-I haven't spoken behind this for a while.
It's been several years. I'm a little nervous here.
I bring -- I'm excited to share a few words with you.
This is our first inauguration, our fifth poet
that we are honoring.
And for me,
this is very special because it's certainly the first one
that I've been involved with as mayor.
But I think 10 years ago we started this
under Councilmember Nick Licata.
And so I want to give Councilmember Nick Licata
his props because he had the vision
to demonstrate the importance of poetry, of art, of culture.
I did a national search for Gulgun Kayim,
and I have to tell you
that I don't think I could have picked a better person
to lead our discussion in this region on faith,
love, art, poetry, music.
Thank you for serving.
I'm really honored to work with you, Gulgun.
I want to ground this in a quote,
if I may, that,
"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world."
That come from poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.
And that's what I believe.
And so in honoring all of you for being here,
and I got to tell you,
this is a little weird because I'm looking way over here
and I'm trying to look at my notes
to actually prepare things for me,
but guess who didn't bring their reader glasses today?
No, I'm good.
So if I may call Dujie Tahat, by Dujie first name basis,
you can call me Bruce.
Just today we go first name basis.
That in preparation for this,
they gave me a little sample of some of your works.
And I got to tell you,
I was floored by the beauty of your words.
So thank you.
And mama, you did something right here.
You raised a superstar.
So as we look at serving a Seattle Civic Poet
for the responsibilities, you have responsibilities
to lead in a very special unique way,
your voice and at a time where coming from the White House,
we hear the nonsensical hatred, spewing.
But here we talk about diversity, equity, inclusion.
We are proud of these words.
We talk about loving LGBTQ plus communities,
loving and supporting.
We talk about race and social justice and inequality
because we realize our values here in Seattle
and in the Northwest must show
and demonstrate to the world what we are about.
We are not afraid of the fact that we are a welcoming city.
And so the words that you use,
the leadership that you use in this program
here in City Hall Chambers.
I -- kind of tell you a funny joke Dujie,
I practiced your name Dujie a few times,
but then right before I came, they said it was Dujie.
So I'm a little off to it and they did it phonetically here.
I bring a little humor to say that as mayor,
I would rely on your words,
that you'll speak truth to power.
And someone that grew up in a world
that was very cruel with words when I was a kid.
I think many of you know, I grew up right here in the city
and I was biracial and it wasn't exactly a popular thing
to be in my neighborhood at least.
And I realized how powerful words could be
to dehumanize you, to make you feel less than.
But on the other hand,
words could be so inspirational that the fact
that my mother and father,
a Japanese woman and a Black man would say
how proud they were of me,
how much they loved me.
Well the other words just bounced off.
So this year is an important year.
We have to be louder. You have to be louder.
And I know as our fifth civic poet, you will lead the way.
And I'm honored to be your partner in this war,
this war that we're all in together.
And guess what, we're going to win.
Thank you very much. -Thank you, Mayor Harrell,
and reminding us that words indeed have power.
And a little bit about me,
as you can tell, I have this accent.
I grew up in the UK and I came from the Middle East
and where there's a lot of war.
And for me,
my engagement with poetry
began by really connecting to war poets
because it reflected my experience.
It was a way
for my community to really show what they had experienced
to the -- we were immigrants,
so to the broader community we were in.
And for me, Benjamin Zephaniah,
who was a poet and an activist in the UK was one of my heroes,
again, an immigrant who spoke his truth.
So I just want to say I'm thrilled
that you have chosen to take on the extra challenge
of being integrated into the political life of this city.
I think that's something
that's going to mark your tenure out like no others.
The goal of this program was to support the practice
of literary arts and to bring the arts and democracy together.
So this isn't just about us telling you
why arts are important,
it's demonstrating that words have power
and how words can help us see through difficult times,
as the mayor has rightly reminded us,
but also celebrate and have joy. In fact,
one thing that our office has determined to do this year
is to embrace positivity in these times.
We have announced that we are going to take
on a theme for our investments in Downtown.
We're doing a lot of work to support Downtown activation,
and we've decided we're going to invite artists
to submit their applications around the theme
of we imagine a future.
The reason -- oh, excuse me, we still imagine a future.
And that word still is so important
because despite what comes at us,
we refuse to be cowed by negativity.
