The Poets of Fire & Ink

UP WE STEP!

THE POETS OF FIRE & INK

Thirty Black LGBTQ+ Poets from throughout Fire & Ink’s history take over the nation’s oldest poetry magazine!

“My responsibility as a poet, an artist, is to not look away.”

–Nikky Finney, National Book Award-winning Poet & Keynote Speaker, Fire & Ink III: Cotillion (2009)

Four years behind our masks now and we still find it hard, sometimes, to find–to see–each other. We live in a time of tempest, physically and culturally careening toward the precipice of something that still feels precarious. Shrouded in ambiguity and uncertainty, the future appears as an enigma. In times like this, we seek solace and inspiration from those who propel us forward and infuse our lives with vibrancy and insight.

“just to hold hands / just in case”

—Texas Poet Laureate Amanda Johnston

In these moments we hue and we cry. We turn toward our alchemists of language, the architects of resilience who bring color and help expand our vision to perceive the beauty amidst the chaos. Without a moment to spare, I sent a beacon through the winter dark. Just in time for the 22nd anniversary of the first-ever, historic gathering of LGBTQ+ writers of African Descent which convened in 2002 as Fire & Ink, I asked poets from coast to coast to hear the call. “Please, Friend, girl,” I wailed like the speaker in Rickey Laurentis’ ‘Trans Loneliness,’ “answer.”

A call to what? To necessity. To stand up and be counted. To raise our voices — in love, in alarm, in honor of who made us, and in righteous resistance to same. The symbiotic relationship between Black and Queer artists and the broader cultural landscape that we shape is undeniable. Nearly 30 poets stepped up to answer.

Of course, Fire & Ink encompassed and embraced far more than just our poets. Playwrights and novelists, memoirists and scholars, writers for the screen and the voice were all called together in the ash-rainy days post-9/11. Hundreds responded that first year from across the country and overseas. What began with our foundational gatherings in 2002 and 2005, continued in Austin, Texas, for “Fire & Ink III: Cotillion.” We most recently gathered nearly a decade ago, in Detroit, Michigan, for 2015’s “Fire & Ink IV: Witness.” In the meantime, Fire & Ink sponsored and hosted intimate readings, conversations, and literary arts events in cities across the country. [See Steven G. Fullwood’s rousing oral history to read a bit of our story.]

Resolute in my conviction that now, more than ever, the voices of Black and Queer artists must be amplified, and our images and narratives woven yet more thickly into the fabric of our cultural consciousness, I reached across geographical boundaries and temporal constraints through a labor of love and devotion. The Fire & Ink community continues to serve as a testament to the transformative power of art.

This Folio regathers dozens of the poets whose attendance, leadership, and support for Fire & Ink has been so critical to our still-growing community. We are not alone. We may drip trauma, we may feel afraid, we may step numbly but up we step. With us we bring our families and the inhabitants of our streets, our lovers and our hard-won solitude, the ectoplasms and memories of those who can no longer answer for themselves so we step for them—with them—in their names.

Together, we celebrate and lament. We dance arm in arm with our poet-besties and make room at the table for those who’d let rest their quills until they heard the call again. And now? As Dawn Lundy Martin (says), “I am at a party. I am at an art reception, what have you,” and still whether or not we matter remains, apparently, debatable.

I cried out while the world around and in and through me fought—still—about whose basic humanity deserves recognition. Respect. Protection. As if “deserve” is even a reasonable verb. The times are such that who even knows upon which precipice we’ll be balancing at press time. I suspect though that far too many of us will still be pressed—pressured—depressed—repressed—oppressed—and far too many will still be wondering what all the fuss is about.

Hue and cry.

We gather here, once more, as a testament to the enduring legacy of camaraderie and creative expression. So many of us would not be who and where we are without our communities’ nurturance. We are a community—full and diverse all on our own—and we will be heard. We, all of us, need those voices that refuse to be silenced, narratives that challenge the status quo, and language that celebrates the beauty and strength that sustains us especially when we find each other and come together.

