Peter Gizzi
A field sparrow
is at my window,
tapping at its reflection,
a tired
antique god
trying to communicate

it’s getting to me

as I set out to sing
the nimbus of flora
under a partly mottled sky

as I look at the end
and sing so what,
sing live now,
thinking why not

I’m listening and
receiving now
and it feeds me,
I’m always hungry

when the beautiful
is too much to carry
inside my winter

when my library is full of loss
full of wonder

as the polis is breaking
and casts a shadow
over all of me,
thinking of it

when the shadows fall
in ripples, when
the medium I work in
is deathless and

I’m living inside
one great example
of stubbornness

as my head is stove-in
by a glance, as the day’s
silver-tipped buds sway in union,
waving to the corporate sky

when I said work
and meant lyric

when I thought I was done
with the poem as a vehicle
to understand violence

I thought I was done
with the high-toned
shitty world

done with the voice and
its constituent pap

call down the inherited
phenomenal world
when it’s raining in the book,
lost to the world
in an abundance of world

like listening to a violin
when the figure isn’t native
but the emotion is

when everything is snow
and what lies ahead
is a mesmer’s twirling locket

I thought I was done
with the marvel
of ephemeral shadow play,
the great design and all that

I thought I was done
with time, its theatricality,
glamour, and guff

gusting cloud, I see you,
I become you
in my solitary thinging,
here in partial light

when I said voice,
I meant the whole unholy grain of it,
it felt like paradise

meaning rises and sets,
now a hunter overhead
now a bear at the pole
and the sound of names

the parade of names
from the book NOW IT'S DARK / Wesleyan University Press
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I hadn’t been writing for several months and was depressed during the first year of the Trump Presidency. I thought maybe I was done with poetry and then when I was writing this poem it felt that I was beginning again. I was beginning a new book. The poem is an invocation and the first poem in "Now It’s Dark." I think of Samuel Beckett’s: “I can’t go on, I must go on.”
Invitation to join Poetry Daily for a conversation with poet-translators Margaret Noodin, Raquel Salas Rivera, Jeffrey Angles, Laura Marris and Tracy K. Smith
Join us online tomorrow, February 19, at 8pm ET for the continuation of our series of conversations with poet-translators, featuring Margaret Noodin, Raquel Salas Rivera, Jeffrey Angles, Laura Marris and Tracy K. Smith. 
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"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks"

"'To the Young That Want to Die,' by Gwendolyn Brooks, is, as I have proclaimed to homies, a banger: it’s a powerhouse, a marvel, a jewel. It serves as a manual, a list of instructions, but it also doubles as a song, a prayer, a mantra for those who might be sorry, overwhelmed, and wishing for an end."
 
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Cover of Yi Lei's book, My Name Will Grow Wide Like a Tree, translated by Tracy K. Smith and Changtai Bi
What Sparks Poetry:
Tracy K. Smith on "Black Hair"


"Working on the poem, I saw clearly how the recurring image of black hair signifies within the specific context of Asian femininity, and yet in my hands—in my mouth—the phrase 'black hair' began to make space for a second set of values and vulnerabilities as informed by my racially specific experience." 
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