Diane di Prima’s “Revolutionary Letter #4” is a powerful text which opens with a list of suppositions:
Left to themselves people
grow their hair.
Left to themselves they
take off their shoes.
Human processes are all placed on an equal playing field, from the involuntary growth of one’s hair to the deliberate act of taking off shoes. The refrain, which carries most of the poem, presents a scenario of freedom.
What interests me here is that the systems being negated are not addressed in particular. di Prima does not plainly offer us a world without police or borders, a world without bad teachers and mean baristas, a world without overwhelming responsibility. Instead, the people in the poem are simply “left to themselves,” whatever that means. The possibilities, then, are infinite.
One line in particular speaks greater volumes to me than almost any other poetic line. Although the vague idea of a lifted burden permeates the entire poem, this line expels any possible doubt of serious political meaning.
they are not lazy or afraid
they plant seeds, they smile, they
speak to one another.
Diane di Prima was a feminist poet and activist associated with Beat Generation poets such as Allen Ginsberg and Anne Waldman as well as Black Arts poets, namely Amiri Baraka, whose press published her first book. Although “Revolutionary Letter #4” is simple in structure and language, it mirrors and expands upon di Prima’s anti-establishment views.
The line “they are not lazy or afraid” dispels two major counterarguments that many people use against political leftists: that without the strict necessity of work, people will become lazy, and that, in the absence of a state police force upholding law and order, society will descend into terror and crime.
When conveying this information, the tone of the poem is firm and matter-of-fact while remaining also tender and calm. As the antagonizing societal systems are quietly removed, leaving people finally to themselves, a beautiful world emerges in which they “plant seeds, they smile, they speak to one another.”
Layers of revolutionary potential are wrapped up in this little poem. Interacting with the natural world and leaving space for true interpersonal connection are rightfully portrayed as powerful human acts. Even though people are not “left to themselves” as the poem’s imagination hopes, we can still plant seeds, and smile, and speak to one another.
Tenderness is revolution in Danez Smith’s “acknowledgements.” Structured in short stanzas separated by bullet points, the poem is a series of vignettes acknowledging and immortalizing the speaker’s encounters with their loved ones.
you save me half a bag of skins, the hard parts, my fav, dusted orange with hot
•
you say we can’t go to the bar cause you’re taking your braids out
i come over, we watch madea while we pull you from you
•
you make us tacos with the shells i like & you don’t
Approaching this poem through the lens of “Revolutionary Letter #4” shows that the people in “acknowledgements” are also left to themselves, to an extent. Left to themselves, people will watch the Madea movies and cook for their friends.
History, however, does not loosen its grip. The poem is not joyful due to an absence of strife, but because of it, despite it:
did our grandmothers flee the fields of embers so we could find each other here?
friend, you are the war’s gentle consequence
There is an inherent revolutionary quality to this poem, as I read it. It celebrates the blessing of mundane survival, ongoing human-ness.
your poop is news, your fart is news, your gross body my favorite song
My favorite line is this one:
as long as i am a fact to you, death can do with me what she wants
“I saw Emmett Till this week at the grocery store” by Eve L. Ewing reimagines the tragic end of Emmett Till’s story, offering him instead a mundane existence, the ability to grow old and shop for fruit:
looking over the plums, one by one
lifting each to his eyes and
turning it slowly, a little earth,
checking the smooth skin for pockmarks
and rot, or signs of unkind days or people,
then sliding them gently into the plastic.
In a similar way to “Revolutionary Letter #4,” this poem imagines survival in its simplest terms: living because you have not yet died (or been killed).
The poem does reach a crescendo of interpersonal tenderness, but first we see Emmett Till carefully selecting a plum. His actions are gentle: “lifting each to his eyes and turning it slowly, a little earth.” He transcends humanness for a second, holding the earth in his hand like a benevolent god.
Slowly, deliberately, the scene continues to unfold:
whistling softly, reaching with a slim, woolen arm
into the cart, he first balanced them over the wire
before realizing the danger of bruising
and lifting them back out, cradling them
in the crook of his elbow until
something harder could take that bottom space.
It is impossible to ignore the thoughtfulness laden in the aged Emmett Till’s demeanor, his lifelong innocence uninterrupted. He is as non-threatening now as he was then, just an elderly man in the grocery store trying not to damage the produce he is about to buy.
This poem is beautifully revolutionary in that way, simple yet heavy with grief and history and loss. The Emmett Till in the poem does not know or need to know that he has avoided the great pain of a premature, unfair death. His lifted burden never enters his reality.
I am quite fascinated by the part in the scene where Emmett Till actually interacts with another person. It serves to remind us that he was, and would have continued to be, a part of his local community.
he spun like a dancer, candy bar in hand,
looked at me quizzically for a moment before
remembering my face. he smiled. well
hello young lady
hello, so chilly today
should have worn my warm coat like you
It is also a break from the slow, dreamlike flow of the beginning of the poem, which has over it the haze of impossibility and imagination. Now, he is real enough to speak. As if he were really here.
I find myself returning to Terrance Hayes’s analysis of this poem for his curation of Emmett Till poems for The Poetry Society of America:
It’s a scene both ordinary and extraordinary. It’s bittersweet. And I don’t doubt for a moment Emmett Till is spotted shopping for groceries. I too have seen him in post offices, churches, parks; schoolyards where he might be principal or janitor; waiting rooms where he was sometimes the patient and sometimes the doctor soothing a patient.
Further reading on the subject of interpersonality and tenderness:
“Small Kindnesses” by Danusha Laméris
Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back.
“Acknowledgements” by Franny Choi
I blush when the woman praises my poem.
Most days, I am thankful to be seen.
I smile when the man comes in for a hug, and laugh
when my hair is caught in his button.
I blush when the pretty girl smiles in my direction.
“The Orange” by Wendy Cope
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
Thank you for reading. You’re the best, but you knew that already. I feel lucky that we are still here, living out our ordinary revolutions.
Recently I had two poems featured on Hobart, which is kind of a big deal for me. I also have a website for all of my recent publications if you want to (re)read my stuff.
Fare well, godspeed, etc, etc. Until next time,
<3 Bee
I deeply enjoyed reading this and the related poems. I look forward to following your work here.