Another new video from the book!

For those who don’t already know, “Not a Lot of Reasons to Sing, but Enough” isn’t written in my voice; it’s full of poems and conversations from a cast of characters. It also doesn’t take place on this world (which is why this poem talks about swords and bandits and mushrooms). But that sci-fi approach is meant to be an entry point into very real-world issues. On one level, this piece is a fairly straightforward, slam-style ars poetica. But to me, the best part of this poem (and maybe one of the best parts of the book as a whole) is right here:

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because of simple mathematics. With a blade in my hand, what are my odds against a hungry bandit? With a poem on my tongue, though, maybe I can visit a village and make a child laugh. Maybe that child then sleeps through the night with no nightmares. Maybe his older sister then also sleeps through the night, because she doesn’t have to wake up to comfort her brother. Maybe then, later in the day, she will go for a walk by the river instead of taking a nap. Maybe she will discover a secret bloom of mushrooms, and the whole village will have a great feast. Maybe a man, who in another story would have been a hungry bandit, attends that feast, eats until he is full, and dances until he is delirious. And look at me; I’ve killed a bandit. Simple mathematics.

That passage is attempting to tell a very specific story, a story that is reflected throughout the book in different ways. I won’t over-explain it here, but I at least wanted to highlight that passage, since it’s important to me.

I also wanted to share these squares; one features that quote, and the other features another one of the incredible visual art pieces that Casper Pham did for the book.

Here’s the full text:

WHY DO YOU WRITE POEMS WHEN DEATH IS ALL AROUND US?

Because when I was your age, the fighters in my family who would have taught me otherwise fell asleep beneath a heavy, black shroud. Because after that, the only person who would share their food with me happened to be a poet, so I’m kind of just stuck, which is probably why most people write poems in the first place.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because my eyesight isn’t very good. And that makes for a short-lived mercenary or militia fighter but is perfect for an artist because I can’t see the audience well enough to get nervous.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because even if I didn’t, even if I were the greatest swordsman on this moon, all rippling muscles and whirling blades, death would still be all around us. You can’t beat death, you can only dance a little more slippery, drum a little more timelessly, hold that note beyond your breath, and hope to find a home in its echo.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of small talk. And it is far easier to read a poem at a funeral, or a riot, or a party, or a revolution, than it is to have a conversation with another person. Because I am a coward, but learned very early that cowardice is not always a bad thing.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because of simple mathematics. With a blade in my hand, what are my odds against a hungry bandit? With a poem on my tongue, though, maybe I can visit a village and make a child laugh. Maybe that child then sleeps through the night with no nightmares. Maybe his older sister then also sleeps through the night, because she doesn’t have to wake up to comfort her brother. Maybe then, later in the day, she will go for a walk by the river instead of taking a nap. Maybe she will discover a secret bloom of mushrooms, and the whole village will have a great feast. Maybe a man, who in another story would have been a hungry bandit, attends that feast, eats until he is full, and dances until he is delirious. And look at me; I’ve killed a bandit. Simple mathematics.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because I too dream of escape and know that escapism offers none, only its outline in silver. Because I am not strong enough to tear these walls down, but I can still write my name on them. Because my name is a spell, a magic the wall cannot rationalize, a fault line through its face. With this name, I summon myself; with these poems, I summon something greater than myself, the splitting of a cell in the darkness, the new growth, the promise of a billion bricks bursting.

Why Do You Write Poems When Death is All Around Us? Because death is all around us. Because life is all around us too. So, when death comes, let it come. Let it step over this tripwire tongue, paint over every poem. My heaven has always been a blank page, so let death make one of me. Until then, I will write. For myself. For my ancestors. I will write. For the whisper of a possibility that it might matter. For the fun of it if it doesn’t. Look around us. Look all around us. How every poem, every story, pulls, just a bit more, at that shroud. Don’t you want to see what’s underneath?