We will imagine a future together because that's
how we build our future together,
is to begin by imagining what it can be.
So with that,
just stick to -- I'm going to invite Tom Fay,
the head of our public library to speak a few words.
-Thank you.
Well, thank you and congratulations Dujie.
This is a, it's amazing honor, obviously to be here with you
as you take on this role as our fifth civic poet.
And in this world today, we do need kind words.
We need words of truth
and we need people to speak their truth.
So thank you for taking this role.
It is a very important one.
And while National Poetry Month is held in April,
we're celebrating a little early today,
but at the library we celebrate poetry year-round.
I'm guessing we can all agree that poetry is boundless
and should be celebrated all the time.
For every day in every situation there is a poem
that speaks to it.
And just like libraries, poetry is for everyone.
The post of civic poet helps make this idea a reality.
I love that our new civic poet has a vision
of bringing poetry into City Hall and into policy making.
Poetry brings a level of attention to language
that can only help make better policy
and enrich the lives of the people in our city.
The library has partnered with Seattle Civic poets
in many ways over the years.
Last year's public poetry campaign, for example,
elevated poetry, community, and joy throughout the city,
including the Central Library.
Thank you to Shin Yu Pai for your service.
I'm happy to share,
we already have a collaboration that works with Dujie.
Seattle Reads is the library's annual citywide book club
and this year's selection is a book of poetry.
The title,
"You are Here:
Poetry in the Natural World" is an anthology
of 50 new poems edited by U.S.
poet laureate Ada Limon,
and even includes the works of two local poets.
Miss Limon is coming to Seattle on May 16th and 17th
to celebrate, "You are Here" with all of the Seattle readers.
We're excited that Dujie will be a part of the May 16th event,
including sharing one of their poems to start off the night.
In her introduction to "You are Here", Limon wrote,
"That poetry and nature
have a way of simply reminding us that we are not alone."
I think that's a very important piece where we stand today.
People are dividing us, we sometimes think we're alone.
Poetry can bring us together so that we know we're not.
This resonates deeply for a city
that cares enough about the collective power
of stories and words to have a civic poet program.
Dujie, we wish you the best
and we look forward to future collaborations.
It's now my pleasure to introduce Jose Luis Montero,
who is board president for Seattle City of Literature
and acting executive director of Hugo House.
Both organizations bring our community together
around stories and literature.
-Good afternoon, everyone.
It's an honor to stand before you tonight
and welcome Dujie Tahat as the newest civic poet
of this creative city of literature,
which is Seattle.
Seattle has a long tradition of poets
whose work not only reflects the world around us,
but also challenges us to think, feel, and act differently.
Our civic poets have brought their unique voices
and experiences to this role,
weaving literature with civic engagement
to deepen our understanding of ourselves and our communities.
Our inaugural civic poet, Claudia Castro Luna,
map stories of connection and displacement
showing us how plays and memory shape identity.
Anastacia Renee, her successor,
confronted difficult truths about race, gender,
and social justice,
refusing to look away when the world asked her to.
Jourdan Imani Keith, our third civic poet,
used ecopoetics to remind us
that the fight for the environment
is inseparable from the fight for marginalized communities.
Most recently,
Shin Yu Pai offered profound reflections on language
and belonging,
urging us to consider how we inhabit shared space.
These poets didn't just document the world,
they invited us to imagine something better
and challenge us to work toward it.
Now, Dujie steps into that lineage,
carrying the legacy forward.
But why poetry matters that much right now?
What is the value of literature and poetry
in particular at a time when freedom of expression,
liberty, and democracy are itself under attack?
The answer is simple but profound.
Poetry bears witness.
It gives voice to the silence,
the unspeakable, and to what others might easily ignore.
Poetry refuses to let truth be buried
and brings it out into the open for all of us to see and hear.
In moments of crisis,
poetry serves as both a mirror and a call to action.
It forces us to confront injustice
and inspires us to imagine a more just world.
And in times like this,
when misinformation spreads,
when marginalized voices are threatened,
when civic liberties are being suppressed,
when public trust is eroded, poetry reminds us
that words have power.
Words can cut through the noise like a sword through the fog.
Words can nurture empathy and spark change.
Words illuminate what truly matters.
Poetry is an act of resistance. It stands against the forces
that seek to silence and divide us.
