Poet’s Corner: “The First Water Is the Body” by Natalie Diaz

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor

“The First Water Is the Body” by Natalie Diaz, from Postcolonial Love Poem. Copyright ©2020 by Natalie Diaz. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Graywolf Press, in Emergence Magazine.

Artwork by Logan Brewer

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 

When I read “The First Water Is the Body” in 2020, after Natalie Diaz’s book, Postcolonial Love Poem (in which the poem appears), won the Pulitzer Prize, my consciousness felt diverted like a river around a boulder. I struggled to grasp another poem as this one settled, alive, into my body. Perhaps it didn’t settle at all, like the settler I am in Canada. The poem helped me remember the river that I, too, already am.   

At first, before reading, you may wonder: Is this a poem? The prose poem and lyric essay have much in common—often a blend of narrative and personal experience held by poetic, lyric language and juxtaposition. You might say this form is much like a river, bed, and bank—curving, compressing, and expanding. What makes it a poem, to me, is the flow: Uninhibited, and yet, tethered to a strong form: A body, if you will. It’s also a poem because Natalie Diaz says it is (can you tell I’m a fan?). 

Further, deeper into the water, the poem’s syntax, diction, and imagery lift each other. The word ‘conservative’—and the way it’s included as the last word of a section and stanza—implicates many meanings. There’s also the use of red, white, and blue—the colours of the American flag—appearing as silt, rock, sun burns, Native/white bodies, blood, and water. The body, of course, recurs, but here is my favourite example:

“If I was created to hold the Colorado River, to carry its rushing inside me, if the very shape of my throat, of my thighs is for wetness, how can I say who I am if the river is gone?”

Like a river, most stanzas are only one sentence. The sentences, as water holds pebbles, carry images, descriptions, and declarations; muscles to the bones of the poem (of which there are many). The most visceral, I felt, is Diaz’s reckoning with translation, noting John Berger’s belief that true translation returns to the non-verbal. In this sense, what kind of translation is happening in the poem and outside of it? Who is it for? What has been lost in this process?

“In Mojave thinking, body and land are the same. The words are separated only by the letters ‘ii and ‘a: ‘iimat for body, ‘amat for land. In conversation, we often use a shortened form for each: mat-. Unless you know the context of a conversation, you might not know if we are speaking about our body or our land. You might not know which has been injured, which is remembering, which is alive, which was dreamed, which needs care. You might not know we mean both. // “If I say, My river is disappearing, do I also mean, My people are disappearing?”

The body and river cannot be separated—they are one. Therefore, as Diaz writes, there’s no metaphor or juxtaposition of tears, river, blood, though these appear in the poem side-by-side. This shows us the limit of language on the page, which Diaz reflects stunningly. Poems, often, tangle with metaphor and myth—which are in close relationship. Diaz writes that “What threatens white people is often dismissed as myth. I have never been true in America. America is my myth.” She follows this by asking, “If the river is a ghost, am I? // Unsoothable thirst is one type of haunting.” I’m reminded here of “Decolonization is Not a Metaphor,” a paper by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang. 

Thus, the hope of the poem may be to haunt us via the feelings attributed to mythological spirits and ghosts—a sense of loss, grief, lingering, and fear—in a way that convinces: “If I could convince you, would our brown bodies and our blue rivers be more loved and less ruined?” We know that the body remembers trauma spatially. So, too, does the water. If you’re curious about Indigenous ghost/horror stories, I recommend Never Whistle At Night, expanded on here. 

Alongside Berger, Diaz brings in Toni Morrison’s quote: “All water has perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.” Other voices in the poems, alongside Diaz, work formally to help us see and feel plurality: If “We think of our bodies as being all that we are: I am my body [, t]his thinking helps us disrespect water, air, land, one another. But water is not external from our body, our self.”

Lastly, Diaz uses questions throughout the poem—something that’s tricky to get right. To a few, she responds:

“Will we remember from where we’ve come? The water.”

