the moon. The back of planets. The craters. Words that orbit the body like a plea granted.” Harriet, do you hear us? Words like a plea granted. Lines like a need fulfilled. Poems like answers to what we cry out into the dark. All you did was open the door, and look—we’ve ripped it from its hinges. It is for poetry that we have gathered in this room of wild witness, here in syllable, in soul, in service. Here where we know there is no danger quite like a poet on the edge of a poem. Cave Canem, we have warned. Beware the dog who snarls and sinks its keen canines deep into truth. Thanks to Toi and Cornelius, every poet knows there is world waiting for their work. Because of them, we are all here. No sound, no syllable, no line, no stanza, no poem—no voice—goes unheard. Not ever intending to be unheard, Douglas Kearney rearranges and reveals and shoots us through with threads of electric, and gleefully disturbs us with lyric that jumps and rollicks and disturbs, refusing to adhere to the line. Yes, here we are, Harriet, your modest pages sprung to life and out on the town. Here we are glittered up in razored suits and stillettos, breathing thinly beneath our Spanx and oh-so-carefully held breaths, here we are, a little itchy and giddy and smelling good and washed all over in limelight. But we know—and you know—that we are fooling no one. We’d all rather be arced over our keyboards, scratching feverishly at our legal pads, sweating a line, counting a rhythm on our fingers, trying out a title, speaking new sounds into the air. We’d all rather be gobbling some horrendous snack of lard and sugar, because there’s no time for a real breakfast or a real lunch or a real dinner until this damn poem is done. Some time we forget to wash. But it is soooo worth it. And thank you, Harriet. Not just for the magazine named for our passion, not just for opening that door and beckoning us inside. Thank you because we know that once we leave, after the awards have been given and the lights flicker dim, outside at the curb towering above the Ubers and taxis, there will be a snorting steed, stomping restlessly and glowing like pure pearl under the moon. His broad back will be more than enough room. And as the regular ol’ world watches, awed and undone, Pegasus will spread his wings over two or three city blocks. Buoyed by words, not by wind, those wings will lift us toward poetry—all those things we cannot see, but still believe in.
Dear ferocious dreamer. Play Audio BY PATRICIA SMITH
SHARE Dear ferocious dreamer. Dear expert of song and observer of every scattered star. Dear wandering romantic, bold witness, dear listener with your greedy heart. Dear listener to the air’s harsh and beautiful music, gentle dancer to songs not yet created or sung. Dear long-lost sister, summoning us behind closed eyes, dear mother of this changing and heavy light, dear creator of moments and reader of lives, dear loud daydreamer, dear tenderly reckless, dear endless pen, clacking keyboard and second throat— Dear Harriet— It is you who imagined us, pouring out like many dawns through the door you opened, and here we are, so excited and restless and so vibrantly alive, our days bright and turned upside down by the fearless walk, the smooth dance of sound on a line, on many lines, among us perhaps countless lines, lines that leave us breathless and give us breath, lines that take us down sunlit paths of joy and the painful road of sorrow, lines that sting hard like homemade liquor and everything Buddy Guy has said, lines that reveal our entire histories and nourish us in a way religion cannot, lines that break us apart and rebuild us crooked, rebuild us sideways, rebuild us heartbroken, lines that give us new names and introduce us to our shadows, 14 lines with rigid rhymes and a turn, lines playing with rhythms and filled with symbols and pouring gold, lines that say Hey you, you’re in love or Hey you, you need love or Hey haven’t you had enough love? These lines from Kimiko—“Imagine words with a dimension not unlike the light and dark areas of the moon. The back of planets. The craters. Words that orbit the body like a plea granted.” Harriet, do you hear us? Words like a plea granted. Lines like a need fulfilled. Poems like answers to what we shout into the dark. All you did was open the door, and look—we’ve torn it from its hinges. It is for poetry that we have gathered in this room of wild witness, here in syllable, in soul, in service. Here where we know there is no danger quite like a poet on the edge of a poem. Cave Canem, we have warned. Beware the dog who snarls and sinks its sharp teeth deep into truth. Thanks to Toi and Cornelius, every poet knows there is a world waiting for their work. Because of them, we are all here. No sound, no syllable, no line, no stanza, no poem—no voice—goes unheard. Not ever intending to be unheard, Douglas Kearney rearranges and reveals and shoots us through with threads of electricity, and joyfully disturbs us with lyrics that jump and roll and disturb, refusing to stick to the line. Yes, here we are, Harriet, your humble pages come to life and out on the town. Here we are dressed up in sharp suits and high heels, breathing lightly beneath our Spanx and oh-so-carefully held breaths, here we are, a little restless and excited and smelling nice and washed all over in spotlight. But we know—and you know—that we are fooling no one. We’d all rather be bent over our keyboards, feverishly writing on our legal pads, sweating a line, counting a rhythm on our fingers, trying out a title, speaking new sounds into the air. We’d all rather be devouring some terrible snack of fat and sugar, because there’s no time for a real breakfast or a real lunch or a real dinner until this damn poem is finished. Sometimes we forget to wash. But it is soooo worth it. And thank you, Harriet. Not just for the magazine named for our passion, not just for opening that door and inviting us inside. Thank you because we know that once we leave, after the awards have been given and the lights dim, outside at the curb towering above the Ubers and taxis, there will be a restless horse, stomping and glowing like pure pearl under the moon. His broad back will be more than enough room. And as the ordinary world watches, amazed and undone, Pegasus will spread his wings over two or three city blocks. Lifted by words, not by wind, those wings will carry us toward poetry—all those things we cannot see, but still believe in.