When democracy is fragile,
poetry strengthens it by keeping the conversation alive
and ensuring that no story goes unheard.
Dujie now steps into this critical role with a voice
that is both fearless and insightful.
Their appointment as Seattle Civic Poet
is not just a recognition of their talent.
It's a testament to the transformative power
of poetry in our city. In this role,
Dujie will continue to create space for conversation,
reflection, and action,
reminding us that literature is not a luxury, but necessity.
Their work shows us that poetry is a bridge,
a bridge between cultures, between communities,
between perspectives.
In a time when division seems more prevalent than ever,
keeping these bridges intact is essential.
Tonight, as we welcome Dujie as our new civic poet,
we're not just celebrating another writer,
we're affirming our belief
that words have the power to light the path,
challenge, heal, and transform.
As we celebrate the passing of this torch,
we're committing ourselves as a city of literature
in a community to continue listening to
and amplifying the voices that speak through to power,
that bear witness to the unspeakable.
And that gives us the strength to resist
when the world feels overwhelming,
because nothing is mightier than idea whose time has come.
And no one is more powerful than a poet
whose pen is held with conviction.
Before we welcome Dujie to this stage,
we'll have Shin Yu Pai,
the former Seattle civic poet from 2023 to 2024.
Give us some remarks though the following prerecorded video.
-Welcome to the first ever civic poet inaugural ceremony.
This occasion marks the significance
of having an inaugural ceremony in City Hall.
Formalizing the civic poet role in the rooms
where policy is discussed and made with language
that most affects Seattle citizens every day.
The civic poet role has traditionally been a role
that usher's poetry into the public sphere
to help citizens better see, hear,
and experience how poetry touches civic life.
In times of turmoil,
poetry gives us a space to feel our feelings,
to slow down and connect with other humans
and the more than human world.
And to reflect on the world
that we want to live in.
The civic poet role represents a partnership
between the arts office, elected officials,
Seattle Public Library, and Seattle City of Literature
that provides an important opportunity
for poetry and poets to be elevated.
During my own time as civic poet,
I put poetry from the community on public radio
and in storefront spaces and galleries
to highlight the experience of poetry in public spaces.
Building upon the work of past civic poets
like Jourdan Imani Keith, Anastasia Renee,
and Claudia Castro Luna,
who created public campaigns
that looked at concerns about climate change,
liberation and healing, and a poetic mapping of our city.
I'm excited to pass this honor on to Dujie Tahat
whose work with civic and elected leaders
and his passion for social issues
will take the role in a new direction,
in a time when civic discourse is needed more than ever.
-And finally, the moment you've been waiting for.
I'm sure you've been waiting to hear from Dujie,
but let me take a moment to introduce him to you
in case you don't know him.
So Dujie Tahat is a poet and critic living
and working in Washington State.
They are the author of three poetry chapbooks,
"Here I Am O My God", "Salat" and "Balikbayan."
Dujie serves as critic-at-large for Poetry Northwest,
poetry editor for Moss.
They got their start as a Seattle Poetry Slam Finalist,
a collegiate grand slam champion,
and Seattle Youth Speaks Grand Slam champion.
Along with Luther Hughes and Gabrielle Bates,
they co-host The Poetry Salon podcast.
So help me welcome Dujie Tahat.
-On desire, a firm hand, a shadow waves of satin.
I'm not yet flesh.
He calls me baby and I touch my face.
I'm searching for God when I oil my body in the mirror.
To love it means to love a man, means an opening to another man.
When I take my glasses off, all the lines blur.
A body is a body without language.
I tell my girlfriend
and she laughs mouth wide enough to hide in.
She shows me my softest parts. I dissolve into what?
I forget hiding also means a good beating.
The way passion can be suffering.
I can't believe my whole life I never touched what made me holy.
We have bread, butter, I know where to be.
I want to begin by thanking the team
at the Office of Arts and Culture, Gulgun,
Ashraf Hasham, Otts Bolisay, Nadia Ahmed,
but especially Zach Frimmel,
who has in the short time we've worked together,
been a really great partner in the work so far.
I'm really excited for the next two years.
I also want to thank Mayor Harrell for being here.
It's a great honor as well as Head Librarian Tom Fay
and the City of Literature Board Chair Jose Luis Montero.
