Watusi

A poem from Hunter Hall

I sail by passive
and go straight to aggressive.
My polite clap,
more chilling than any
war horn at dawn.

Picture this:
My blood smeared face
smiling at the wreckage
the carnage.
My dancing feet
twirling
over the broken ground
no dance sweeter than
the Watusi.

My humor is a lash,
and if it does not draw blood
it is not funny.
I am my own favorite
punchline.
Please, admire my flair.
It is the brightest flower in my bonnet.

Do not try to placate me.
I am not the moral
of the story;
I am the foreboding clouds,
the ominous roll of thunder,
the ssnk ssnk of the scythe
felling the wheat,
the held breath
before the arrow flies.
I awaken
to crush dreams
and burn cities to the ground.

Picture this:
A smile so sharp
it can draw blood.
A flash of anger is all it takes
to light my
finest summer bonnet
aflame.

Run.


Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.


All our print and digital works, as well as our stickers, are currently 20% off in our online bookstore. Use code NOWAR at checkout.

Yellow Tape & White Carpet

A poem from Hunter Hall, also available in A Beautiful Resistance: Left Sacred

 

I grew up haunted
unwanted
except by
the bog lady
leading me to her special
spot for the best cranberries.

Come, little girl…
I have a secret to tell you.

(crawling under the beams
cheek pressed tight to the dirt
clawing cobwebs from
my eyes
I realize that
I am my own bar with
KEEP OUT
DON’T EVER GO THAT FAR
written on it.)

I grew up possessed
distressed
swallowed by memories
dipped in head first.
My mind is a cup
that is overflowing
sploshing all over
the fancy white carpet.

(And Lo! An angel
appeared
and whispered
secrets that I have forgotten)

I sleep
and dream
of unrelenting glimpses
of happiness.

(memories slip up
like gas trapped in a tar pit
telling me all those secrets
again and again.
always too late to prevent
the slackjawed
train wreck I create)

I grew up haunted.
Unwanted.
I dream that that will change
that I will be seen.
Heard.
I grew up, but not out,
trapped in that
bog or tar pit
only glimpsed
in nightmares
and torn fragments
of hazy memories.

(look at me,
come on,
see me.)

It will never be me,
for I spilled my
heart’s blood all over
your fancy white carpet.
and I have no more
to give.


Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

 

This poem from Hunter Hall is also in A Beautiful Resistance: Left Sacred.

 

Broken

I am aware that I am unkind.
It does not matter,
there is no heart in here to reach.
Like a wave, I cannot help
but to slam against the cliffs,
as if I am asking
if erosion
can return a heart that is missing?

I feel like a hearth
without a home.
A pilgrimage without
a destination.
Reverence
without a reason.
How do I feel so
full
while starving?

I am aware that I am not so much as lost
as just refusing to go the right way.
The first time I realized this
I cried tears of hot rage
at the rivers edge
alone, as always.
Clothed only in
molten tears and frigid dreams.
How do I always end up here?
Like a fever, I cannot help
but breaking in the end.

I feel like a
secret
without a source.
A destination
that no one visits.
A shrine that
no one remembers.
How do I feel so
full
while starving?

I am aware that I am a sea
without a shore.
Like a wave, I cannot help
but spill across the floor,
in sheets,
like a shroud.
Or an excuse.

Like a fever, I cannot help
but breaking in the end.
It is only the beginning,
and I hear that
once broken,
a new heart can grow
from the wasteland.

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

Hunter Hall has a poem in A Beautiful Resistance: The Fire is HereClick here to order.

The Tide

10 years ago
I wanted to be a Tower.
Now,
now I want to be a Village.

I want to shelter the baker, and
nestle the children in
for summer sweet sleep.
I want to protect the cows
from the rain and wind
and help mold the cheese.

I have gone from cold and barren
to lush and fertile, and
I want all roads
To lead to my hearth;
my home;
my heart.

I want to tell you
that I had to swim
across the ocean
more than once
and slay more than one
Sea Monster
to get here.
I say this so
you realize
that life is not easy
but it is worth
the journey and
the pain
and the tears
that make the ocean
all for us to swim
through and
makes the trials and
the laughter and
the swearing;
the curses;
the oaths.
I want to tell you
that being the village
is more
rewarding
than being
that tower
that I struggled
So Hard
to Become.

