The Avocado by Terrance Hayes

The Avocado

 

“In 1971, drunk on the sweet, sweet juice of revolution, 

a crew of us marched into the president’s office with a list 

of demands,” the black man tells us at the February luncheon, 

and I’m pretending I haven’t heard this one before as I eye 

black tortillas on a red plate beside a big green bowl 

of guacamole made from the whipped, battered remains 

of several harmless former avocados. If abolitionists had a flag 

it would no doubt feature the avocado, also known as the alligator 

pear, for obvious reasons. “Number one: reparations! 

Enough gold to fill each of our women’s wombs, gold 

to nurse our warriors waiting to enter this world with bright fists, 

that’s what we told them,” the man says, and I’m thinking 

of the money-colored flesh of the avocado, high in monosaturates; 

its oil content is second only to olives. I am looking 

at Yoyo’s caterpillar locks dangle over her ear. I dare you 

to find a lovelier black woman from Cincinnati, where the North 

touches the South. “Three: we wanted more boulevards 

named for the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. An airport 

named for Sojourner Truth.” The roots of the avocado tree

can raise pavement, so it’s not too crazy to imagine the fruit 

as a symbol of revolt on the abolitionist flag. We are all one kind 

of abolitionist or another, no doubt. And we are like the avocado too 

with its inedible ruby-colored seed that can actually sprout from inside 

when the fruit is overmature, causing internal molds and breakdown. 

“Demand number twenty-one: a Harriet Tubman statue on the mall!” 

Brother man is weeping now and walking wet tissue to the trash can 

and saying, “Harriet Tubman was a walking shadow,” or, “Harriet Tubman 

walked in shadows,” or, “To many, Harriet Tubman was a shadow

to walk in,” and the meaning is pureed flesh with lime juice, 

minced garlic, and chili powder; it is salt, and the pepper 

Harriet Tubman tossed over her shoulder to trouble the bloodhounds. 

Many isolated avocado trees fail to fruit from lack of pollination. 

“Goddamn, ain’t you hungry?” I whisper to Yoyo, and she puts a finger 

to my lips to distract me. Say, baby, wasn’t that you waking me up 

last night to say you’d had a dream where I was a big luscious mansize 

avocado? Someone’s belly is growling. “We weren’t going 

to be colored, we weren’t going to be Negro,” the man says, 

and I’m thinking every time I hear this story it’s the one telling the story 

that’s the hero. “Hush now,” Harriet Tubman probably said 

near dawn, pointing a finger black enough to be her pistol barrel 

toward the future or pointing a pistol barrel black enough 

to be her finger at the mouth of some starved, stammering slave 

and then lifting her head to listen for something no one but her could hear. 

 

Poem With Its Heart Buried Under the Floorboards by Kathy Fagan

Poem With Its Heart Buried Under the Floorboards

 

You have been frowning a long time now, Mr. Poe.

For a long time grandfathers & their charges have been

walking from the library into days of black & white.

Large cars move funereally under black trees, black

birds; the sky is white, the lawns white where snow

has fallen. In spite of the snow, nothing is beautiful,

& it is always 4 o’clock on a Sunday, post meridiem.

The floor may creak — a cri de coeur —

but outside two teens outpace a white panel truck

climbing uphill in the slush. For a long time

the wheels have been spinning, Mr. Poe.

Our charges do not hear. Nor do they speak,

their earbuds white as snow.

They have some place to get to & they go. 

 

An Extraordinary Adventure Which Befell Vladimir Mayakovksy In A Summer Cottage by Vladimir Mayakovksy

An Extraordinary Adventure Which Befell Vladimir Mayakovksy In A Summer Cottage 

A hundred and forty suns in one sunset blazed, 

and summer rolled into July; 

it was so hot, 

the heat swam in a haze— 

and this was in the country. 

Pushkino, a hillock, had for hump 

Akula, a large hill, 

and at the hill’s foot 

a village stood— 

crooked with the crust of roofs. 

Beyond the village 

gaped a hole 

and into that hole, most likely, 

the sun sank down each time, 

faithfully and slowly. 

And next morning, 

to flood the world 

anew, 

the sun would rise all scarlet. 

Day after day 

this very thing 

began 

to rouse in me 

great anger. 

And flying into such a rage one day 

that all things paled with fear, 

I yelled at the sun point-blank: 

“Get down! 

Stop crawling into that hellhole!” 

At the sun I yelled: 

“You shiftless lump! 

You’re caressed by the clouds, 

while here—winter and summer— 

I must sit and draw these posters!” 

I yelled at the sun again: 

“Wait now! 

Listen, goldbrow, 

instead of going down, 

why not come down to tea 

with me!” 

What have I done! 

I’m finished! 

Toward me, of his own good will, 

himself, 

spreading his beaming steps, 

the sun strode across the field. 

I tried to hide my fear, 

and beat it backwards. 

His eyes were in the garden now. 

Then he passed through the garden. 

His sun’s mass pressing 

through the windows, 

doors, 

and crannies; 

in he rolled; 

drawing a breath, 

he spoke deep bass: 

“For the first time since creation, 

I drive the fires back. 

You called me? 

Give me tea, poet, 

spread out, spread out the jam!” 

Tears gathered in my eyes— 

the heat was maddening, 

but pointing to the samovar 

I said to him: 

“Well, sit down then, 

luminary!” 

The devil had prompted my insolence 

to shout at him, 

confused— 

I sat on the edge of a bench; 

I was afraid of worse! 

But, from the sun, a strange radiance 

streamed, 

and forgetting 

all formalities, 

I sat chatting 

with the luminary more freely. 

Of this 

and that I talked, 

and of how I was swallowed up by Rosta, 

but the sun, he says: 

All right, 

don’t worry, 

look at things more simply! 