Your formalizing of this occasion
is important work for the city of Seattle.
I really want to also thank Shin Yu
who is here in the way that she can be, you know,
I really believe my work is in the lineage of people.
And Shin Yu is part of that
along with Anastacia and Jourdan and Claudia.
I want to finally extend my gratitude
to the people in this room.
When I asked if we could do an inaugural ceremony,
I wasn't sure that anybody would come.
So thank you.
It really, really means a lot to me.
I want to especially thank my children for whom
everything I do is for.
I want to thank you to Simi,
my partner in curiosity and deep inquiry.
I want to thank my wife Emily Parzybok
for the unflagging support and
without whom I would in fact be speaking to an empty room.
This is the first ever Seattle Civic Poet inaugural ceremony
and I hope also a celebration of a decade's worth of civic poets.
This being the first ever inaugural ceremony
means however, that we can't do it wrong, really.
But perhaps most importantly,
you're now all part of the great work
of creating a new Seattle literary tradition.
I look forward to seeing you all back here in two years.
For my time, I'm going to read a couple of Seattle poems.
Seattle poems because they're written by Seattle poets.
And then I'm going to present some remarks
that try their best to summarize my thinking about the honor
of being named a Seattle Civic Poet at a time like this.
"The Day the Audience Walked Out on Me
and Why" by Denise Levertov.
May 8th, 1970, Goucher College, Maryland.
Like this it happened,
after the antiphonal reading from the Psalms
and the dance of lamentation before the altar
and the two poems, Life at War and What Were They Like,
I began my rap and said,
yes it is well that we have gathered in this chapel
to remember the students shot at Kent State.
But let us be sure we know our gathering is a mockery
unless we remember also the Black students shot
at Orangeburg two years ago
and Fred Hampton murdered in his bed
by the police only months ago.
And while I spoke the people, girls, older women,
a few men began to rise
and turn their backs to the altar and leave.
And I went on and said,
yes it is well that we remember all of these,
but let us be sure we know it is hypocrisy to think of them
unless we make our actions their memorial.
Actions of militant resistance.
By then, the pews were almost empty.
And I returned to my seat
and the man stood up in the back of the quiet chapel
near the wide open doors through which the green of May showed
and the long shadows of late afternoon
and said my words desecrated a holy place.
And a few days later when more students, Black,
were shot at Jackson, Mississippi,
no one desecrated the White folks chapel
because no memorial service was held.
"Mercy" by Luther Hughes. Peeking through the clouds,
Mount Rainier with its white tank top several cities to glare
upon, and a moral blue sky
to angle into must love by now to be American.
When asked this by the woman in front of us
on the night President Obama was elected,
my mother and I in Walmart,
isn't it a great night to be American?
The cashier just nodded,
but my mother yelled, yes, it really is, thank God.
And yes, yes it was a great night to be American.
There between the bags of Lay's and plague of batteries
to be Black in America, thank God but oh mountainous beast,
who am I to think now. Years later,
walking home from the bus stop surrounded
by mid-winter-eaten trees and new rise condos
that my Love wasn't shot by cops
at work today mistaken as someone else?
Is there a song for the strain of mercy?
At home the light flickers above us as we sip wine,
letting the TV wash our bodies into quiet laughter.
I know we should spend this time spinning on the name of America,
how we usually do when another Black person has been killed
or when another country perfumes with our war,
but there's beauty unaccounted for tonight.
There are crows out back,
tired from the work of flight and pilgrimage,
ashing the branches one by one.
There is the crock-pot of red beans in the kitchen.
It's chestnut chest bubbling with bay leaves and sausage.
I fear I have made a mess of being an American.
Love, I'm done with the fear of never doing enough.
Is there anything else
you want to say about what happened today?
I ask him as he takes a spoonful of home into his mouth.
The laugh track on TV peppers the room and he shakes his head.
What did I expect him, Black like me, American like me,
in love like me to say after dusting the day along
to get inside these four-walled pasture
amid the mourning of dirty laundry,
the painting of a cracked moon guarding
the wooden-black dresser.
Do you like the food, he asks.
Yes, I do, I say, and kiss him on the cheek.
Thank you.
"Swimmers Shake Hands" by Robert Demalvilain fender number 2260,
originally published in Real Change June, 1998.
No need to ask, passage, third question.