Dig, if you will, the pleasure which awaits you as you immerse yourself in the pages which follow. As you read through this folio, let the late summer heat labyrinth your lungs. Breathe these poems in, and speak them back out loud. Let them catch you, stir you. Let them dance on your tongue and thaw any new or remaining icy tendrils of isolation and apathy. Within these pages you’ll find devastation and affirmation; love-after-sixty writhes and rests alongside ageless, icy-hot, fractured, and fractalled lust.

Led by those who helped to pave the way from the start, our odyssey begins with divination, as it must. Sharon Bridgforth, a founding pillar of Fire & Ink, pulls from her poetic oracle deck to set our intentions as we reunite after nearly a decade apart, and more than 20 years in community, to reaffirm our voices and reassert our collective love and care. Next, Marvin K. White—another of the foundational pillars of Fire & Ink—knocks the wind with his meditation. It is right and fitting that Marvin is the Minister of Celebration at San Francisco’s exalted Glide Memorial Church, his words, like incantations, showcase a profound sense of reverence and introspection. 

Encompassing a diverse array of voices and experiences, the poets of Fire & Ink defy categorization as does our work. Spanning genres and generations, each voice adds depth to the symphony of our shared story. From the hallowed halls of academia to the bustling streets of activism, and from literary acclaim to quiescent perseverance these voices ring true with authenticity and purpose.

We are the first Black trans woman elected to office in the U.S.: a poet. We are poets laureate of cities and states. We are high school principals, Broadway darlings, archivists and retirees, prestigious journal editors, and justices of the peace. Our focus was always international, and our influence extends far beyond the confines of even our most beloved literary circles. We poets of Fire & Ink have been published by houses large and small, and we’ve barely been published at all. We stretch across media and hold tight to form. Some of us have stepped away from poetry to publish novels or to raise children and care for families. 

There are so many voices who have been missed, and who I am insisting, through Fire & Ink, be counted, heard, and affirmed. This, for many poets here, is their first appearance in POETRY. Each contributes a unique hue to the vibrant tapestry which spans generations and transcends boundaries of genre and convention from formal innovation to spoken word, from free verse to prose poetries. As you journey through these pages, you will encounter a kaleidoscope of unique perspectives on life, love, and identity.

As a founding organizer myself, I can attest to the fact that Fire & Ink was not a community bound by accolades or achievements but by a shared vision of possibility. We did not convene because we had arrived; we gathered because we insisted upon our becoming. Together, we forged a space where every voice, every story, found refuge and resonance. We created room for our voices to thrive, to rebel, to exist.

One truth remains immutable: we need each other. The hunger for what Fire & Ink offers and represents—a sanctuary for the magnificent marginalized creative spirit—grows ever more urgent. As an organization born amidst the dust and ash of 9/11 its relevance has only grown with time. Drawn close by the threads of our artistic community, we are reminded that the journey is far from over. This folio pays homage not only to those who grace its pages but also to the countless souls who have shaped the ethos and pathos of Fire & Ink; whether present or departed, our legacies burn brightly through collective memory.

As you engage with our work, remember the strength that comes from standing together open to and in love with all that we share and all of our differences.

“I call my self, this body I am

deliberate and awake.”

—Durielle E. Harris

Hue and cry. Everywhere I go students and poets, writers, readers, teachers, publishers, artists, and even my optometrist all crave what Fire & Ink offers and delivers. We don’t gather here and now to commemorate past but to embrace the present with a renewed sense of purpose and passion. We stand on the shaky precipice of a new era, where the power of all of our words in all of our languages to inspire, to provoke, and to unite has never been more vital.

When poet, writer, and scholar Alexis Pauline Gumbs writes, “this is how I want you to love me,” that “you” is not simply a lover old or new but YOU. And Me. And Us—all of us. Called to love—each other, yes, but also: Us all.

Hue and cry. We’re here to seize this moment, together, and forge a nonfungible future.

We answer the call to ensure that our flame continues to burn bright as ever and then brighter still, to Illuminate the path for the generations to come.

“[B]reathe,” insists poet/performer Staceyann Chin to those of us who so often find ourselves unable, “blow the motherfucker out.”