And do you think 

I find it easy 

to shine? 

Just try it, if you will!— 

You move along, 

since move you must; 

you move—and shine your eyes out!” 

We gossiped thus till dark— 

Till former night, I mean. 

For what darkness was there here? 

We warmed up 

to each other 

and very soon, 

openly displaying friendship, 

I slapped him on the back. 

The sun responded! 

“You and I, 

my comrade, are quite a pair! 

Let’s go, my poet, 

let’s dawn 

and sing 

in a gray tattered world. 

I shall pour forth my sun, 

and you—your own, 

in verse.” 

A wall of shadows, 

a jail of nights 

fell under the double-barreled suns. 

A commotion of verse and light— 

shine all your worth! 

Drowsy and dull, 

one tired, 

wanting to stretch out 

for the night. 

Suddenly—I 

shone in all my might, 

and morning ran its round. 

Always to shine, 

to shine everywhere, 

to the very deeps of the last days, 

to shine— 

and to hell with everything else! 

That is my motto— 

and the sun’s!

(Translated by Max Hayward and George Reavey)

 

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island by Frank O'Hara

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island

 

The Sun woke me this morning loud

and clear, saying "Hey! I've been

trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes.

Don't be so rude, you are

only the second poet I've ever chosen

to speak to personally

                                  so why

aren't you more attentive? If I could

burn you through the window I would

to wake you up. I can't hang around

here all day."

                    "Sorry, Sun, I stayed

up late last night talking to Hal."

 

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was

a lot more prompt" the Sun said

petulantly. "Most people are up

already waiting to see if I'm going

to put in an appearance."

                                       I tried

to apologize "I missed you yesterday."

"That's better" he said. "I didn't

know you'd come out." "You may be

wondering why I've come so close?"

"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot

wondering if maybe he wasn't burning me

anyway.

              "Frankly I wanted to tell you

I like your poetry. I see a lot

on my rounds and you're okay. You may

not be the greatest thing on earth, but

you're different. Now, I've heard some

say you're crazy, they being excessively

calm themselves to my mind, and other

crazy poets think that you're a boring

reactionary. Not me.

                                 Just keep on

like I do and pay no attention. You'll

find that people always will complain

about the atmosphere, either too hot

or too cold too bright or too dark, days

too short or too long.

                                 If you don't appear

at all one day they think you're lazy

or dead. Just keep right on, I like it. 

 

And don't worry about your lineage

poetic or natural. The Sun shines

on the jungle, you know, on the tundra

the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were

I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting

for you to get to work.

 

                                     And now that you

are making your own days, so to speak,

even if no one reads you but me

you won't be depressed. Not

everyone can look up, even at me.

It hurts their eyes."

                          "Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!" 

 

"Thanks and remember I'm watching. It's

easier for me to speak to you out

here. I don't have to slide down

between buildings to get your ear.

I know you love Manhattan, but

you ought to look up more often.

                                                    And

always embrace things, people earth

sky stars, as I do, freely and with

the appropriate sense of space. That

is your inclination, known in the heavens

and you should follow it to hell, if

necessary, which I doubt.

                                          Maybe we'll

speak again in Africa, of which I too

am specially fond. Go back to sleep now

Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem

in that brain of yours as my farewell."  

 

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake

at last. "No, go I must, they're calling

me."

        "Who are they?"

                                  Rising he said "Some

day you'll know. They're calling to you

too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept. 

 

 

My Nothings by Ama Codjoe

My Nothings

 

You, who have bowed your head, shed

another season of antlers at my feet, for years 

 

you fall asleep to the lullabies of dolls,

cotton-stuffed and frayed, ears damp with sleep 

 

and saliva, scalps knotted with yarn, milk-breath,

and yawns. Birth is a torn ticket stub, a sugar 

 

cone wrapped in a paper sleeve, the blackest

ice. It has been called irretrievable, a foreign 

 

coin, the moon’s slip, showing, a pair

of new shoes rubbing raw your heel. 

 

I lose the back of my earring and bend

the metal in such a way as to keep it 

 

fastened to me. In the universe where we are

strangers, you kick with fury, impatient 

 

as grass. I have eaten all your names.

In this garden you are blue ink, baseball cap 

 

wishbone, pulled teeth, wet sand, hourglass.

There are locks of your hair in the robin’s nest 

 

and clogging the shower drain. You, who are

covered in feathers, who have witnessed birth 

 

give birth to death and watched death suck

her purple nipple. You long for a mother 

 

like death’s mother, want to nurse until drunk

you dream of minnows swimming 

 

through your ears—their iridescence causing

you to blink, your arms twitching. 

 

Even while you sleep I feed you. 

 

Easter Morning by William Stafford

Easter Morning

 

Maybe someone comes to the door and says,

“Repent,” and you say, “Come on in,” and it’s

Jesus. That’s when all you ever did, or said,

or even thought, suddenly wakes up again and

sings out, “I’m still here,” and you know it’s true.

You just shiver alive and are left standing

there suddenly brought to account: saved.

 

Except, maybe that someone says, “I’ve got a deal

for you.” And you listen, because that’s how

you’re trained – they told you, “Always hear both sides.”

So then the slick voice can sell you anything, even

Hell, which is what you’re getting by listening.

Well, what should you do? I’d say always go to

the door, yes, but keep the screen locked. Then,

while you hold the Bible in one hand, lean forward

and say carefully, “Jesus?” 

 

When the War Is Over by W. S. Merwin

When the War Is Over

When the war is over

We will be proud of course the air will be

Good for breathing at last

The water will have been improved the salmon

And the silence of heaven will migrate more perfectly

The dead will think the living are worth it we will know

Who we are

And we will all enlist again