No books say a word,
no one on those hush may be unspeakable, doubtful,
splendor, peeling, high body, inches, mixed quotations,
breezy curtains, bouncing confessions.
You look again, don't you?
Tangible fellows yawning, naturally no eyes.
Didn't you hear they all lived alone,
move it, surrender forward inevitable the way it goes.
A wondrous merchandise.
Oh marble analysis, naturally swimmers shake hands.
I've been rather insistent on having an inaugural ceremony,
not because poet laureates and our peer cities have them,
not because I love a party,
which I do
and not because I want the world to tell me I'm pretty.
Although I certainly wouldn't mind.
I've insisted on having an inaugural ceremony
because I believe this city which raised me in
so many ways deserves for its poetry to be taken seriously.
Seattle deserves formal recognition of the office
of civic poet
and if the civic poet does not have a formal office,
if the civic poet is about a programmatic line item
in the Office of Arts and Culture
budget in a great city of literature like Seattle,
then it is my duty as recently named civic poet
to invent one to furnish the city
with a formal ceremony and recognition of its wide
and varied literary traditions. I cannot help it.
As a poet I'm obsessed with the formal structure of truth.
I believe in the essential role of poetry
to bring people together in the provincial
but necessary work of imagining world, a world not yet realized.
This is because I started writing with You Speaks Seattle,
a social justice program masquerading
as a youth writing program.
I owe Youth Speaks my writing career.
A Youth Speaks writing circle on the top floor
of the Downtown Central Library was my first workshop.
A Youth Speaks slam at Youngstown Cultural Center
in Delridge,
which I lost because I couldn't keep time
was my first publication.
Hosting the Sunday night weekly open mic
at Cafe Allegro in the University District
was my first editorial grid.
And the Wednesday night Seattle Poetry Slam
at Re-Bar in South Lake Union was my first scholarship,
the Grand Slam stage at Town Hall Seattle,
my first fellowship. Here then a short
and woefully incomplete list of the Seattle poets who I owe,
who I watched with awe,
poets who pushed the door a little wider for me
as I lived and breathed:
Daemond Arrindel, Karen Frinneyfrock, Roberto Ascalon,
Denise Jolley, Ebo Barton, Mat Blesy, Robin Park,
Rose MacAleese, Hollis Wong-Wear, Maddie Clifford,
Mary Lambert, Tara Hardy, Gabriel Teodros,
Nikkita Oliver, Jojo Gaon, R.J.
Delos Reyes, Greg Bee, Jack McCarthy.
I insisted on having an inaugural ceremony
in no small part
because I insist on submitting these names and places
to the public record. In college,
when I decided to try writing a poetry manuscript
for my undergraduate thesis,
my advisor told me that spoken word, particularly slam,
which I'd invested so much of my own youth in
and had given back to me so much, wasn't real.
We were in her office,
surrounded by her books and awards.
I looked down at my red sneakers.
Whatever slam was she said, it wasn't poetry.
It took me years to realize
that this was less an appraisal of art,
born of an aesthetic literary tradition
and more a political position that betrays an ethics of art.
She was telling me what I made and the people
that helped me make it were not real.
For a great majority of my life,
between the ages of 11 and 34, I was not real.
I found myself a dependent on an immigration case
that was denied over and over,
placed in deportation proceedings,
administratively closed.
Then when I came of age,
was removed from the case altogether
and released into the ether outside civil law.
For nearly a quarter century, I was either in process,
ordered removed,
out of status without or with too many documents.
I wore brown leather Oxfords
when the federal judge said, sorry, son.
My claim on the place I called home wasn't real.
This brief history of my immigration status,
is of course, not a matter of art.
It is a series of legal appraisals.
But in this telling,
my old professor and the judge both
take on the same temporary rhetorical
and aesthetic maneuver. They both require the author,
which is to say one with authority to deny a thing,
a person who lives and breathes before them,
and the legal and social conditions that may
or may not labor my breathing are, in fact, very real.
Now, years later, we find ourselves at this dais,
here in Council Chambers
where every day appraisals are made that have
a profound impact on Seattle citizenry.
I insisted on having the ceremony
and the symbolic hall of power
because symbolism begs interpretation.
And what I'm reaching for what I've conscripted
you all here with me now into,
is the collective act of interpretation.