But, like all things,
the unbecoming
can be
as great
as the
Becoming.

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

Hunter Hall has a poem in A Beautiful Resistance: The Fire is HereClick here to order.

Silt Mouth, by Hunter Hall

I dream of fire,
but
lately,
my dreams
are an ocean with no end.
Mind dragging the bottom,
sucking on silt.
Lost in the tangles
of mermaid hair and trident spears.

I want to sink,
one last time,
into the arms of my memory of you
and try to taste
what it was that I loved about you.
I want to bury my face
into the hollow of your neck and shoulder
the space that my
heart fit so well
and release
ululating cries and seas of unshed
mourning.

Come here, my love.
Let me remember you.

While I wait
to be swept away,
mute and stricken.
Trying to plug leaks in a dam that is collapsing
under the weight
of screams drowned before they could escape
my clenched teeth
my tightened fists.
White knuckling my
lack of control.

I now dream of waves
eroding my hopes
like mountains,
slowly,
with every
crash of the surf.

I want the fire back
I want to want again

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

Hunter Hall has a poem in A Beautiful Resistance: The Fire is HereClick here to order.

Seasons

Mama, the house is burning.
‘hush child, this house is fire proof.’
As her nightgown smokes and curls
Like an offering
Like a whispered prayer
‘this house has stood for thousands of years.’
Mama, the house is burning.
‘this house will stand for a thousand more.’

This house burns down once a season.
It is rebuilt just in time for the next fire.
Every time.

Mama, the house is burning.
Mama, the house is burning.
All of my words just crumble
like the beams.
Snapping like broken backs
kneeling under the pressure.
Dropping to the floor.
Like spent casings.
Words slip past like smoke,
silent like flames
racing across the floor.

This house burns once a season,
every time it is rebuilt
it is missing something
that made it what it was.
Made it what we are.
What we were.
What we hope to be.

Mama, the house is burning.
‘No, child. This house cannot burn.’
Mama, the house is burning.
All of my tears
will never be enough to quench the fire.
Mama, the house is burning.

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

Hunter Hall has a poem in A Beautiful Resistance: The Fire is HereClick here to order.

The Kettle and The Hearth

Tea Time:

I could drink green curry
like water from your lips,
awash in a verdant haze.
Longing to never wake-
to never surrender this
Becoming-Bliss.
My will has dissolved into
the finest soma
and all my dreams becoming
the favored liqueur of the Gods.

The Ashes:

I spoon jam sparingly
onto a piece of toast
hoping to add moisture
to this texture of cardboard.
All I know is that if this
famine does not end soon
there will be nothing left
except a spoon, an empty jar of jam
and a sheet of cardboard.

 

Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.

Ribcage

I will never grow tired of rattling cages
It does not matter if it is mine or yours
I love to hear the clanking of the bars
The rattling of bones
The shrieks in the night
Of my fears dying- one by one

Did you know that I have the key?
There is an escape
And there is a way out
Don’t follow the light,
It is not for you and I.

I follow the scent on the wind
The promise of winter’s crisp breath
I follow the sound of a branch breaking
Nock Draw Anchor Aim
Release.
A breath for the taking

I will never grow tired of
Shedding skin
Whether it is mine or yours
It matters not when we are becoming
Other, becoming whole under the open sky

Did you know that I care not
For the opinions of your gate keepers?
I only ask
To drive this nail home
That I have no masters
And this cage is only kept around
For the rattling
A score for the settling
Bones for the breaking

Like a snake
I flick flick flick
My lids and silvery tongue
while cities fall to dust
and my doubts slide
Like a slip off my unbent
Unbroken back.
Attend!
Watch closely
As I destroy any bonds
Placed upon me
Time and time again
With a ululating cry
To battle


Hunter Hall

gloriaHunter Hall’s a ferocious poet seen late last century lurking black-hooded about the rainy streets of Seattle. Reading Deleuze&Guattari while slinging brutal mochas, channeling serpents and raw riot through her spoken-word performances, she now lurks somewhere in the Salish Sea, plotting revolution while baking for her children.


We’re currently in the editing process of the next issue of A Beautiful Resistance! Pre-order, subscription, and underwriting information is here.