Sorrow Is Not My Name

by Ross Gay

—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.
I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.

From Bringing the Shovel Down, 2011.
Reprinted by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

Read this and other poems by Ross Gay in Bringing the Shovel Down, available for purchase online.

As is so often the case in his work, Ross Gay calls us back to delight over and over in spite of the “brink” and final “deep sleep” that await us all. Even the sight of a vulture who “nodded his red, grizzled head at me” can become a source of sudden gratitude, if we pause enough to notice the miracle of this creature wearing his “good suit of feathers” then soon flying off into the wind. Even those “two million naturally occurring sweet things” might make us rapturous as we sing out loud their names: “agave, persimmon, stick ball, purple okra.” In the end, Ross Gay reminds us as always that the simplest things keep us attached to this broken but still praise-worthy world. Our relationships, our home-place, our passions, and the fact that we can still recall them all if we wish, give us the resilience to remain “green,” to remember that our nature is to keep growing in spite of the obstacles, and sometimes because of them.

Invitation for Writing & Reflection: You might start writing, using the same two words that begin Ross Gay’s poem (and which he repeats), “No matter . . . no matter,” and articulate some of the things you fear, which might keep you from accessing delight. See where that repetition leads you, and let your intuition take over as you write from a place of gratitude for the simplest things in life.

Photo by Natasha Komoda

ABOUT THE POET: Ross Gay

Ross Gay is the author of four books of poetry: Against Which; Bringing the Shovel Down; Be Holding; and Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, winner of the 2015 National Book Critics Circle Award and the 2016 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award. His collection of essays, The Book of Delights, was released by Algonquin Books in 2019. Ross is also the co-author, with Aimee Nezhukumatathil, of the chapbook “Lace and Pyrite: Letters from Two Gardens,” in addition to being co-author, with Rosechard Wehrenberg, of the chapbook, “River.” He is a founding editor, with Karissa Chen and Patrick Rosal, of the online sports magazine Some Call it Ballin’, in addition to being an editor with the chapbook presses Q Avenue and Ledge Mule Press.  Ross is a founding board member of the Bloomington Community Orchard, a non-profit, free-fruit-for-all food justice and joy project. He also works on The Tenderness Project with Shayla Lawson and Essence London. He has received fellowships from Cave Canem, the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, and the Guggenheim Foundation. Ross teaches at Indiana University.

POETRY SELECTION AND COMMENTARY BY JAMES CREWS

James Crews is the author of four collections of poetry: The Book of What Stays, Telling My Father, Bluebird, and Every Waking Moment. He is also the editor of two anthologies: Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection and How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, The New Republic, The New York Times Magazine, The Sun, and have been reprinted in Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry and featured on Tracy K. Smith’s podcast, The Slowdown. James teaches at SUNY-Albany and lives with his husband in Vermont.

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