Interpretation is the essential freedom
that underlies all freedoms in a democracy.
The legal foundation of American civil society
rests on interpretation.
Lawyers dueling over interpretations of a law,
never mind the rules that govern the dual,
the adjudication, the decided upon interpretation,
archived and referred back to as precedent to reinscribe
or reinterpret what a new reality, a new case,
a new kind of person emerges.
The seemingly endless series of interpretations
and reinterpretation
should be instructive for policymaking for sure,
but let's consider for a moment the act of appraisal.
How it requires the author to size up a possible new reality
thus begins interpretation. There is, almost daily,
a moment every one of us learns the world
as we knew it has ended,
that our lived reality has outpaced the language
we describe to the world.
A news alert. You find a gray hair.
The crocus have bloomed overnight.
In that moment, you have two options;
seal the world as you knew it
or imagine a different world through a new language.
I'm committed to a poetry and politics of the latter.
Interpretation, at the end of everything
is an act of confirmation, of collaboration,
of saying, yes, this is how it is,
how should we proceed?
It is perhaps my most strongly held belief
that art is a social practice. Every poem, every painting,
every work born of a person's mind pushed
or prodded into being is to be read,
to be encountered by another person
necessarily on some other time and place
to be met as an act that completes its making.
Collaboration, confirmation, interpretation.
Like all of us,
I'm a product of those who thought about and after me.
Ancestors, lineage, inheritance, all yes,
but also, more immediately, the people I owe;
my children, my family, neighbors, colleagues,
the laborers who feed, clean, tend to life all around me.
No one lives alone.
Seattle not only introduced me to writing,
but brought me back to it. The people I write with
and my many beloveds who call Seattle home
remind me every day that attending to a place
and people is the most critical act of writing.
So too, Seattle taught me to read in a group,
sharing what we loved about poems
that made us feel for a moment alive or less alone.
It was in a group I learned close reading makes
possible other ways of being,
not just with ourselves but with others.
I'm saying here, interpretation, both the legal maneuvering
and the other half of art making is too a social practice.
When I immigrated to the States,
my family stayed in Seattle suburbs,
which began a lifetime of orbiting the place
and idea of Seattle. I've always loved the city.
In my teens, I drove between Yakima and Seattle,
writing, performing, and organizing with queer and trans
kids of color,
developing a political practice inextricably linked
to community and art making.
I moved permanently to Seattle shortly after college,
after gigs as a nonprofit youth program manager,
graveyard gas station clerk,
and a business reporter didn't pan out.
I accepted a job as a corporate management consultant.
I had two young kids, my life took a detour away from writing.
I returned to writing after a divorce
and a career change in large part due to Seattle,
by which, of course, I mean the people writing here,
some of whom overlap with my time
writing in Seattle as a youth.
I'm very lucky. My third child was born here.
My writing has done well
and I have no intention of calling anywhere else home.
This is one interpretation of my life,
one in which Seattle was my city long
before America became my country.
It is a profound honor to be named Seattle Civic Poet,
to use my time to read poems with others,
to bring the collaborative sense
of interpretation into City Hall.
Before I tell you about my project
and my poetic vision for the city,
you'll have to excuse me as I consider what a phrase
like civic poet might mean
and what it might mean to occupy the role at a time like this.
Again, I am a poet obsessed with the structure of truth.
In the history of poet laureates in America,
my identity makes me an unconventional choice.
With respect to Seattle's history of civic poets,
the four women of color who proceeded me, less so.
It was not that long ago that I appeared in literature
only as a symbol, a metaphor, a projection
by which the main character, narrator or speaker
learns an essential lesson.
There are today what we might call
the archetypal Seattle Civic Poets from New York City
to Tukwila being rounded up regardless of status,
placed in prisons far from home without due process.
Outside of the poem, outside of this very lovely ceremony,
I'm reminded by the current political reality
that I am the monster of my own country's making.
I am an object lesson. I am not real.
As a city, Seattle is good at a particular kind of counter,
the political practice of offering the symbol,
the role of seeming speaker.
We might refer to this as centering marginalized voices.
Seattle has always loved to signify the shift
from object to subject.
After all, our city is the only major American city named
after an indigenous person
whose defining characteristic was friendliness to settlers,
and our city is the seat of a county now named
after a civil rights leader
who warned us against the recruitment of his memory
and the service of empire.