Others, she asks rhetorically, the answer implied:

“Do you think the water will forget what we have done, what we continue to do?”

And some, she leaves, necessarily, for all of us:

“And once remembered, will we return to that first water, and in doing so return to ourselves, to each other?”

This poem is full of life, as a river is—as a body is. Please continue spending time with it beyond this brief, surely inadequate introduction. And perhaps ask: What river am I?

More Than A Form of Art: Poetry as Community Care

by Hanna Grover ​for The 44 North, Guest Writer

Hanna at a speaking engagement, wearing a black striped blazer. Via Hanna Grover.

“In these conditions, poetry becomes more than a form of art. A poem can hold grief without trying to solve it. It can preserve joy in fleeting moments. It can transform isolation into resonance, allowing someone to read a line written by a stranger and think, Someone else has felt this too.”

Poetry is one of humanity’s oldest forms of storytelling, and today, it feels more necessary than ever. In a world saturated with headlines, algorithms, and rapid consumption, humans barely have enough moments long enough to feel. 

For many young people, poetry has become a language for emotions that are otherwise difficult to articulate. We’re growing up in an era shaped by uncertainty alongside rising rates of anxiety and burnout, increasing loneliness despite digital connection, and a globe where many youth feel pressured to mask themselves. In these conditions, poetry becomes more than a form of art. A poem can hold grief without trying to solve it. It can preserve joy in fleeting moments. It can transform isolation into resonance, allowing someone to read a line written by a stranger and think, Someone else has felt this too. That moment of resonance is powerful because it reminds us we are not alone. Youth are craving spaces where they can be authentic together as a collective without fear of judgment. And while social media evidently encourages curated identities and constant comparison, poetry invites people to speak honestly. 

Hanna receiving a regional health & wellbeing award for Poet2Poet from Ingenious+. Via Hanna Grover.

I’ve witnessed this firsthand through my work founding and spearheading Poet2Poet, a youth organization focused on enacting poetry to battle the youth mental health crisis and create connection. Through workshops, open submissions, and community initiatives, Poet2Poet was built around a belief that creative expression can foster emotional connection and empower youth voices. What began as a platform for young poets gradually became an international global community where youth across the world could share their stories and engage in health and wellbeing programming through poetry. Poet2Poet has published over three hundred poems from young writers around the world, each carrying a different perspective but united by the same desire to be heard. Moreover, Poet2Poet focuses on delivering opportunities to promote youth health and wellbeing through poetry by running free in-person and virtual writing workshops for youth. Our most recent workshop for National Poetry Month, Waves and Words, was a collaboration with Unsinkable, one of Canada’s largest storytelling-focused youth mental health charities, designed for youth aged 16-25 in Canada, in person and virtually. After weeks of planning with the amazing Unsinkable team, Waves and Words was created to intentionally provide a space where youth used writing and poetry to explore emotional wellbeing, identity, and healing. The entire event felt surreal, but what struck me most was how people who entered the room as strangers left feeling connected through shared vulnerability. At that moment, it was clear that the beauty of poetry is how it transcends barriers. No one needs formal training, expensive resources, or a perfect understanding of literary devices to write a meaningful poem. Poetry is accessible because it begins with honesty and an inherent creative freedom to experiment with language on the page, and that’s exactly what was seen during the workshop. 

The banner for Hanna’s "Waves & Words" workshop

Hanna at a workshop, connecting with writers using paper & markers. Via Hanna Grover.

My journey in building Poet2Poet has always demonstrated how poetry can function as a form of care. Unlike many conversations around mental health that often focus only on diagnosis or intervention, poetry allows people to process emotions and deal with challenges in accessible human ways. It’s vital to have a daily outlet for your well-being, and in the case of Poet2Poet, a community that can support you. National Poetry Month further amplifies this idea by transforming poetry from an individual act in isolation into a collective, community movement. During National Poetry Month, poetry becomes visible in schools, libraries, communities, and online spaces. It encourages people who may never normally engage with poetry to pause and encounter it, regardless of whether they see themselves as a “writer”. It reminds us that everyone has a story worth telling. Every person carries experiences, memories, fears, and hopes that can resonate with others. 

