Dujie Tahat
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dujietahat.bsky.social
Dujie Tahat
@dujietahat.bsky.social
120 followers 47 following 6 posts
Read. Write. Ball. Raised immigrant. Raising Americans. Politics is sacred. Poetry is vital. He/they.

dujietahat.com / dopetightcool.com
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dujietahat.bsky.social
“And yet / When fire cremates my friends / How can I / Stop a poem from becoming a gun” —Rashid Hussein
AGAINST I am against my country's revolutionaries Wounding a sheath of wheat Against the child any child Carrying a hand grenade I am against my sister Feeling the muscle of a gun Against it all And yet What can a prophet do, a prophetess, When their eyes Are made to drink The sight of the raiders' hordes? I am against boys becoming heroes at ten Against the tree flowering explosives Against branches becoming scaffolds Against the rose-beds turning to trenches Against it all And yet When fire cremates my friends How can I Stop a poem from becoming a gun
January 24, 2025 at 12:20 AM
dujietahat.bsky.social
“I want to be / at least as alive as the vulgar.” —Frank O’Hara
December 27, 2024 at 5:33 AM
dujietahat.bsky.social
“Are not the difficult labors of our lives / full of dark hours?” —Mary Oliver
Goldenrod On roadsides, in fall fields, in rumpy bunches, saffron and orange and pale gold, in little towers, soft as mash, sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers, full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets and orange butterflies. I don't suppose much notice comes of it, except for honey, and how it heartens the heart with its blank blaze. I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps, the rocky voids filled by its dumb dazzle. For myself, I was just passing by, when the wind flared and the blossoms rustled, and the glittering pandemonium leaned on me. I was just minding my own business when I found myself on their straw hillsides, citron and butter-colored, and was happy, and why not? Are not the difficult labors of our lives full of dark hours? And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far, that is better than these light-filled bodies? All day on their airy backbones they toss in the wind, they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend, they rise in a stiff sweetness, in the pure peace of giving one's gold away.
December 20, 2024 at 4:04 AM
dujietahat.bsky.social
“I hear that the axe has flowered” —Paul Celan
I HEAR THAT THE AXE HAS FLOWERED, I hear that the place can't be named, I hear that the bread which looks at him heals the hanged man, the bread baked for him by his wife, I hear that they call life our only refuge.
December 5, 2024 at 7:23 PM