I now belong to the tradition where I'm made symbol,
but interpretation is what makes me real.
Above all, I must insist that I am real.
The role of civic poet reveal something about our city,
about poetry,
about how a queer immigrant poet might operate
within the constraints of a city
that at once both reifies
and thumbs its nose a national tradition.
Though I'm grateful for this post,
the ceremony,
the community that I'm humbled
would gather to celebrate any modest honor of mine,
I'm unsure if the idea of the poet
is widely held in high esteem.
I'm unsure too what kind of emblem to a city
or a nation's culture a poet might hold.
There is a tension inherent in the phrase civic poet.
Civic as related to citizens.
Poet as in to make.
Civic because nation is a story,
is a long sentence hammered into a bright line of progress,
straight, clear, inevitable, pure action.
Poet is wide, contains multitudes,
is both node and network and language itself.
The tension between the two words is fraught,
my footing unsure.
The thread I string between action and language
undone by every word not met with action and
every action straining to outrun its consequence in language.
What do we use this language for?
What is the point of poetry at a time
where the government can illegally abduct,
indefinitely detain,
and indiscriminately revoke the status
of legal permanent residence?
What can language meaningfully do
if our figureheads sign the bombs my tax dollars paid for
to kill 17,000 Palestinian children?
What is a poet for when there are firing squads?
What does my vocation with language materially do
when Seattle police officers are not charged with the deaths
they've caused and are only fired
when they're caught joking about it?
What is a poet to say nothing of a civic poet?
There are no answers.
Just the certainty that safety is not a place, but a language.
A series of relationships we agree to,
a reality we apprehend together.
Collaboration, confirmation, interpretation.
Here in the first ever Seattle Civic Poet inaugural ceremony,
for a moment, we might be safe.
At the least, I have conscripted you all
into the shared act of interpretation.
Now imagine with me, what does it mean to be conferred
with the role of civic poet?
What does it mean today to be emblematic
of Seattle's citizenry? What especially might that mean
if you've repeatedly been denied citizenship?
I've spent the whole of my adult life
imagining myself into our citizenry
despite what my country has told me about myself.
So before aesthetics,
I belong to an ethical tradition of poetry
without which I am nowhere.
Alone I am not real. I insist that I'm not alone.
I insist that there are people I owe.
You are who I owe. You are who I love.
Safety is not a place, but a language.
A series of relationships we agree to,
a reality we apprehend together. I've ostensibly gathered you all
here to share a poetic vision for this city.
So if I could, an elegy for every death,
a ballad for every worker, a curse for every abuse of power,
and epithalamion for every wedding, an ode for every birth.
Let these poems be written by every witness.
Archive them all in a great leather-bound book
that has to be passed around
and read from at the start of every meeting in City Hall
for the rest of time.
But I only have two years.
So here are the nuts and bolts of my project.
For the past year or so,
I've hosted salon shops with friends and local poets
at my home where we discuss poems written by other people
as a primary to a short workshop.
As Seattle Civic Poet,
I plan to expand this practice to public conversations
about policy and civic life.
In one-on-ones and small group discussions,
I plan to facilitate public conversations
with elected officials, civic leaders,
and citizen boards and commissions
with a handful of poems as a precursor
and framing device to a broader conversation
about civic issues and policies
they're thinking about and working on.
The project will kick off with four salon shops in April,
National Poetry Month, at King Street Station.
The first will be a community salon shop as part
of the Office of Arts and Culture first Thursdays
in collaboration with jazz musician Jahnvi Madan,
followed by salon shops with city Councilmember
Alexis Mercedes Rinck,
Seattle Public Library Head Librarian Tom Fay,
and Washington Community Alliance
Executive Director Kamau Chege.
By starting with reading poems together,
it is my hope to bring civic leaders closer to language
and a shared understanding is the pretext to not only
critical policy discussions,
but how we live with one another.
Together, we'll draw the lines that connect poetry and policy.
And in so doing,
dissolve the standard exchange of palliative statements
that passes for civic discourse.
So towards collaboration, towards confirmation,
a shared interpretation.
Through this dream of a common language,
and only through there,
may we begin to find the grace, mercy,
and love needed to survive.
Thank you.
[ Cheers and applause ]