At the end of the day, poetry matters now because humanity matters now. In a fast-moving world that can sometimes feel emotionally numbing, it’s clear that poetry helps people reconnect—with themselves and with one another—one line at a time.

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Hanna Grover is a youth advocate, researcher, and public speaker driven by a commitment to health and wellbeing equity, children’s rights, and youth empowerment. Her journey began with a simple belief: that young people deserve a seat at every table where decisions about their wellbeing are made. Today, that belief shapes everything she does, from founding Poet2Poet, a youth-focused organization that merges poetry with mental health, to working with national health organizations to create more equitable healthcare systems. Through Poet2Poet, Hanna has helped thousands of youth across 70+ countries use writing as a tool for healing, connection, and advocacy. Alongside her many personal initiatives, she serves and collaborates with a range of organizations, advisory councils, academic teams, and advocacy platforms on projects that center youth voices for systems-level change. She has had the privilege of speaking at national conferences and panels, often serving as the youngest voice in rooms filled with fellow policymakers, researchers, and professionals with a hope to empower others like her. Her advocacy has been recognized through awards like Canada’s Top 10 Under 18 Changemakers, British Columbia's Medal of Good Citizenship, and Surrey’s Top 25 Under 25.

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Poet’s Corner: “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” by Andrea Gibson

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor

“In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” Copyright © 2023 by Andrea Gibson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 30, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.

Andrea Gibson, courtesy of the Boulder Library Foundation

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 

I’ve loved Andrea Gibson’s work for years, and was heartbroken when they passed away not long ago. I’ll always recommend spending time with my favourite poem of theirs, “What Love Is.” But today, honouring the ways the world is raising awareness about cancer throughout April and May, we’re looking at “In the chemo room, I wear mittens made of ice so I don’t lose my fingernails. But I took a risk today to write this down.” 

The first thing you might notice is the length of the title: It’s two sentences, which we don’t see often. But this craft choice sets up the dialogue, structure, and voice of the poem. The title’s language doesn’t appear as succinct or compressed as the poem’s, and through its length and likeness to prose, it tells us how to read the poem: As something brave, as a risk. The content/subject is the act of bravery, but formally it’s supported by writing that begins as two prose-like sentences and takes the risk of becoming a poem instead, like the expansiveness of life transitioning into the (seeming) narrowness of death. 

In the poem, we encounter couplets and many pairs of images—gloves, life and death, etc. The couplet form seems to say 1) ‘this,’ 2) pause for a breath on the hinge of the line break, and then 3) ‘that.’ It’s almost as if the first line is a breath in and the second is a breath out. 

Similarly, there’s an ebb and flow of thinking one thing, and then another—fear followed by belief. The enjambed lines, often across stanza breaks, amplify this stunningly:

“I could survive forever // on death alone. Wasn’t it death that taught me /  to stop measuring my lifespan by length, // but by width?”

Further, the brilliance of this poem is that it reads as if Andrea wrote it down in a notebook (likely they did). But the precision of the diction, syntax, and images is carefully crafted. The woods challenge our notions and metaphors for death and darkness, for example. 

And then, time moves with Andrea’s thoughtful, patient touch.

The spaces between God, basketball, and balloons are presumably only a few seconds of thought, but the seconds of reading time slow and swell, mirroring the expansiveness of a balloon, a court, and God. The careful placing of images and metaphor enact this feeling. We move between time periods and time ‘owed,’ to literal outer space (from the balloon to the sky to the moon). And then we’re brought gently back to Earth, where death has been happening rather than coming. So often we think of the afterlife as “up there.” We look to the sky when we think of someone who’s no longer with us. But our bodies are “down there.” Down here, really. To remember—and be remembered—is to remain with the Earth. And as Andrea remembers their loved ones, we remember them, too.