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Asiya Wadud reads from her new book "No Knowledge Is Complete Until It Passes Through My Body"

From Audio: Episode #155 Asiya Wadud

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Duration: 06:57
Brooklyn poet Asiya Wadud reads the opening poem of her new book "No Knowledge Is Complete Until It Passes Through My Body" while appearing on the podcast "Poetry Spoken Here."
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Brooklyn poet Asiya Wadud reads the opening poem of her new book "No Knowledge Is Complete Until It Passes Through My Body" while appearing on the podcast "Poetry Spoken Here." Wadud's book was published on February 2, 2021 and is available wherever books are sold.
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the order was in the hour of worship. The order was in the hour of worship. Stained glass windows act as mosaic, all radiant acts of attrition. All four grounded prayers supplanted all prayers of back channel. Every pew held our bodies. We turned our bodies to the covenant. Electricity by the Mason Dixon and all its flat border counties. God vested his attention along its northern border vested his attention where he wanted rested his attention along the crest, the only act of God was in the hour of our worship cross board directives, directives that could show us shower us as a trinity. Shrouds of our own making all exemplars players supplanted all prayers, supplementary work. The sun shone its piercing distance. It's shown well because it wanted The sun shone through the church pew. The sun shunted us along the back channel brood. The little tight press began to peel at the seams. It began to just state It seems as it feels that anything that has crossed my path so I would mother any semblance of family allocution. My mother all felt logic familiar huddle for warmth in the space between us. That's what distance does to us this gilded, foremost endeavour clenched in chlorophyll, dropping tendrils towards the sun. Every breath, my countenance, my long path to wholeness. No country can grant you that. My lonesome 3/5. The precise mathematics of partition all across my salvage. Yesterday I sat with the ocean, seeking out its white noise held a shell up to my ear. Settled into its subterfuge. I took a sound recording of the waves. Sound waves, speculation. What's with the undercurrent? All these ocean grifters What the floats in water held in staunch relief Yesterday I rose from my bed Saturday morning. Rode the ferry outbound all New Amsterdam. Selma's current polyphonic noise system. No language was stayed. I broke with tradition. Hello. I called into a black vacuum. What I got was the virtue of salt sonic. What I got was a reply. Order comes to the house of worship. I slid my fans through the hot sand sun burned my right leg. I let it the planes. They flew overhead. I left them. The seagulls drifted outbound. Let them all birds of light and bruise if their wings will carry them. Hello. I called into the vacuous island and the birds. I see the other islands in the bird's eye. Any light, the bird's eye pin, the bird's eye. The son was born in my leg. I let it. I counted 17 planes and triple that to count the goals and listen to the May ocean. I was still marooned in May. I was taking flight in May. I did my day as I wanted. I was still childless. I took my time to get to the ocean. I rode the ferry lengthwise. I loved how it's motive trilled, strumming us through it. Certainly, in that generous all prayers supplanted. Every pew held our bodies. When we got to the water's all the oak pews face the Atlantic to carry us outbound silk offers to sit with the words held in the pews. The sunburned hole right through me. I let it. There is a better means discipline at the missteps the police got filled with. Our bodies are letting garments cuffed by him by salvage salt line and my asthma. Little grains of sand embedded bottled water ebbs and tides spined. A few came with the long rods thing virtues. All the branches peeled back. The order was in the hour of the workhorse. The others were in the house of worship. Any small act deliberates the Lord's vested ships. Next we manage the heat, the lumber. We dressed our hands in the lumber gloves. Lose the Grand Bourg sawmill. In its guiding system, we felt the trees entrusted. They become lumber. Police did not. A single splinter all under Castro salvage diligently. That was tricky. Day emerge from their exit wounds. Circular fissures in the wood surface. We stood inside the ardent language. Undo the pestilence. Smoke out the dense lattice, the dead rising right to the surface. Or better yet, but the love We built the ships death around us. We remained in the pews. We close our eyes as a protective message. We kept our hands to our ears and amplify any noise. Direct conduit to any ocean. Under the pestilence ships, birth is coming together. During the long construction, we never rose from the pews. We knew the order was in the hour of the worship. One by one, the timber became what it could become. And we open our eyes here on the water. The Atlantic is a natural line. Week four whole wave Crest, lumber, cadence, incandescents All prayers of back channel Mason Dixon Bifurcated split along Garrett County. Touch the boat to bless it Touched all its minor parts. Touched anything that really beyond 3/5 as the rest of classy. The order was in the hour of the workhorse. Doused our hands in the mineral oil. We blessed it. This are finished vessel. It would shut us far from here. No map governed our journey. Medical chart index of possible Next therein void electric language. No map that governed us. The snow map governs our journey. The child's We talked them into hall or whatever was coming. We want to live through it. Whatever was coming, we were to live with it. Whatever was coming over to live in it, we exited. We existed at the margins of Dakota. We exited the ocean all over, rendered worthless all over meritocratic, nothing else of progeny. No math that governs us. The snow map governs our journey, matching anything and whatever substance remains viscous or the workhorse proves to a full Campton. Our working hours held in accord long hours than long life countenance convergent wholeness. The numerator is filming ocean dividend. The whole planet. All colonial demarcations held in full credence as if the Earth existed just to suffer this village. The order was vested in the Red Moon. Order was in the hour of worship. Health threat. There this Trinity Selfridge, brackish viscosity. Listen, Dixon Covenant. The sun shines its full distance. The cast lets me use how it wants it. What it wants is the order of the workhorse. So what it gets is the order of the workhorse.
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